She believed in more. More time to wonder, to imagine possibility in an ordinary moment. To believe in two strangers on a crowded street, the unfamiliar hand that reaches to hold a door, one certain glance.

Everything had changed yet she knew. His eyes looked like home.

~ draft scene

Early morning sunlight crept in through the open window and kissed her on the shoulder.

He watched her sleep. Studied each soft inhale and exhale of  breath, traced a lock  of hair across the pillowcase.  The hair she refused to cut. Her signature, a self-styled rebellion against time and fashion mores.

Light crept across the bed, unveiling her face in real- time. She was his June with December’s eyes. He touched the scar beneath her chin and counted each freckle, long faded.

Time had caught him by surprise; he’d not seen himself growing older. Certainly, he had not seen her coming. It wasn’t supposed to play out this way. Now all he wanted  was to absorb her into oblivion.

Life could be a lonely act. How fast it goes. As seasons changed, he’d buried his father, then his mother, and cheated on his wives. Like the tease of spring, she  had tip- toed into his life, the odds stacked against her.

He’d warned. ” I carry a full bag.”

“Unpack,” she said.

Their future was uncertain. He knew this truth: she was hard to crush.

 

 

 

The Dream

I had a dream.

We are in your car, a fixed up TR-6, taken from your brother. The radio retro blasts a Jim Morrison high. You steer south toward the I-5. A ribbon of trees line the hillside.  Blood red mingles with atomic tangerine.

I glance left, note how the sun casts light across your face. My finger traces the map of your jaw. You are delicious; I am enchanted.

Camped out beneath starry skies we share stories of who we will become. You are moving up; I am moving on. Wrapped within your arms I feel an unfamiliar touch of forever.

Hoar frost blanketed our tangled bones. Winter winds ripped us open.  Upon spring’s return, we awoke-  as if from a tale, frozen to a past.

I never told you: I loved our fleeting moments.

The Circle

The circle opened to let me in. A hand reached for mine. Warmth from a touch pulsed through starved veins; a fingertip graced my forearm. A heartbeat slowed.

We stood tall together. Ancestors, cousins, sisters, mothers and aunts all stepped forth, heads held high. You turned and faced us.

Strong women. We’ve known struggle. The brave ones; we’ve faced fear, cut it down with our light. Words tossed like stones only bruised our surface. We’ve known betrayals and chose to rise above the duplicity. Compassionate, we conquer hate with tolerance and love. Joyous we drink from celebration’s cup.

Honourable women. We’ve known loss, felt its icy fingers spear our hearts. Tears slipped like silk to cleanse sorrow’s stain. Babies born and buried, husbands lost, doors shut. Voiceless we screamed to a seemingly absent god, “ Have mercy.”

We’ve stumbled; momentarily lost our footing through the darkened forest. Our advice to you is simple.

Take shelter under the limbs of the finest tree. Pause within the stillness. Perhaps the only audible is the wind as it lifts the leaves to dance. Punched by noise leaves you fit to embrace silence. Can you hear the rustling?

Realize a presence, something more. It is their legion. They come to circle and say, “Your story, your voice, your being, matters.” Something enchanted, other worldly happens. Whispered voices murmur, “We are here. You are not alone.”

The circle opens to let you in. A hand reaches forth. Its touch pulses through hungry veins and warms you. A fingertip graces your forearm. You feel your heartbeat slow.

We stand tall together. Your ancestors, sisters, cousins, mothers and aunts. Strong women.

 

 

 

 

There Must Be Some Mistake

Sometimes life makes you smile. This morning I sat in the specialist’s office waiting for my annual eye exam. This particular doctor is either very competent or extremely overbooked. Most times the waiting room of patients extends outside the office door and winds through the hallway of the building. Today was a good day; I saw twenty patients ahead of me.

After the “screens” and drops that should really come with a warning label, I rubbed my bleary eyes enough to see the patients seated next to me. An elderly gentleman by the name of Mr. Hobbs struck up a conversation that revolved around Stephen Hawkings and the revolutionary effects of electricity. A Mr. Robataille chimed in and wondered why women keep so many items stuffed inside a purse? He had noticed my fingers rooting for a Kleenex tissue hidden deep within the folds of my tote. My attempt to explain the psychology of the purse as a symbol for a life, failed to convince him.

I had my own questions. As I sat blindly attempting to make out the faces of the other patients, I noticed a similar attribute of each and every one. Not one of the patients in the waiting room wore glasses. Some were actually reading newsprint. I was the youngest patient in the room and the only one wearing glasses.

After what felt like a small eternity,I heard my name called. I sat in the chair to await the arrival of the Eye God. As I waited, I attempted to study the eye chart posters pinned around the closeted walls. Front and centre was the big question: why am I the only one wearing glasses in this man’s office?

The God entered the examining room and smiled.He studied my chart notes, “Very good. Very good,” he chortled. He had me place my chin onto a bar and swung a metal contraption across my face.
“Look into my eye,” he said. The fingers of his right hand held a small disc that looked like a magnifying glass and suddenly lights shone, and screens slid.
“All good. You’re healthy. Perfect vision.”
Had there been an error?
“Perfect vision? I’m the only patient in your waiting room wearing glasses.”
The doctor’s face smiled and he broke into laughter.
“Very good. Very good,” he giggled. “Later. Later. When you’re older, I fix you like the others. Too young, too young.”
Sometimes life is puzzling.

The Daily Prompt~ Junk

MirrorDaily Prompt: Clean House

by michelle w. on September 29, 2013

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.