Soothing is…
A cool hand to my warm brow.
Hugs when my mood flags.
An understanding nod during
times of confusion.
Encouragement in the face
of disappointment.
Love and compassion during
times of hatred.
Ground when I become a ball of
misfiring electricity wound
round and round by circumstances
beyond my control.
A tender kiss upon my forehead
at the end of a hard day.
Orange and pink on the eastern horizon
at the start of a new day.
hope followed me upstairs
from the dead dark bottom of
the house
days hours weeks
months
without sunlight
moldering in standing water
yet thirsty
so thirsty
for something better
until I pulled open the door
at the base of the stairs
was it ever locked
no
this prison was only in
my imagination
so much wasted time
yearning for the smell
of fresh cut grass
craving a friendly smile
listening for the sound
of wind chimes touched
by a light breeze
it was here all here all along
freedom
Subconscious shields the waking self.
Secrets trapped in dreams
escape bit by bit.
Images emerge from static;
candlelight and mirrors,
reflections of some truth that
eludes understanding.
Heart pounds as eyes open.
Another day in the dark.
Josie sits in her rocker facing the east window. She gave up trying to sleep in bed, her aching hip and lower back making it impossible, and it was too early to start chores.
So she sits. And rocks. And admires the stars in the dark,
vast sky spreading over her snow-covered fields, the same fields that would
remain unplowed now that Jesse had left her.
She pricks up her ears. A noise from one of the kids’ rooms
upstairs. But it is so early it has to be the wind pushing through a window
whose seal had failed years ago.
How many times had she and Jesse sat in this room, facing
this window, watching the sky and the land? Too many to count on her arthritic
hands. Sometimes, when she forgets he is gone, she catches glimpses of him at
the kitchen sink, feeding the chickens, mending a fence, or bent to some other task
in the yard.
She shakes her head. No. Not here. Gone forever. The stars
twinkle.
She still needs to make lunches for the kids to carry with
them to school. Jeanne doesn’t like mayonnaise on her ham sandwich but Benny does.
He likes carrot sticks and Jenny prefers an apple. On special occasions they
get an oatmeal raisin cookie as a treat.
When Josie was a young girl, her mother always told her to
eat what the good Lord provided and to be grateful for it. Didn’t she know
there were children starving? It might have been the end of the Great
Depression, but the lessons learned during that lean time stayed with her.
A chirp from her
portable phone ends Josie’s reverie. Jeanne sent it to her for Christmas last
year. Josie doesn’t understand how to work the darned thing so it stays plugged
in and untouched on the kitchen counter, a paper weight for the stack of bills
that she can no longer be bothered to pay. She prefers to stick with the phone
wired to the mustard yellow living room wall. The lines go down from time to
time and even when a call can squeeze through it is rife with so much static
that it might as well be coming from Mars, but she knows how to operate it and
it is good enough for her.
A small ball of distant white light speeding from the
heavens toward the horizon captures Josie’s attention. Maybe there is a meteor
shower?
When she and Jesse first married, they stood in their north
field watching the Lyrids, their young faces pinked with cold and raised to the
sky, as though it were a fireworks display just for them. They had no idea of
what life had in store for them but in that moment, they had the security of
each other’s warmth and the beauty of nature. Loneliness, illness and old age
couldn’t even be considered on a night that held such mystic beauty.
Another ball of light descends outside Josie’s window,
following what seems to be the same path. And another. And another. And
another.
She calls to her husband, Jeanne and Benny as she opens the
door to investigate, the cold barely registering on her slippered feet and bare
hands as she steps out. The field beyond the yard lays unbroken in knee deep
snow. She walks on, following the light.
Doves gorge on seed; hawk satisfied.
Rabbit eats my garden. Hasenpfeffer dinner.
Wanted: Children with taste for gingerbread.
Secondhand coffin for sale. Barely used.
Exercise club: Pay now. Ignore later.
Maggie arrived late for work, her purse and laptop bag dangling from her right arm. The elevator was empty as it dinged its way past the third, fourth and fifth floors where it paused to admit a small man wearing a sea green checked suit jacket with a green carnation in the button hole and solid sea green bell bottom pants. He nodded cordially as he entered the lift and stood facing her during the remainder of the ride to the 12th floor. When the door slid open he turned smartly and marched past Rita the receptionist's desk.
"Good morning Maggie," Rita chirped. "How was
your weekend?"
"It was alright," Maggie replied. "Hey Rita,
did you see the man who got off the elevator with me?"
"No honey. I thought it was just you."
Maggie took her messages from Rita's outstretched hand as
she passed, curious where the green-clad man had gone. She peeked into each
office as she strolled down the hallway but didn't see him.
She turned down the corridor to the left and there he was.
He stood below the window at the end of the hallway tapping a familiar
rhythm on the wall. Her mouth fell open in surprise when a door opened and the
man stepped in, winking at her over his shoulder as the door closed behind him.
Maggie rushed to the end of the hallway and repeated the rhythm. The door
opened and inside she could see a series of cubicles and further back a bank of
busy machines. Faint whirs and buzzes wafted toward the door.
The buzzing grew louder and Maggie's eyes opened wide. The
alarm clock beside her bed sounded to wake her for work. Another Monday. And
another strange dream. Maggie sat up and swung her legs over the side of her
bed.
She shuffled to the bathroom, never noticing the green
carnation on the floor in the hall.
We tried again. Lowered
the bucket down the well.
This time, he climbed atop.
Grasped the rope and held
on, feet occasionally
bouncing off the continuous
rough rock wall around him.
But this time, this time
his toes didn't wedge
between the rocks to hold
him against our straining
up top, pulling with all
our might. The higher
he rose toward our voices
and the pale sky, the lighter
he became. Maybe this time
he would cast off the bricks
and boulders he'd been carrying
that kept him at the bottom
of the well. Maybe this time
he would make it to the light.
