I ache when I see you smile.
I want it to be directed towards me. For me. Because of me. I want to bring you joy; be the source of those lit eyes and dimpled cheeks. I watch you bring so much happiness to those around you. Feel the warmth you’ve given me.
You show me how to find beauty in a cruel world.
You try so hard to do so well. You worked hard. You fought for every step; even if it wasn’t always in the right direction. You wanted to fly and now you’re soaring. I’m afraid. I’m so afraid you’ll crash. That I’ll have to watch it happen. I ache to think there’s no way for me to help if you do.
I still watch you.
Sometimes it becomes a source of guilt. If I have no place in your life, why do I keep following you like this? If you noticed, I’m scared what you’d think of me. I've never been heartbroken before. For that I’m sometimes glad I know you won’t.
We’ll never meet. That’s probably a good thing.
If we met, if we spoke; what would you think of me? That’s what scares me the most. Sometimes I’m left wondering if it’s better we don’t meet. Maybe it would be better if I let you fade from my life, back out of it like you were never there.
But I can’t let go.
Did you ever read the words I did, the ones a child hasn’t forgotten? ‘Kindred spirits’. They make me think of you. Is that truth or my wish? My instinct is that it’s true. But in the same thought I know we wouldn’t agree. The same thoughts or feeling but with a different approach?
I want to be there. I write late into the night because of how much I do. I want to hold your hand. To dry your tears. To take the pain and anger I know you hide. Yet here I sit typing without aim, watching through a screen. To develop an unattainable desire wasn’t wise. I knew it when I started. But we keep moving. Has it been two years already?
The ache won’t fade.
Instead of flying around the world we rode our bikes into town for a massage. It was our holiday luxury, well, that and a nice lunch in a restaurant. We felt truly pampered, we relaxed and enjoyed one another's company, isn't that what vacations are for? Plus, we avoided flight-shame, double bonus!
The book and desk, these cousins of the tree, sat near the window and the view of the woodland beyond. Upon the flowing grains was the flowing ink, both so still. And it would be that way until Seraphim returned, returned to bring purpose and life to the duo.
This Christmas Eve I feel so very blessed. This year I am thankful for the health of my children and the happiness of my home. And so I open the final window of the advent calendar to find the image of an embrace, of peace and good will. The idea brings a sense of relief, a smile that comes from my soul.
Tears rolled down, wetting every part of her cheek. Her eyes pleaded for Succor and help, albeit that she knew no one was coming. There was only darkness as her own demons haunted and strangled her. She was suffocating. In the pain of abandonment she almost forgot how to feel. She desired amnesia so that all this suffering could fade away, fade and allow memories of laughter to soothe her, to restore peace in her life.
Isn’t it funny, that if I had made a different decision I wouldn’t be here now? If I had put a different answer on that sheet, my fate would’ve been written in different ink. Because if I was sat here in a different universe, without you by my side, I would have never become complete.
He looked at me and smiled. I nodded in acknowledgement, my head against the doorframe and my arms folded.
“I’m in a bad mood”.
I didn’t look at him to see his reaction; frankly I didn’t care. But then I felt him move closer and pick something out of my hair, sliding it down the strand slowly and carefully. I didn’t know what it was, possibly blossom; it was early spring. But in that moment I suddenly felt different, it was a sensitive act. Normally he or any other boy would grunt, “You’ve got something in your hair”.
This was different; it was an attentive side I hadn’t seen before.
Moss-laden bricks of grey-orange, fitting as guards on the threshold. Behind the fool’s-ancient wrought-iron gates. Where rows upon rows of crumbling mounds stood in various interpretations of upright, their pores bathing in light from an ill moon, ailing. Porous trees hunched over most of the void spared by the sickening light’s expanse, plunging the rest in healthy shadow. The place echoed.
To enter, I must skirt around a pile of wet leaves. Today there is no weather; there is no wind, just howling. The temperature is of a mild apparition and so I hear the winds company more so. The leaf barbs that bar nefarious entrance are of little consequence to my apt overage and the grey-orange guards do little but deposit their dust upon me and my cloth.
In the baking competition the chefs were flown into hunger stricken areas to cook for the needy. It was the first competition ever in which we could say there were winners on every side. What was interesting to see, was the nervousness there was at the start was gone by the finish, that so many of the chefs asked to stay on, to work alongside locals, transforming these societies as their life's work.
He watched the sunset at the horizon, spreading its largess into a grateful sky. Rich hues of red blended with oranges, purples, crimsons. Bob's spirit soared at the sight as he was transported into a timeless existence, ready for the protective blanket of night and new dreams.