My dearest Meriwether,
I have come to the conclusion that the night terrors I experience serve only as an incentive for waking up. If there were a land of gumdrops and fluffy clouds all of the time, there would never be any reason to leave it.
I feel as though some of us need more incentive than others.
Outside my window - if observant - one would see a plain, country setting of countless fields, with workers toiling away in them, only natural time to tell them when to stop. The trees stand tall and gnarly in the yard before me, bountiful with fruits as well as pesky little bees. One might find this peace and isolation to be a blissful heaven. I have just come to call it home.
I sit on the second story of this place writing to you in the hopes that I might find peace within myself. Though I have found this goal far harder to obtain as days pass and leaves fall,I can at least say I have tried for it.
Right now, behind the white paneled door sealing in walls splashed with crimson roses, is a little man. I know not his name. I only see his face form time to time. He is a stout little figure with a button nose and beady little eyes sunken deep into his face. His ears are small and his face round, as if he were built from clay by a child. He stands by the door in his flamboyant coat, with his handkerchief in hand in a most upright position, seemingly staring at the painting before him. But, if one were to study him a bit more, one would realize that this man is staring at absolutely nothing.
He sees nothing, but feels everything.
He has not said a word to me since his arrival, but he does not have to. I can understand what he feels without even seeing him, almost as if we had interlocking roots feeding from the same water. We touch somewhere in the middle and we both know our purpose: to feed and live, and also to give life. I feel ignorant upon saying that, as I have no knowledge of my true purpose, but somedow, deep inside my heart, I feel like he does.
I called my servant, my dearest Beth, to my room with the request of a cup of tea. She brings it to me and I ask her to see if my companion outside the door would like some. She looks outside the door and sees not a thing. I tell her that he is plain as the day I see right here through my window and she again looks and still sees nothing. I tell her she is a very stupid girl and if I must get it myself I will, but not without consequence on her behalf. Her eyes grow large and she scurries off and appeases my request and sits it beside him as I have requested in case he might fancy a cup.
He is a very patient man, but we both seem to lack sympathy for the ignorant. He is most patient with me. I feel like a friend in his eyes which has brought me comfort. I wish only to please him and have except in recent times he seems to have grown impatient with me. I only wish I knew what upset him as I grow only more upset.
I have convinced myself I am with illness. I feel like the little man, or as I have so affectionately come to call him, Arthur, feels it to. There is a sickness inside of me. One that I feel so needs to be brought out of me by blade and thrown into the darkest depths of the chambers of hell instead of residing in my mind where it reeks its havoc in burning down the parts of me which still hold and stand tall.
It is like a dark shadow bestowed upon me by Lucifer himself. It is a possibility that it may have been an act of the devil, I have called upon the priest to discuss it, but he stood before me with the vein in his neck growing larger and the sweat running down his brow at a rapid pace crying that I was absolutely mad and a wretched heathen. He said that this was in my own weakness for inviting him in and to not come back to the church in the fear that I might spread my faults.
Beth says they speak of me in town. When she goes to the market to fetch what I ask for they ask of my status and if it’s difficult being in the presence of such a heathen in regularity. I have reduced myself to seclusion and turn to you old friend with the confession of my thoughts in hopes that there is still hope for what has become of my mind.
In the night they come for me sometimes, they come for what they have yet been so strong as to claim and wish to find themselves as the possessors. These dark shadows roam through my mind and empty the evil thoughts into the crevices that were already in doubt. What has become of me? I live not for happiness anymore. I live only to survive and see another tomorrow, one that is not even guaranteed in the slightest. I watch those around me succumb to similar evils and have prayed in my room for my own sake. Arthur has not much pity for me either.
I live in loneliness and sleep in terror. I find no peace in the night and nothing but silence in the day. The memories come back to me as cloudy as the English skies and I am just trying if not obsessing to put the pieces back together of what happened. What happened to me? Where am I? I care not where I am going at this point I only wish to know where I have been.
No matter what poor soul you bestow this knowledge upon and how often you do you lack the answers you have been so desperately searching for. Sometimes it’s perceived with anger; usually the only rebuttal is pity. Not just mere pity for my mind, but pity for my soul as if the essence of who I am caused this curse, but who am I really? A far better question is who am I and whose am I?
To god’s people this is my self inflicted welcoming of Beelzebub into my temple. I remain his though. In my room I am his and in my heart I remain in faith when my words speak not my true identity. I wish to one day control the little beast that has a hold of my tongue, but see larger things to worry about at the moment.
Why worry if you remain in faith? This is a question often asked by passerby and I answer with the same solemn expression upon my pale, thin face: God does not help those who do not help themselves. How can I lean upon that which has brought me to be something and not work to be something to myself? If you lean long enough surely you will grow tired and will soon fall upon the floor surely far too tired for a second go.
And my faith stays solid though my mind has become a puddle. Things that do become liquids tend to mix which has been my most unfortunate predicament. Those which once went there separate ways as they were intended have become one and only made matters worse. What I do have left I have thought of it as the treasure it truly is and not taken for granted as it once was.
Arthur watches this happen with impatience, I cannot tell if it impatience with me for not fighting harder or impatience with the process as to not cause me to succumb sooner. I cannot decide if even he is truly my friend as what was my first impression of the stout little fellow or death himself sitting at my door waiting for the inevitable. Until I have a solid conclusion I shall still offer him tea and the food same as I in hopes that he takes it as kindness or an offering with request of his mercy. Maybe if he sees that underneath all that is underneath what has made me human is kindness and maybe even a little virtue. I stand by my original perception of him as a friend and feels that he sees that which brings me comfort.
I write you in hopes that you know what has become of me. I hope that you see that I am troubled, but certainly not a mad wretch. I am not angelic nor am I demonic I stand in the middle as man with the mind infested by clouds and shadows overcast and they do not touch all. I hope you see me as fighting, not weak and succumbing to this, this thing that has given me my identity to others, but never to myself. As my oldest and dearest friend I hope you see that and forgive me for all the pains I may have caused you even if I do not remember causing your pain. I seek redemption from you and my god and those two alone. If man can forgive me, god shall three fold.
Yours most sincerely,
Edith Gray
~R
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Tuesday, June 12, 2012
Monday, June 11, 2012
She's Coming Home
I don't remember how long ago it was when I started this log cabin. As I lay here, engulfed in a peacefully cold snow, I wonder when my reason for building it will come and find me. I gaze at the beauty of the stars, and they look majestically back at me.
It wasn't so long ago that I looked upon these very stars with her. Perhaps not these stars, but those of a similar nature. Back then, they had seemed further away, but only because nothing could have radiated brighter than what I held in my arms. My heart begins its thudding beneath my chest, as it always does when I think about her. I know when she sees these stars, she will think they are beautiful.
Finally, I decide I should move. As I shake the snow off of myself, I am again proud of what I have finished. It has taken a very long time, but I kept my promise. Thinking of our promise made me smile. I head back toward the cabin with a little bounce in my step. The prickling cold has not bothered me since I have arrived here.
Standing atop the cozy Welcome mat, I am immediately greeted by a tiny white ball of fur. I found her here one day. I am not sure exactly why she's here, but she is a great companion. She has been fun to play with for a long time now. Her name is Emily, a name brandished by the tag on her collar, not of my choosing. I do not mind the name, and I feel it is simply a fragment to remind me of what it is I wait for.
I give her a little pat on the forehead, and she returns my greeting with a pur. She looks up at me and I cannot help but notice she has the biggest brown eyes. I am reminded again of what I wait for.
I make my way to the kitchen, one I spent ample time trying to perfect. It is the most beautiful kitchen I could ever imagine and I can hardly wait until she sees it. I fix myself a cup of hot chocolate, although I am not very enticed by its flavor. My love for it has seemed to fade with time. I am overwhelmed by thoughts of sweet tea, chocolate frogs, and a few things I cannot even seem to clearly remember.
I have taken to drawing, something I thought I could never do. I am still not very good at it, but when I remember those things I learned from her, I try my best to construct a picture. I do a few swoops on a blue butterfly I have been painting, but I give up quickly. I am starting to feel lonely, and painting doesn't intrigue me right now. I want to have it finished before she arrives, but I know that if I do not finish it, she will let it slide.
Emily is a bit lonely too. I look to her, perched over in her corner, and see her staring at something off in the distance. It is something I cannot see. It seems to me as if she is waiting for something. We are wonderful company for each other, but sometimes we both feel that pieces are missing.
I walk to the living room and gaze out the grand window. This window is special, as it overlooks the mountain and the world below. Outside I see the snow falling briskly, so I throw another log into the cozy, brick fireplace. The cold does not bother me anymore, as I said earlier, but I like to keep the fire crackling because it calms me. It is also another thing that reminds me of her.
Sometimes, when I begin to grow impatient, a taste of strawberries runs across my lips and I smell a sweet, subtle scent. That steadies me, and for a split second I am at peace.
I move away from the fireplace and begin the slow ascent up the stairs to the second floor. I am especially proud of this as well. I do a quick sweep just to make sure everything is in order. I peek my head inside a room, full of bookshelves, drawing material, and plenty of paper. It is the study I built for her, but I do not dare take a step inside. Something feels wrong about stepping inside it when she is not here. I chuckle to myself, knowing that she would not care if I stepped in or not, but I have always been particular about things like that. I always wanted her to know that I valued her independence more than anything.
I continue the walk down the hall to the master bedroom. I pass the spare bedroom I built just in case we have guests. I see the stereo inside the master bedroom, inside our bedroom, and I imagine her turning on some fifties music and dancing through the whole house. The thought brings a smile to my face and I plop down into the bed. I begin to cry, but it is a cry of happiness. I am reminded of the greatest days of my life.
But I am tired, and I quickly fall asleep. When I wake, I find the dark has given way to the sunlight. I do not feel as if I have slept long but it does not surprise me. Time is different here. Some days my memories feel as if they are right beside me, and some days it seems as if they are an eternity away. I have not once felt separated from the thought of her.
Sometimes I hear sweet laughter as I walk through the house. Sometimes I hear the sweet hum of a song. I know it is her, somewhere far away, singing the song made just for me. A memory rushes into my mind. I see her singing in a crowded gym full of people who do not understand, and one who does. She always hated when I talked about that day, but I felt it on then. Somehow, I knew she was singing a song made just for me. It seemed, for a brief moment, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
I am jolted from my memory by a slight noise outside. I think it may be her, so I rise to go check. I make my way out of the door, disappointed to find nothing. I walk out a ways from the cabin, and still I see nothing. I turn around to head back, realizing I had forgotten to close the door in my rush. I hear the pitter patter of footsteps galloping behind me. I turn and I am greeted by a friendly beast. I recognize her immediately as she bolts past me and into the open door.
I walk inside and find her in the corner, snuggled against Emily as if protecting her. Just to be sure, I walk over to her and grasp the tag on her collar in my hand. As I knew it would, the tag reads Lyla. I am happy. Finally, she is coming home.
I figured she had sent Lyla on ahead, or possibly lost her on the trail getting here. It was always hard to stop Lyla when she decided to use her energy. I walk back to the door and glance outside hopefully. When I see nothing, I turn back to the corner to find Lyla snoring in her sleep. The journey here had been very tiring.
A little while passes. I pass the time playing fetch, happy to see that Emily is no longer lonely now that she has a loyal friend. I am still lonely, but mostly on those nights where my pillow does not reciprocate my feelings. But I keep myself steady in the knowledge that she will soon be here.
Finally, many days later while throwing a log on the fire, I look out that very same living room window. I see a small speck seeming to grow bigger. First, I believe my eyes could be playing tricks on me. But I am not taking chances. I have to see.
I rush outside, happier than I have ever been, knowing that it must finally be her. I run until I am close enough for her to spot me and I start waving my hands dramatically in the air to make my presence known. She sees me and begins to sprint in my direction. About 100 feet away from me, she stops and flashes a little smile at me. It is unmistakable. I see her brown hair blowing in the wind, and I see her big brown eyes radiating in the sun, even through the thick snow. Once again I hear the song made just for me, and I feel as if nothing else in the universe matters.
I can contain myself no longer. I sprint toward her, eager to once again hold all that is dear to me. My heart is thudding beneath my chest and my feet as moving as fast as the wind. It is my darling. It is my love.
I have missed my marshmallow.
It wasn't so long ago that I looked upon these very stars with her. Perhaps not these stars, but those of a similar nature. Back then, they had seemed further away, but only because nothing could have radiated brighter than what I held in my arms. My heart begins its thudding beneath my chest, as it always does when I think about her. I know when she sees these stars, she will think they are beautiful.
Finally, I decide I should move. As I shake the snow off of myself, I am again proud of what I have finished. It has taken a very long time, but I kept my promise. Thinking of our promise made me smile. I head back toward the cabin with a little bounce in my step. The prickling cold has not bothered me since I have arrived here.
Standing atop the cozy Welcome mat, I am immediately greeted by a tiny white ball of fur. I found her here one day. I am not sure exactly why she's here, but she is a great companion. She has been fun to play with for a long time now. Her name is Emily, a name brandished by the tag on her collar, not of my choosing. I do not mind the name, and I feel it is simply a fragment to remind me of what it is I wait for.
I give her a little pat on the forehead, and she returns my greeting with a pur. She looks up at me and I cannot help but notice she has the biggest brown eyes. I am reminded again of what I wait for.
I make my way to the kitchen, one I spent ample time trying to perfect. It is the most beautiful kitchen I could ever imagine and I can hardly wait until she sees it. I fix myself a cup of hot chocolate, although I am not very enticed by its flavor. My love for it has seemed to fade with time. I am overwhelmed by thoughts of sweet tea, chocolate frogs, and a few things I cannot even seem to clearly remember.
I have taken to drawing, something I thought I could never do. I am still not very good at it, but when I remember those things I learned from her, I try my best to construct a picture. I do a few swoops on a blue butterfly I have been painting, but I give up quickly. I am starting to feel lonely, and painting doesn't intrigue me right now. I want to have it finished before she arrives, but I know that if I do not finish it, she will let it slide.
Emily is a bit lonely too. I look to her, perched over in her corner, and see her staring at something off in the distance. It is something I cannot see. It seems to me as if she is waiting for something. We are wonderful company for each other, but sometimes we both feel that pieces are missing.
I walk to the living room and gaze out the grand window. This window is special, as it overlooks the mountain and the world below. Outside I see the snow falling briskly, so I throw another log into the cozy, brick fireplace. The cold does not bother me anymore, as I said earlier, but I like to keep the fire crackling because it calms me. It is also another thing that reminds me of her.
Sometimes, when I begin to grow impatient, a taste of strawberries runs across my lips and I smell a sweet, subtle scent. That steadies me, and for a split second I am at peace.
I move away from the fireplace and begin the slow ascent up the stairs to the second floor. I am especially proud of this as well. I do a quick sweep just to make sure everything is in order. I peek my head inside a room, full of bookshelves, drawing material, and plenty of paper. It is the study I built for her, but I do not dare take a step inside. Something feels wrong about stepping inside it when she is not here. I chuckle to myself, knowing that she would not care if I stepped in or not, but I have always been particular about things like that. I always wanted her to know that I valued her independence more than anything.
I continue the walk down the hall to the master bedroom. I pass the spare bedroom I built just in case we have guests. I see the stereo inside the master bedroom, inside our bedroom, and I imagine her turning on some fifties music and dancing through the whole house. The thought brings a smile to my face and I plop down into the bed. I begin to cry, but it is a cry of happiness. I am reminded of the greatest days of my life.
But I am tired, and I quickly fall asleep. When I wake, I find the dark has given way to the sunlight. I do not feel as if I have slept long but it does not surprise me. Time is different here. Some days my memories feel as if they are right beside me, and some days it seems as if they are an eternity away. I have not once felt separated from the thought of her.
Sometimes I hear sweet laughter as I walk through the house. Sometimes I hear the sweet hum of a song. I know it is her, somewhere far away, singing the song made just for me. A memory rushes into my mind. I see her singing in a crowded gym full of people who do not understand, and one who does. She always hated when I talked about that day, but I felt it on then. Somehow, I knew she was singing a song made just for me. It seemed, for a brief moment, as if nothing else in the world mattered.
I am jolted from my memory by a slight noise outside. I think it may be her, so I rise to go check. I make my way out of the door, disappointed to find nothing. I walk out a ways from the cabin, and still I see nothing. I turn around to head back, realizing I had forgotten to close the door in my rush. I hear the pitter patter of footsteps galloping behind me. I turn and I am greeted by a friendly beast. I recognize her immediately as she bolts past me and into the open door.
I walk inside and find her in the corner, snuggled against Emily as if protecting her. Just to be sure, I walk over to her and grasp the tag on her collar in my hand. As I knew it would, the tag reads Lyla. I am happy. Finally, she is coming home.
I figured she had sent Lyla on ahead, or possibly lost her on the trail getting here. It was always hard to stop Lyla when she decided to use her energy. I walk back to the door and glance outside hopefully. When I see nothing, I turn back to the corner to find Lyla snoring in her sleep. The journey here had been very tiring.
A little while passes. I pass the time playing fetch, happy to see that Emily is no longer lonely now that she has a loyal friend. I am still lonely, but mostly on those nights where my pillow does not reciprocate my feelings. But I keep myself steady in the knowledge that she will soon be here.
Finally, many days later while throwing a log on the fire, I look out that very same living room window. I see a small speck seeming to grow bigger. First, I believe my eyes could be playing tricks on me. But I am not taking chances. I have to see.
I rush outside, happier than I have ever been, knowing that it must finally be her. I run until I am close enough for her to spot me and I start waving my hands dramatically in the air to make my presence known. She sees me and begins to sprint in my direction. About 100 feet away from me, she stops and flashes a little smile at me. It is unmistakable. I see her brown hair blowing in the wind, and I see her big brown eyes radiating in the sun, even through the thick snow. Once again I hear the song made just for me, and I feel as if nothing else in the universe matters.
I can contain myself no longer. I sprint toward her, eager to once again hold all that is dear to me. My heart is thudding beneath my chest and my feet as moving as fast as the wind. It is my darling. It is my love.
I have missed my marshmallow.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Angel Of the Road
I’m the angel of the road
Maybe I shouldnt’ve been somewhere so tall
I shouldn’t have stood on the ledge at all
But it really was an easy swift fall
And now I’m the angel of the road
I held my breath and tried to fight it
But my long sweater sleeves couldn’t hide it
Is it really my fault when it was never confided?
But now I’m the angel of the road
My wings are not very neat
The scattered blood pours from underneath
Can you blame me if I leaped?
Because now I’m the angel of the road
I really feel beautiful now
As I watch my body pull in a crowd
I even hear them cheer really loud
For their new angel of the road
Maybe I shouldnt’ve been somewhere so tall
I shouldn’t have stood on the ledge at all
But it really was an easy swift fall
And now I’m the angel of the road
I held my breath and tried to fight it
But my long sweater sleeves couldn’t hide it
Is it really my fault when it was never confided?
But now I’m the angel of the road
My wings are not very neat
The scattered blood pours from underneath
Can you blame me if I leaped?
Because now I’m the angel of the road
I really feel beautiful now
As I watch my body pull in a crowd
I even hear them cheer really loud
For their new angel of the road
Just My Imagination
I walked upon the lonely shore
A silent place not seen before
And upon the shore I saw a chair
And a beautiful mermaid sitting there
She spoke her name, the gorgeous Isabelle
But her name was nothing to what her scars could tell
Poor angel Isabelle had wandered off one day
And found herself taken away
The sea snatched her up with one fatal swoop
And Isabelle fought until her arms began to droop
And Isabelle no longer fought the sea
Little girl so sorry you left
And pity to your mother who forever wept
But now you’ve washed up on my shore
A place I’ve never been before
And you tell me the tale of untimely death
A solemn tale of one’s last breath
But I can’t die because I’m not real
And neither are you so I won’t even feel
When I take the scissors from under my coat
And gingerly stick them right in my throat
So here I go don’t try and stop me
Don’t even try because you’ll never top me
I’ll be the legend of this here beach
And you’ll be left to the visitors to preach
But don’t you worry ragged sea wench
It’s not your fault for your rotten stench
Maybe you shouldn’t have been so care free
not getting picked would’ve been a possibility
But what do you expect in this awful place?
But for me to run up and submerge your face
It was only natural to feed you to the sea
The only mother that took care of me
And now you’ve come back to have your way
So you really think that I’m insane?
It’s your fault for ever coming back
Mermaid of bone and skin turned black
Stop nagging me, you know I’m right
You’re just a pile of remains in this moonlight
But this isn’t real it’s all a dream
And you’re about as real as me
Now back to sea oh go along
I don’t want to hear your siren song
You’re dead to me no pun intended
I really don’t care if you’re offended
You’ve been a nice imaginary friend
In my illusive world of make pretend
A silent place not seen before
And upon the shore I saw a chair
And a beautiful mermaid sitting there
She spoke her name, the gorgeous Isabelle
But her name was nothing to what her scars could tell
Poor angel Isabelle had wandered off one day
And found herself taken away
The sea snatched her up with one fatal swoop
And Isabelle fought until her arms began to droop
And Isabelle no longer fought the sea
Little girl so sorry you left
And pity to your mother who forever wept
But now you’ve washed up on my shore
A place I’ve never been before
And you tell me the tale of untimely death
A solemn tale of one’s last breath
But I can’t die because I’m not real
And neither are you so I won’t even feel
When I take the scissors from under my coat
And gingerly stick them right in my throat
So here I go don’t try and stop me
Don’t even try because you’ll never top me
I’ll be the legend of this here beach
And you’ll be left to the visitors to preach
But don’t you worry ragged sea wench
It’s not your fault for your rotten stench
Maybe you shouldn’t have been so care free
not getting picked would’ve been a possibility
But what do you expect in this awful place?
But for me to run up and submerge your face
It was only natural to feed you to the sea
The only mother that took care of me
And now you’ve come back to have your way
So you really think that I’m insane?
It’s your fault for ever coming back
Mermaid of bone and skin turned black
Stop nagging me, you know I’m right
You’re just a pile of remains in this moonlight
But this isn’t real it’s all a dream
And you’re about as real as me
Now back to sea oh go along
I don’t want to hear your siren song
You’re dead to me no pun intended
I really don’t care if you’re offended
You’ve been a nice imaginary friend
In my illusive world of make pretend
The Front Porch Swing
I don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for him, but it’s been a long time, or maybe it’s only been a few seconds? I have no idea in all honesty. All I know is that I have to keep waiting for him. I set up everything we would need.
The house is finally up; the white paint is fresh and still holds its smell. The red door is the color of the apples that grow out in our field. I swept the porch and got everything ready. He never told me when he would arrive, but I don’t even know what time it is. Every clock in our House is stuck at the same time. The cuckoo clock in the foyer has a little blue bird that never stops whistling sweetly and the little polish children dance around it in delight, they never stop dancing, but I don’t think they know how long they’ve been dancing either.
I lay down in the yard and watch the clouds move. They create brilliant paintings in the sky so elaborate and beautiful you would never see them simply as clouds, yet that’s what they are; just fluffy collections of water minding their own business far above my head. The hues of salmon and auburn and the purest cotton white I feel like I could reach up and eat them.
I wonder when will he be home? I turn to face the woods; their tall pine trees stand far above my head and reach the clouds with their tops disappearing into a heavenly abyss. I watch the winding road before me and listen for the sounds of footsteps, but they don’t come; not yet.
I go inside and prepare myself a nice cup of tea. I don’t remember when I went to the grocery store last, but I seem to have plenty of food. I look at the box because I never seem to remember what brand I bought, but it’s simply delightful. I grab the notepad conveniently by the coffee make and write it down with the intention of creating a shopping list only to find myself out of nothing, so I put aside the notepad and go about my business finding my favorite mint green tea cup. I pull it from the cupboard and lay it on my gorgeous granite countertops and reach for my tea. I made a large jug so he’ll have something to drink when he gets home, He always loved a nice glass of cold iced tea.
I go about my ways and sit on the porch, the swing I built just for us. It was the most perfect swing I had ever seen with its freshly stained wood and intricate carvings. It didn’t take that long to make either...or did it? Anyways, I sat on my side of the swing. I had already chosen the right since that’s what has always been my place and what I’d known. I took of my shoes and let my bare feet feel the pleasure of the clean wood beneath me. It felt really nice, almost like the sand between my toes, but cleaner. Maybe when he gets here we will take a trip to the beach? I think he would like that.
I close my eyes and take in the scent of the pear blossoms, they hit my nose and the aroma takes me away to my childhood of climbing pear trees and picking the blossoms to lay in the bowls of water I would set on my bedside table. It might be nice to do that again before they turn into pears and all the bees come about, but I have yet to see a single insect in sight, but it’s only been a few hours…maybe.
I smile remembering the day we got married. I remember thinking that it was going to be hard when in all truth it was the easiest and best decision I’d ever made. I remember grabbing the bottle of wine on the dresser and pouring myself a glass, but my lips never touched it. The white lace brought the goose bumps on my pale skin as I put it on. The zipping in the back sealed the deal and I knew it as my fate and happily accepted it. She put the pink roses in my hand. The ivies entwined with it brushing against me occasionally, but I had far more important things to be bothered with. She placed the veil upon my head and as I watched I knew that was the last time I would look at myself while I still carried this name. How could something so permanent be so simple? I held my breath and closed my eyes. This was an eternity in itself. I was so young, my skin still so beautiful and milky. I had my dark hair pulled back into a most magnificent bun that had been coated with enough hairspray to put another hole into the ozone. This was it. I was putting the padlock on all of the doubts, I was going to finish this and begin again. I walked to the door and felt my father’s presence by me. He was far more nervous than I. Even veiled I could see the expression on his face and I patted him giving as much comfort as I could with the little time we had. I closed my eyes with the sounds of the majestic organ and imagined what he was thinking; if I was this calm he must have been twice as calm. He knew me so well…
I opened my eyes again and looked toward the green waiting for the sounds I so longed for. I never lost my impatience. He would be there soon; I could feel it in my bones… I’ll just sit on my porch and wait with my cup of tea. I feel no reason to rush him.
I listened to the wind so calmly whistle through the trees in the way I loved since I was a child, but that hadn’t been too long ago...or maybe it had. I rested my cup beside me on the swing and stood up as to not disturb it. I went inside and in curiosity I went to be sure I would have it. I wanted to remind him of it and laugh as I knew he would. The book was where he always put it. The library still in the disarray he left it in with his papers all about and the typewriter sitting there in wait for the use it so very much craved. It was more impatient than I as it had clearly been used not that long ago, but it craved something. It craved the mind and offered me the keys to give it what it wanted. It wanted progress and it wanted to help us.
In its own sill way, the typewriter was our best friend. It knew all of our secrets and thought and was never the one to tell. You could tell it every bad or naughty thing you had ever thought or heard and it would never judge you. It wanted you to let it out and feel better. When you got home it would be waiting for you in readiness to hear of your day. It didn’t even mind the smoke when you decided on the cigar you’d tucked away in your desk drawer. It was a kind and loyal friend I had come to thank over the years.
I grabbed the book and carried it outside. The worn cover was familiar to my fingers as I rubbed my hand along it. Great love had been seen in this book and it had been poured from the wispy silver pot containing his very essence. This was his child. It was born of the ink and the thoughts of his beautiful mind and had turned into a truer creation than I had witnessed before. It was the concrete image of his soul and more beautiful than the diamond that rested on my finger, which had also been of his heart, but also of his wallet. This took no money, only his openness and time.
I retired back to my seat and grabbed my cup and brought it back to my lips. I wish he had known, and the beautiful thing that i'd known in my mind is that he had. He’d always known and he always will know. Of all the books that rested in our library, He had been my favorite. He had been a book for me that I eventually joined with my own ink and had traveled along the crisp virgin pages. He had been a book I could never put down, because I never did, it had never seen the touch of my bedside table as so many other books had and would never be left to collect the dust like the others. Somehow, no matter how many times I read it, it never tore and it never aged. It still struggled in being folded flat and this was simply because it was new. It was always new. It always had something in it I had either missed or hadn’t gotten to and the pages seemed ending. I adored the everlasting and wished to never put it down and there it was; resting in my lap putting a weight I’d grown comfortable with and waited.
I opened the book and looked for my final place, but for some reason couldn’t concentrate on the words. When I laid in bed before he brought me home he would read it to me. He would smile as he read with the enthusiasm I had always wished to bottle. When I hadn’t been feeling too well he would spend as long as I’d liked reading it, but as the days had gone I could understand what he said less and less. It didn’t matter now though; it had been what seems like an eternity ago…maybe sooner, maybe longer. I held in that feeling. I felt the sun he had, but in my belly and I’d trapped and hidden from the shadows I’d seen and faced. I was no match for them with this sheath.
I remember the music he would play on Saturday mornings. With the little money we had we still managed to find our happiness, I would crawl out of bed and follow it through the house. His music was beautiful and had been kind to me when the world had not. It was a kind friend too when it stayed with the right crowd, when it wasn’t pressured into compaction. Music was never meant to be meddled with. It was meant to be like the words on paper that had galloped with the majesty of a strong mare through the fields it had come to know as its territory where it had always belonged, where it will always belong.
I opened my eyes when the sounds hit my ears: The subtle rustle of gravel beneath anxious feet. I knew it could be one thing and one thing only as I rose to my feet with a quickness I hadn’t possessed in years and ran like mad to the stairs in waiting. I saw the figure draw nearer it had a familiarity but not of one I had seen in so long. I knew this was different, or maybe it had only been a dream but never had I been surer of the reality of the situation. He came closer and our eyes locked, they were old friends I had so dearly missed the company of in even my darkest hours. I have no word for the action I took next or the swiftness behind it but I was met with his arms when I reached my destination, my final destination.
The young face before me had been missed. His hands wrapped around me resonated a feeling so ancient I’d nearly forgotten it. He stood again with the youth I’d long lacked the pleasure of seeing. He was strong and his lungs were filled with nectar and purity of the air surrounding us on all sides. He held me tight and for the first time I had not wondered the time and would never wonder again. There was no way to measure this, this nirvana I’d entered. Time was no longer in existence and in fact seemed to be a rather silly concept now. The clocks melted away onto the floor and absorbed to leave no trace of their now pointless existence. The clouds moved, but only in their own vanity of doing as they pleased. They held only the purpose of decoration and detail to what this was and there was only one word for what this was, Heaven.
I grabbed his hand and wrapped my delicate one around it. “ I made some tea, How about a glass?” the only words I could mutter, I was in awe of my own voice something I hadn’t seen the purpose of in some time, but was now leaving my throat with the harmony I’d taken for granted so many times. I brought him his glass and joined him on the swing, our swing. The presence of his figure entrapped me and left me filled inside with something I had once been so oblivious to but no longer and surely with the turning of the crisp pages the ink brought to life the images I’d lost with my eyes, but never with my mind. The arms I’d waited for landed gently upon my shoulders and I heard the music.
~R
The house is finally up; the white paint is fresh and still holds its smell. The red door is the color of the apples that grow out in our field. I swept the porch and got everything ready. He never told me when he would arrive, but I don’t even know what time it is. Every clock in our House is stuck at the same time. The cuckoo clock in the foyer has a little blue bird that never stops whistling sweetly and the little polish children dance around it in delight, they never stop dancing, but I don’t think they know how long they’ve been dancing either.
I lay down in the yard and watch the clouds move. They create brilliant paintings in the sky so elaborate and beautiful you would never see them simply as clouds, yet that’s what they are; just fluffy collections of water minding their own business far above my head. The hues of salmon and auburn and the purest cotton white I feel like I could reach up and eat them.
I wonder when will he be home? I turn to face the woods; their tall pine trees stand far above my head and reach the clouds with their tops disappearing into a heavenly abyss. I watch the winding road before me and listen for the sounds of footsteps, but they don’t come; not yet.
I go inside and prepare myself a nice cup of tea. I don’t remember when I went to the grocery store last, but I seem to have plenty of food. I look at the box because I never seem to remember what brand I bought, but it’s simply delightful. I grab the notepad conveniently by the coffee make and write it down with the intention of creating a shopping list only to find myself out of nothing, so I put aside the notepad and go about my business finding my favorite mint green tea cup. I pull it from the cupboard and lay it on my gorgeous granite countertops and reach for my tea. I made a large jug so he’ll have something to drink when he gets home, He always loved a nice glass of cold iced tea.
I go about my ways and sit on the porch, the swing I built just for us. It was the most perfect swing I had ever seen with its freshly stained wood and intricate carvings. It didn’t take that long to make either...or did it? Anyways, I sat on my side of the swing. I had already chosen the right since that’s what has always been my place and what I’d known. I took of my shoes and let my bare feet feel the pleasure of the clean wood beneath me. It felt really nice, almost like the sand between my toes, but cleaner. Maybe when he gets here we will take a trip to the beach? I think he would like that.
I close my eyes and take in the scent of the pear blossoms, they hit my nose and the aroma takes me away to my childhood of climbing pear trees and picking the blossoms to lay in the bowls of water I would set on my bedside table. It might be nice to do that again before they turn into pears and all the bees come about, but I have yet to see a single insect in sight, but it’s only been a few hours…maybe.
I smile remembering the day we got married. I remember thinking that it was going to be hard when in all truth it was the easiest and best decision I’d ever made. I remember grabbing the bottle of wine on the dresser and pouring myself a glass, but my lips never touched it. The white lace brought the goose bumps on my pale skin as I put it on. The zipping in the back sealed the deal and I knew it as my fate and happily accepted it. She put the pink roses in my hand. The ivies entwined with it brushing against me occasionally, but I had far more important things to be bothered with. She placed the veil upon my head and as I watched I knew that was the last time I would look at myself while I still carried this name. How could something so permanent be so simple? I held my breath and closed my eyes. This was an eternity in itself. I was so young, my skin still so beautiful and milky. I had my dark hair pulled back into a most magnificent bun that had been coated with enough hairspray to put another hole into the ozone. This was it. I was putting the padlock on all of the doubts, I was going to finish this and begin again. I walked to the door and felt my father’s presence by me. He was far more nervous than I. Even veiled I could see the expression on his face and I patted him giving as much comfort as I could with the little time we had. I closed my eyes with the sounds of the majestic organ and imagined what he was thinking; if I was this calm he must have been twice as calm. He knew me so well…
I opened my eyes again and looked toward the green waiting for the sounds I so longed for. I never lost my impatience. He would be there soon; I could feel it in my bones… I’ll just sit on my porch and wait with my cup of tea. I feel no reason to rush him.
I listened to the wind so calmly whistle through the trees in the way I loved since I was a child, but that hadn’t been too long ago...or maybe it had. I rested my cup beside me on the swing and stood up as to not disturb it. I went inside and in curiosity I went to be sure I would have it. I wanted to remind him of it and laugh as I knew he would. The book was where he always put it. The library still in the disarray he left it in with his papers all about and the typewriter sitting there in wait for the use it so very much craved. It was more impatient than I as it had clearly been used not that long ago, but it craved something. It craved the mind and offered me the keys to give it what it wanted. It wanted progress and it wanted to help us.
In its own sill way, the typewriter was our best friend. It knew all of our secrets and thought and was never the one to tell. You could tell it every bad or naughty thing you had ever thought or heard and it would never judge you. It wanted you to let it out and feel better. When you got home it would be waiting for you in readiness to hear of your day. It didn’t even mind the smoke when you decided on the cigar you’d tucked away in your desk drawer. It was a kind and loyal friend I had come to thank over the years.
I grabbed the book and carried it outside. The worn cover was familiar to my fingers as I rubbed my hand along it. Great love had been seen in this book and it had been poured from the wispy silver pot containing his very essence. This was his child. It was born of the ink and the thoughts of his beautiful mind and had turned into a truer creation than I had witnessed before. It was the concrete image of his soul and more beautiful than the diamond that rested on my finger, which had also been of his heart, but also of his wallet. This took no money, only his openness and time.
I retired back to my seat and grabbed my cup and brought it back to my lips. I wish he had known, and the beautiful thing that i'd known in my mind is that he had. He’d always known and he always will know. Of all the books that rested in our library, He had been my favorite. He had been a book for me that I eventually joined with my own ink and had traveled along the crisp virgin pages. He had been a book I could never put down, because I never did, it had never seen the touch of my bedside table as so many other books had and would never be left to collect the dust like the others. Somehow, no matter how many times I read it, it never tore and it never aged. It still struggled in being folded flat and this was simply because it was new. It was always new. It always had something in it I had either missed or hadn’t gotten to and the pages seemed ending. I adored the everlasting and wished to never put it down and there it was; resting in my lap putting a weight I’d grown comfortable with and waited.
I opened the book and looked for my final place, but for some reason couldn’t concentrate on the words. When I laid in bed before he brought me home he would read it to me. He would smile as he read with the enthusiasm I had always wished to bottle. When I hadn’t been feeling too well he would spend as long as I’d liked reading it, but as the days had gone I could understand what he said less and less. It didn’t matter now though; it had been what seems like an eternity ago…maybe sooner, maybe longer. I held in that feeling. I felt the sun he had, but in my belly and I’d trapped and hidden from the shadows I’d seen and faced. I was no match for them with this sheath.
I remember the music he would play on Saturday mornings. With the little money we had we still managed to find our happiness, I would crawl out of bed and follow it through the house. His music was beautiful and had been kind to me when the world had not. It was a kind friend too when it stayed with the right crowd, when it wasn’t pressured into compaction. Music was never meant to be meddled with. It was meant to be like the words on paper that had galloped with the majesty of a strong mare through the fields it had come to know as its territory where it had always belonged, where it will always belong.
I opened my eyes when the sounds hit my ears: The subtle rustle of gravel beneath anxious feet. I knew it could be one thing and one thing only as I rose to my feet with a quickness I hadn’t possessed in years and ran like mad to the stairs in waiting. I saw the figure draw nearer it had a familiarity but not of one I had seen in so long. I knew this was different, or maybe it had only been a dream but never had I been surer of the reality of the situation. He came closer and our eyes locked, they were old friends I had so dearly missed the company of in even my darkest hours. I have no word for the action I took next or the swiftness behind it but I was met with his arms when I reached my destination, my final destination.
The young face before me had been missed. His hands wrapped around me resonated a feeling so ancient I’d nearly forgotten it. He stood again with the youth I’d long lacked the pleasure of seeing. He was strong and his lungs were filled with nectar and purity of the air surrounding us on all sides. He held me tight and for the first time I had not wondered the time and would never wonder again. There was no way to measure this, this nirvana I’d entered. Time was no longer in existence and in fact seemed to be a rather silly concept now. The clocks melted away onto the floor and absorbed to leave no trace of their now pointless existence. The clouds moved, but only in their own vanity of doing as they pleased. They held only the purpose of decoration and detail to what this was and there was only one word for what this was, Heaven.
I grabbed his hand and wrapped my delicate one around it. “ I made some tea, How about a glass?” the only words I could mutter, I was in awe of my own voice something I hadn’t seen the purpose of in some time, but was now leaving my throat with the harmony I’d taken for granted so many times. I brought him his glass and joined him on the swing, our swing. The presence of his figure entrapped me and left me filled inside with something I had once been so oblivious to but no longer and surely with the turning of the crisp pages the ink brought to life the images I’d lost with my eyes, but never with my mind. The arms I’d waited for landed gently upon my shoulders and I heard the music.
~R
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