A feather drifted to the ground…

Blood Moon.jpg

Through an open window she heard notes. At first the soft pitter- patter of sound that quickly gathered to pounding momentum. Outside, a staccato rhythm clipped the walkway. From the heavens came the boom clap of thunder and then a whisper in the pause: I love you. I am by your side.

Slowly she rose to standing. Broken memories glittered about her feet.

A current hummed within the stillness. Fireflies flitted through the open window to hover above a wooden desk. The glow from a hundred glimmers of light lit upon the blank pages of a waiting notebook.

The story was hers to write in all of its beautiful form. Piece by piece, the memories altered, mended, whole. The largest piece, the foundation, evidence of a fierce strength and an enduring love, shone brightest.

***

 

Her fingers reach to lift the fallen pen from the ground. One hand shields her eyes to the sun. She gazes up to the place he waits. The clouds have thinned. The air is silent. The storm has ended.

Bare feet stand in a small pool of freshly fallen rainwater. Sunshine warms the asphalt. She takes a breath and lets the steamy heat rise up through her lovely bones. A hot breeze playfully slaps her cheek.

From the pecan tree comes birdsong so lilting, notes mirror a symphony.
Electric, she has risen. A tingling races down her backbone. She envisions the feathers that flow from her spine. Wings. Arms lift in unison.

Truth and love are resilient. She casts one last look back before soaring on.

 

A Dream

Her words written on an email~ I had a strange dream last night.  Tell me more, I wrote back.  These are her words.

I was sitting on a beach, tracing shapes into sand, watching as the grains shifted, the sand bits refusing to stay put, rearranging themselves, she wrote. A man came into view.  He looked to be in his early seventies and was wearing a navy cloth baseball style jacket; the same style that he used to wear.  Do your remember that jacket, Grace? The man stood and watched, met my stare.  I saw compassion in his weary eyes.  The man did not speak, merely stood in front of me.  It was surreal, as if time had stopped.

There were no words exchanged between us, no need to check the reasons, expose the painful events and emotions that tore us apart.  There were no scores to settle.  We simply met on a beach and faced one another. Then he turned and walked away toward the sun’s rise.

Dad came to say, “good-bye” to me.  He waited twenty years. 

Layers

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Layers

When I recall my father I remember is eyes, the long almond shaped lids, their colour and clarity.  His eyes were the darkest green, unnatural actually, animal like in their brilliance and sparkle.  His hair was raven black, combed straight back from a high forehead.  These attributes were his best features along with an attractive expression.  He had youthful good looks and boyish charm which others found appealing.

“Never trust a man with a weak chin line,” my mother would later comment.   I would have to agree, she would know.

There was a presence about my father when he entered a room.  Aware that he possessed beguiling charm, he would captivate the crowd.  To say he had presence was an understatement.  My mother would sew her clothes from curtains and remnants, my father would have his suits hand measured and stitched by Modernize Tailors in Vancouver’s China Town.  Some claim that a great suit can make a man and it certainly was my father’s motto.

“Roy dresses better than the President of the company,” my mother would comment.

My father had aspirations of becoming a President of a company and reputation was everything.  He studied the look of success, choosing the basics of style for the era of the 1960’s and 70’s.  Suits made from the deepest navy blue cloth, burnished browns, or charcoal slate were his choice of fabrics.  He was slim and of regular height, the careful lines of tailoring made him look taller, the hand stitched jackets fitted to his strong frame, padded through the shoulders.

The pants were straight, pleated, and hung perfectly from his waist.  It was my father’s shoes that I admired, his brogues.  I would watch him as he slowly twisted the lid off the tin of shoe polish, gently pushing the soft cloth into the polish and applying it to the leather, the polish sliding across the top, back, and sides of the brogue.  After a bit, he would take out a clean cloth and polish the shoes to a brilliant gleam. It became my job to polish and shine his shoes placing them on the mat beside the basement door.

In his closet hung wool fabrics for winter and lighter mixed blends for summer.  Sometimes, I would enter his bedroom and open the closet door.  The suits would be neatly lined up, colour blocked, hanging in wait from wooden hangers. The blends and the tweeds beckoned touch; there was a luxurious depth to them.  The distinct scent of cigar drifted away from the clothing.

When my father began to vanish, he’d take items of clothing piece by piece as if they were evaporating.  Was he trying to trick us into thinking that he was still present?  Perhaps he was momentarily off course, his compass a suit in the cupboard, a direction finder for when he found his way back home.  I would realize he had finally left when opening the cupboard, it would be empty, the biting scent of cigar, gone.

Look To The Skies

The rain is falling; the woman’s body can sense moisture in the air.  Once a child, the woman would think it odd when her grandmother would comment, I can feel the weather in my bones.  Now she knows this is factual.  Scientists state that creatures, including birds, can sense a storm, as it brews, before it strikes.  True, the woman believes. Pay attention to the birds, Grace.  Look to the skies.

The sky is grey, dove grey. Gossamer threads taut, white fibres stretched through the sky, much like a blanket, the shades subtly mingled and woven. A cozy blanket to comfort the earth.

Red boots on Saturday
Red boots on Saturday (Photo credit: huppypie)

The woman fans the paint chips, November Skies, catches her eye. When it comes to colour, Nature, the masterful painter, always gets it right. Look to the skies. 

This is a red boot day, a functional rain boot day.  The woman senses the boots whispering through the floors of the old house, Come, let’s play.  Once there was a time when new rain boots made the woman smile, peering through the living room window, waiting for rain.  Anticipating the child’s thrill, dipping a foot into water. The puddles to splash!  Look to the skies. 

The rain tumbles down.  The woman wonders, Does the sky shed tears? Perhaps, the universe, heart-broken and melancholy, sobs, when a light goes out on the earth below.  A sorrowful cleanse of sorts, a reminder of loss and despair. A reminder of another’s love, now washed away. Lost to memory, patiently waiting, for the right time for one to open the box.  Open it.  Let the sunlight’s brilliance remind us of all that is beautiful in life, remembering, the rain will pass.  Look to the skies.