I miss you
In the quiet moments of the dawn
In between sips of coffee
When it snows
At a red light
I miss you.
I miss you
When I sit on a windy beach
In the moments before sleep
When I see a boat
or a shell
I miss you.
The opportunity to fall back in time, to face him, the questions lined up in rapid fire, the judgements already sealed, words tattooed upon the woman’s heart . Its every pump, sending forth doubt, frantic searches to find the missing puzzle piece, the never-ending search for an answer to the question, Did you love me? An answer to the why. There had been time to prepare the words and wonder, the unsettled musing about, the shedding of tears. Journeying back in time, the woman rediscovered the place where the stars crossed, the point that they had started from. It became her only way to find inner peace and a desperate sense of belonging. Journey back to the beginning of the story. Mine and scrape the mire off of hope, dreams, and love. This became the quest.
The woman discovered that the story begins with family strength. Many generations of men and women struggling to raise their families, surviving the cruelest moments that life has a way of tossing out. Families living with a strong faith, guided by a belief that their God would provide, in time. Patience. It started with love; actions such as the scrapped pieces of poetry, carefully cut from the newspapers, glued into a now tattered book, dedicated to the man. A mother’s enduring love for a son, the words on the page calling forth wishes, expressing sorrow, and hope. Belief and patience. The unspoken words on the page, the silent messages of a mother’s undying love.
Did the man appreciate how much he was treasured; was the message softly spoken? The woman wonders if the man knew his value. Did the man realize the talents he possessed, the ability to see the details, an eye that could create and fix, rendering works of beauty and function? Did the man realize that he was good enough? Did the man lose his heart?
There was so much the woman could have said; so many questions to ask. What was the point? It is what it is. It is not what should have been. The woman and the man both know that fact. The woman stepped forth and took the man’s hand. The touch screaming the words that she could not express, the questions unimportant now. I love you, dad. For that is all that truly matters.
This evening, by midnight, certain regions of Canada and the world, will complete the annual ritual of turning back the clocks by one hour, an action also known as standard time. There are positives to this action. A recent seven-year study in Sweden found that this semi-annual one hour change is linked to a study that shows a decrease in heart attacks and fatalities, perhaps due to body alertness and ability to adjust to light changes. It is believed that setting the clock back by one hour is easier on the body than setting the clock forward.
Imagine being able to find an opening in the universe and like, another Alice, much more famous than my Alice, topple and tumble-down a rabbit hole, to arrive at an event. A pivotal event in your life, a do over moment. What would you do over, what would you change, if time gave you this opportunity?
Stepping into the quiet, calm night, so still, one can feel the stars sparkle. Fairies of the night, shining souls, casting their brilliance to the earth below. It is the midnight hour, an alluring moment of time, where magical happenings are always a possibility.
Darkness layers the night, the ancient evergreens thick and sturdy tall, standing guard to form a fortress of protection, against the darkness of the night. Venturing deeper into their midst, the woman senses the rustle as the boughs adjust, a joining of hands like moment, of solidarity and connection. You are safe here, their whispered breathes, blowing forth, greet her. Shelter here.
Leaning against the trunk, the woman presses her cheek against the cool, rough, soft surface. A tattered blanket of moss wraps around, much like a too old child still clinging to a weary blanket. Some comfort. The woman closes her eyes and falls. Back in time, tumbling into a garden a bloom, where he is waiting.
~ to be continued
Is there “junk” in your life? What kind? How do you get rid of it?
Photographers, artists, poets: show us JUNK.
A clean and tidy house calms me, assures that all is right with my world. Clean as in floors washed, dishes scrubbed, trash contained and clean as in visually calm and pleasing to the eye, everything in its place, ship-shape, serene. There is an order to the spaces and pieces in my home, purposely placed to show their function, use, or aesthetic beauty. Artful placement. Nothing mumble jumble. It has always been this way for me, a comfort comes in knowing and visualizing where everything is and why it is. Addicted to order and beauty, addicted to calm. I fear chaos.
I am addicted to order and beauty yet I can not pass by that one-off chair sitting by the curb, discarded, worse for wear. I can see possibilities and beauty. A project. Junk to you, treasure to me. Lately, I am drawn to shades of blues and greys, reminiscent of oceans and skies, the shades changing with the hour and the light. Moody shades. Addicted to shape. I touch all that is round, smooth, and cool. Rocks, chestnuts, shells, pottery bowls, and glass are heaven in my hands. Lately, I am addicted to words, those prolific, simple quotes that complete a thought. I selectively search them out, books, notecards, posters, pillows, words grace my space. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Junk challenges and over the years I have attempted to deal with that aspect in my life. Recycling when I can, discarding if I must, choosing with a selective eye, finding a home for each item, or walking away. When I see an item of beauty, it is the history that captivates me, the memories evoked, the stories. I am addicted to the stories that the pieces whisper forth as they sit in the thrift shop, or beside the curb. Sometimes, I falter and bring them along home, lovingly restoring and coaxing new life to the damaged shapes. Finding a place for the old. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Junk can clutter a home; it can clutter a life. Lately, I have decided to deal with the debris in my soul, sweeping it off and dusting over the scratches. Polishing up the shabbier pieces, illuminating the beauty and shine, finding my voice. It requires one to be brave, take a risk. It is difficult to let go and scatter the broken bits, the memories we frantically cling to. Some of these memories will find a place in a story, some banished, others will be forgiven, planting the seeds of hope and promise. Junk to you, treasure to me.
Oh~ and I will purposely leave a cup out-of-place. I will walk away.