The dark, cold, loneliness of rejection still fills my soul. A part of me will always be dead. Over thirty years later, reading your obituary still brought tears of rejection to my eyes.
Walking on the island shore at night always held a fascination for me, especially with my young teen. We would walk along, watching as the lights on shore glimmered off the amazing expanse of water all around is. It was one of those moments that needed no words, the feelings, the magic, spoke for itself.
He reached down and picked up something, turned to me, held it up and smiled. It was a whole conch con, shimmering in the starlight. Wow! I said, as we walked on. I will never forget that night. It is burnt into my soul. A tear runs down my cheek even now. It was the last night we ever spent on the beach together.
Three years ago, I lost my mom.
She had been fading for years, but we still talked,
we laughed and loved.
It seems like since then loss and loneliness
have been so much of my life.
I feel like I am drowning.
After loosing my child, hope, faith,
and that special closeness with my family,
I feel I will never capture the joy in life again.
I can only beg you, young people,
to take that joy, when you find it,
and treat it as thought it was glass, because it is.
I felt chapped and burned all over, though the clouds were dark and threatening that cold winter day.
He ran down from the stunted trees, to the dock, where I waited in the boat as it rocked in the shallows of the sound. There on the the boat, he kissed my cheek. “You’re alive!” he cried out. As the schooner slipped below the waves, I grasped his hand and cried. I remember the horror of that day, not because of the warmth of the land, or the lovely clusters of palms, but because of the fierceness of the burning sands.
After the darkness,
Blue skies surround me
Clouds drift on the horizon
Drifting away at last
Every day is different
Fresh and exciting.
Gladly, I look for
Hovering bees and bugs
Ice melted at last.
Just one warm day
Keeps me hoping
Long after cold returns
Night times stars
Overhead-your head and mine.
Perhaps I treasure nature
Questioning it’s rhythms
Reining in its surprises
Turning from chill to warmth
Until I come upon the first
Violet, a sure sign of spring.
Wonder if other over it as much
X-citined as I am
You may know-tell me
Home is the place where I walk in the door, recognize the fragrances, smiles at the messes, savor the peace and feeling of security. When my family is with me, What I miss most about home, is simply home, itself.
Of course, coming home alone is a different story. The joy of beloved faces, sloppy kisses from kids and pets, and the “ahh” of taking off the uncomfortable shoes or clothes you’ve endured while you were away, all of these give home that all important feeling of belonging.
What strikes me most about my feelings for ‘home’ is thinking of the homeless. Thinking of not having that place to rest, not being able to go to the kitchen, open the curtains and fix some chai tea. Not flopping down in your favorite recliner, or taking a hot bath. I honestly believe that the best thing about home is simply HAVING ONE.
Pied Piper 9-20-13
Once, in the mist of summer day,
I saw a group of young male turkeys
pecking away in the field next to my house.
I watched how they, much like crows,
had a pecking order-
some of them would try to keep
other turkeys from eating.
It is interesting how, we, humans
sometimes act the same way.
Thinking we are better,
more deserving, than others are.
Now, I often make the greedy turkeys
allow the ones they chastise
a chance to eat.
They have learned to follow me to my porch,
knowing I will allow them to eat.
There is enough for all of us
winged or human, if we will only share.
It had been an exhausting trip for Colleen, but, finally she was at the front of the pub that had belonged to her family in England for over 150 years. Colleen, having been born in Georgia, in the United States had heard of this place since she was a child, sitting on her Grandpa’s knee.
Her Grandpa had always called her his, “Irish Colleen”, with her flowing red tresses. Suddenly, it felt real, she WAS that “Irish Colleen”.
“Colleen!” a voice shouted. She looked ahead in astonishment. Her cousin, Siobahn, was her mirror image! Grandpa was right! Irish genes were strong!
She never quite had what others got so easily, it seems. She worked twice as hard and got half as much. Still, every summer she would find a way for a seed or two to curl their heads into the sun, sprout fuzzy, perhaps a bit prickly leaves that soon became a bud.One day, the bud would begin to open, showing its crimson soul. For a few days it would magnify itself, command comments on it’s beauty, then it would begin its trip home.
Fall would come, she would hake her brown fluted bowl of seeds in the wind and finally succumb to winders cold and wind, break open and spread her seeds. And then spring would come again, and season after season, she would struggle to produce those lovely, fleeting blossoms.
One year, someone mowed down her beautiful blossom, but she fought on for many years. Sun, rain, wind, cold, her strength lie somewhere inside that tiny seed. One autumn, it seemed no pod had formed,
No one noticed the one hidden in the soil. The poppy no longer bloomed in the place it had always been, But in the spring, a child scratched out a tiny patch around a new plant by her sandbox. She lined it with stones from the creek and soon, a beautiful red flower appeared.
“What is this, mommy?” she asked one day.
“Oh, my! A poppy!” mommy gasped. “My Aunt Carol used to grow them! Be sure and save the seed pod.”
And she did.
In loving memory of Carol Johnson, November 5, 1948-August 1, 2013
It wasn’t difficult to remember the first time I had been to that old house.
My curly hair was drooping in pigtails, golden brown from the summer sun.
My Aunt Lilly had whispered to me as we dried the dishes, “I have something I want to show you!”
“Okay.” I smiled as we continued to work.
Soon, we climbed into her 1966 white Ford and bumped our way a few miles down the dirt road to a drive way that looked as if had not been used in years. It seemed like the bumping and grinding of the gravel went on forever. Now, I realize, it was only a half mile or so.
My aunt grabbed my sweaty little hand as we skipped up the chipping rock steps of a wooden cabin, paint long faded to the natural gray of hardwood. She took the key, clipped to her shirt with a safety pin, and unlocked the door.
It smelled musty inside, and I giggled, ”Yuk,” as I looked up at her.
“Houses smell like that when no one lives there anymore, Sarah. This is the house I grew up in. I was born here.”
“But you live on the hillside, Auntie!” I protested. “We were just there!”
“No, honey, I mean when I was a child, like you. This is where your mother and our brother Willie grew up.”
I glanced around he room in wonder. It was a mess. The curtains hung down limply, so dusty that the bright sunlight filtered through as if it were sunrise. There was a desk cluttered with writing materials,a yellowed tablet, the edges of the paper curled. a pencil that badly needed sharpened. I noticed that one of the drawers was partly opened and reached to see what was inside.
My aunt stopped me. “That as mama’s drawer. We weren’t allowed to mess around in there.”“But it’s opened ,Auntie,” I said “Why can’t I look?”
To be honest, I don’t have a reason, Sarah.” I guess it is just my remembering how we were not to mess in that drawer. Obviously, someone has!”
“Yeah,” I whined, eyes cat to the floor. “I sure would like to see what’s in there.”
“Sometimes, Sarah, it is more fun to imagine what a drawer may hold than to actually know.”
I shrugged my ten year old shoulders and smiled. In my young mind, knowing what was in the drawer would be much more fun.
My aunt and I spent another hour or so wandering through the room. We looked at boxes of old doll, metal cases filled with uncle Willie’s cars. My aunt show me how the pedal operated sewing machine worked, the drawers where scissors and thread were kept. I remember my favorite was the button drawer. In it was an assortment of buttons removed from many different items of clothing before the cloth went into the rag-bag.
“Why did you bring me here, Auntie?” I asked her as we started out the door.”
I saw a tear slide down her cheek. “Oh, Sarah,’ she cried. “I was thinking of mamma. It’s been ten years today since she died. We started clean the house , your momma and I and one day, we just didn’t come back. It hurt too much. It was sort of like the drawer, we decided we would rather remember the house the way it had been when she was there, when we were children.”
That was twenty-seven years ago. I had brought my children there a few times, my mother and I had even come here with Willie one day to get some things out of the barn. But today was different. Today, a tear slipped from my eye as we walked down the steps. We had just buried Aunt Lilly in the family cemetery on the hill. Somehow, I felt a deep, almost mysterious connection with my Aunt Lilly as I looked up at the apple tree, bursting in bloom as if nothing had happened.
Life changes, time goes by, memories are made, but somethings never seem to change. I snapped a small branch of blossoms and twirled them in my hand. I already had a place picked out for them-the would dry and remain on the inside cover of my Aunt Lilly’s oldest photograph album. Someday, a young girl with golden brown hair would remember the story that her mother had told her that day.
Originally posted on Living and Lovin:
I started out just playing a game at night to unwind before bed to know having my own page for photography. Somehow at 57 I have come to fully embrace Facebook.
Friends and family on my personal page. Artists from around the world on my Artist page. Still play the same game to unwind.
I use all the ways Mark has it set up to keep private things private but if I am ever to sell anything I must let others SEE.
Originally posted on Living and Lovin:
I thought about what you wrote as you put this challenge out to the rest of us.
I have the best Companion in my man but the 30+ years we were apart I gave so much love to all the animals I shared my life with.
So today I am so very happy he is too and these two reap the benefits!
In case you might have an interest in this, I offer the Daily Post Challenge. Just go to dailypost.wordpress.com.
There you will find daily prompts for writers and weekly prompts for photographers. There’s a new writing prompt every day, and I’ve been using it to stir the creativity. I find it a good source.
I’m sure some of you are already aware of it and are even using it, but just in case it could benefit others, here it is. Go for it.
And be sure to share what you’ve written. That’s what community is all about.
I am a new soul, fresh with wonder, excitement, adventure, joy, thinking of you.