i am sitting on the deck of their house now… in the corner furthest from the garage. the leaves are falling. they litter the ground in a colorful but shabby rug.
delicate cobwebs decorate the railings of this balcony. they glimmer in the sun as the wind makes them dance. a lawnmower battles small green armies a few yards over. a woman rakes her yard while her small blonde child, who is dressed in an orange shirt, and a little white dog, who sniffs about with an adventurous air, “help” her. the breeze picks up again and i can smell the smoke of a fire or cigarette. which it is i do not know, nor do i care.
the little boy in the orange shirt makes an inquisitive grunt which doesn’t resemble any word that i have ever heard. too young to form sentences.
such a newness of life and another day closer to death.
another day further from the womb.
another day of untapped potential.
the wind here is filled with music. the sound of far off trees play their songs in harmony. breezes ebb and flow through the branches as God orchestrates the melody.
how can this pain bring me to write these words? is it true that such sorrow is welcome, for it helps us express ourselves all the more beautifully? that we should be thankful for it because it makes our art somehow better?
just now i found where the smell of smoke is coming from. the woman raking leaves is burning them as she goes. the boy has moved back towards their house and is looking on with interest but isn’t going anywhere. the leaves burn a thin hot flame that causes smoke to rise and fill the air in fitful billows.
my bladder knocks impatiently, but the house i must enter is filled with the memory of unhappy images that i cannot erase. they will always be with me and i with them. i cannot forget, nor would i ever want to.
one day perhaps i will write about what happened this morning. one day i will fill in all of the details that are etched into my brain… perhaps even now my fingers itch to tell the story but my heart doesn’t know how much it can bear. i think to myself that if i could only record it here through the chatter of my fingers… maybe then i would be able to let it go and concentrate on the present.
with tears at bay, I begin.
-written 10/12/2015-
