the Past

 A tall figure slinks past me on the road. He wears a long tattered robe of grey. His back is bent and he walks with quiet steps. 

I barely notice him as he passes by. He merely slips past without a whisper or word. I turn, wanting to catch him, to speak with him, but he is already years behind. How could he leave so fast?

I run towards him, my feet flying with inhuman speed. I desperately want him to come back. My heart pounds and my feet falter.

I’m running after the Past and I can’t catch up.

Surreal

Surreal.

That’s the best way to describe it.

The fact that I won’t ever pass through these halls again as a student is surreal. The fact that I won’t be laughing with my friends between classes or marveling at all the new little kids taking classes is surreal.

Where did my childhood go? My school years are over and yet just beginning. I have this strange mix of joy and sorrow; sorrow for the things behind, yet joy for the things I have to look forward to.

I don’t think I like it but at the same time

I do

Roses are red

Roses are red
violets are blue
though my garden is lost
I will make it through

flowers mean something
but the meaning is gone
they bloomed with the dusk
and died with the dawn

a garden of gifts
in good will and hope
not enough people
to help me to cope

too many flowers
surrounding my bed
but I can be brave
my tears stay unshed

the walls are of white
the smell is of fear
my garden is dying
and I am stuck here

roses are sick
violets are crying
I'm in the hospital
They say that I'm dying

autumn

Mother was never the same after that day. She sat by the window, a distant look echoing in her eyes. Sometimes tears would drift lazily down her cheeks. She watched the seasons pass, stoically.  It was all the same to her.

I would come behind her and gently brush her long auburn hair. She never stirred. Nothing moved her. She simply existed and never lived.

My heart cried, “Mother look at me! See me! Do you know I’m here?”

I laid my cheek against her head, our auburn hair flowing together. Tears moistened her hair.  She didn’t notice.

Mother, please…

Jagged Edges

Why do memories have jagged edges? They never seem to match up exactly with the truth. Their edges splinter and separate, wedging themselves into your conciseness. Some of the threads are wonderful and can be woven into a misty tapestry of joy. But sometimes the splinters knife you sharply. Sometimes the jagged edges cut through you.
Sometimes I wish I could recreate the whole tapestry and live the day again. But I can't. The jagged edges expand and change with every day, but when the moment is gone, it's gone for good.

and I am left with the jagged edges.

Subtle love

I can't believe that we've known each other for so many years. We both
love the silly, little things. Remember that time that we saw those balloons and
you started acting like a five year old? You never fail to make me laugh. I've said
more times than I can count that I love nothing more than tomorrow; it's brighter
than today.You have a new chance to do something brave, something insane
tomorrow. But now, this is the most insane thing I've done. I can't ever top this.


You should probably read the first word of each line now...

carousel

He contemplated the concept of revenge.
It is not just payback or getting even. No, revenge is much more.
It is the red of their pain, blue of their anguish, purple of their remorse. It's a rainbow of feelings, a kaleidoscope of thoughts, a carousel of a journey.
The carousel goes around and you cannot get off.
It doesn't stop.
It goes
and
goes

and


goes

Revenge consumes your soul like a beast.

All this he thought, yet he wanted the rainbow. He wanted the rainbow so he was willing to take the carousel.




But the beast...oh the beast.

Not Forgotten

Charles David Gabriel

A solemn voice reads out name after name, of those fallen in battle, and those MIA. Those names, all engraved on the wall. Several roses were placed under a column, with a piece of paper attached to the stem. On this paper were names and dates of birth. And how many days they were in Vietnam before their death. Suddenly these names were no just the faceless fallen. They were people. They had families-wives, parents, grandparents, friends- left grieving after they were gone.

This wall is a memorial in honour of our fallen.

We will not forget.

Resting On My Shoulders

This small bundle in my arms is much heavier than it would appear. Not that this little babe snuggled against my shoulder is heavy; on the contrary, she was born underweight. But that only adds to her weight. I am so afraid, afraid that I’ll let her down, even though she is only a few days old. Caring for her by myself will be difficult, I know. Diaper changes, bottle feedings and eventually disciplining her, teaching her, training her, and loving her through it all. Raising a child is a weighty responsibility.

And all this responsibility resting on my shoulders.

A Heartless Winter (for May 28 and 29)

The winter is here again.

The faceless cold that steals children from their mother’s sides, that brings disease, and death. And the snow. The snow that leads the trappers astray. The swirling, plunging, cold, blinding snow. It freezes limbs. It blinds all who try to venture out in it. There is no pity from the wind here, no hope to be spared from another cruel winter. A mother can only pray her children be spared from the harshness of winter and the snow does not lead their husband to death while he is checking the traps he so carefully laid.

---

The snow swirls outside the window. Brightly burning candles illuminate the bedside where a mother is sitting. Her children lay on the bed, snuggled together for warmth. A faint whimper draws her attention to the cradle by the fire of the one room house. She knows it is dangerous for a babe in a winter such as this. She rocks her infant son to quite his cries and prays a mother’s prayer that her baby survive the winter, her older two children remain healthy, and the snow not lead her husband to death while he is out checking their traps.