Have you ever heard the wind siren through the
camphor? Seen its sociable branches strike
the sky? They look harmless, and your mouth will
water. But those sumptuous, black berries will
Even magma simmers beneath the earth in
silence, and lava snakes through
fractures. Should I have kenned the
explosion? Ingested the judgment before
spitting it out?
Before she left, the heavens swept me dry as a summer
bone. I didn’t know I wasn’t breathing until the resolve
to keep her close began to stink, pinned my nostrils flat
against the stench. Betrayal comes from the
The cold didn’t bother me; the shivers wracking my body were well worth the price of the much needed darkness, the favor of a shrouded moon. I sat with my arms wrapped tightly around my scrunched up legs, my feet frozen and bare, kneading the moist earth beneath them. Tears weren’t an option for they would do nothing to ease the pain and they certainly wouldn’t change the ridiculous choices I had made, nor the ones she had forced me into. Without anyone attempting to reach me, she had died, been buried and properly mourned; her life celebrated for its passionate creativity and for the fierce hold she had had on those who loved her. Every shred of hope I had harbored that there would be at least a single moment to love her again (not that I had ever stopped, mind you) was gone, and the only way I knew to get through such a tragedy was to embrace the blessed darkness and endure the bitter cold just as I had endured the bitterness she had died tasting.
Aftertaste is my response to Lille McFerrin’s weekly Five Sentence Fiction challenge. This week’s word: moon
The sun pushed its radiance upon her through the purposely darkened blinds; always that rogue, penetrating shaft slipping through a lazy crack. So she rose, reluctantly and despite a weight that felt as heavy as three elephants, not because she wanted to but because she had promised him she would.
The automatic coffee maker had been a brilliant idea, a gift from her closest friend, the kind of friend who forces things upon you that you need but don’t really want; the kind of friend who refuses to leave you alone even when all you want to do is pull the covers up over your head and never emerge again – ever.
As she sipped the strong dark brew, she glanced out the window and noticed that someone had been tending the flowers her husband had planted for her last birthday. She was grateful for the help and knew that she should find the flowers beautiful and yet every single thing around her looked as black as soot, as black and desolate as her heart had felt since her reason for living had suddenly stopped breathing.
This piece is in response to Lillie McFerrin’s brain-child, “Five Sentence Fiction,” which can be found here:
The word: “desolate”
The middle, the center, the heart: where all things come into sharp focus; where all truths lie, even the unfathomably painful ones.
A family I love is dealing with heartbreaking truth, and I am struggling with what to offer up, besides the sadness I keep in check.
So if I may ask a little something of you?
If you feel so inclined, will you please leave your words of love and support for Sandra and her family- I know that so many of us have dealt with unearthly pain and loss–and may just have something that will add light to a situation with some of the darkest clouds I’ve seen in a while.
From my heart–from the center of me…thank you.