She's only five years old and unaffected by death. A little innocent light with so much joy. But that will soon change and I hate it.
"Hey, why are they burying Aunty Carla? She can't bake those yummy cookies in the ground! Stop!" she screams. The people who weren't already crying allowed tears to drip down their faces. "Stop it!" She screams, tears streaming down her face.
Unexpectedly, Levi bends down and hugs Dina. "Dina, she's going to sleep." Levi whispers, "Don't be so loud or you'll wake her." Dina cuddles Levi and wails. He strokes her hair and her back lovingly. That just overpowers me. I start crying loudly causing a chain reaction in the small group. Soon everyone who loved Carla are sobbing uncontrollably.
I walk up to the makeshift stage and begin my little speech, "Mam was kind and didn't hesitate to help someone in need. Her helpful spirit got her in trouble a few times but I don't think she ever regretted it. I-"I pause clearing my throat from the tears, "I won't ever let her out my heart, she will stay in here in peace. I love you, Mam." I place my hand on my heart. AOT SALUTE. My tears soaking the clothes I'm wearing.
"Don't cry Eren! Aunty Carla is just asleep," she cries trying to make me happier. I give her a sad smile and nod while walking off the 'stage'.
Slowly her coffin gets lowered into the hole. The closest relatives take turns with the spade, covering her inch by inch with dirt.
Bye Mam. I will miss you...
Kind hearted people can break. Kind hearted people go into emotional debt to give to others when they should be taking care of themselves. Often times they are the unhealed victims of trauma, they suffer emotional flooding and an inability to see their own worth. They are a blessing, the are wonderful, yet they are rarely aware of their own fragility or needs.
She stumbled to the corner of the room, and with each step her stomach tightened and ached all the more. She kept swallowing, and her throat kept clenching, but no matter what she could not stop the warm feeling rising through her chest. Then she could taste it at the back of her mouth. Constance buckled over. A warm, clouded, cream coloured liquid spilled from her mouth, and sizzled as it splashed over the cold stone floors.
The old scroll was like one of those multiple choice papers - with right answers, obvious distracting ideas and plenty of laughable idiocy. Yet in a similar way to physical maps, the topography of the ideology had a key. If we took love as our key, as our ideological supreme principle, then the "map" of the universe contained in the scrolls could be read. The Gods, as it turned out, had given us the key to read it all along.
When I was eight months old, I knew every corner of the house because I had just learnt to walk. By the time I was ten months old, I hadn’t left any spot in the sunflower field untraveled. That’s how my mother liked to say it.
She once told me, “When you took your first step in that field, when I saw how balanced those tiny feet were, I knew my baby could run; I knew I would be so proud of my baby.”
She was right; the pride in Ma’s eyes lit up like the fireworks on Fourth of July. Her baby had made her proud. I remember wrapping my fingers around the medal hanging from my neck, then letting Ma hug me so tight, almost suffocating me as always.
Two months after our chat, her baby ran again. Little did she know, I was running with a bag of weed, and almost a thousand dollars in cash. I only needed to get out of my head, and out of the town.
I haven’t seen those eyes again. Not when I had graduated middle school with all as from juvie, or even when I had decided Dusty’s life was more important than my own.
For the last six months, all I’ve seen is the disappointment in her face, dark like the sky over Carlson, all the stars dead with the death of the soldiers and the death of the veteran’s dreams
The argument begun by the word should be settled by the word. The argument begun by the pen should be settled by the pen. Yet the argument that has begun or escalated to the fist, sword or gun should be settled by the pen and word as soon as necessary defensive moves have ceased. For the elevated and sophisticated culture drives toward peace at all times.
The misery of your departure haunts me; the pain of your not coming anymore pains me. On the top of it- the viciousness of the generation; what do I do? Staying awake, looking all night; hoping to catch a glimpse of you- but there is no 'YOU.' I don't receive any news regarding you.
Many memories came, and went by; but this time, you need to come. Do not bring the intention of leaving me again; just bring yourself. When others go through what I have gone, they will feel my pain. There is no sunshine without you; no rain without you. If you wanna know what is it like to live without a heart, ask me. There will be a way that leads to me - follow it forever; listen to what it wants to say. Bring the news to me, that you are coming, my love. Please.
A widowed wife. A mother of two. Living in a country of chaos. She lives in a scattered pile of concrete held together by fractured planks of wood. Trying to survive in a country that wants everyone dead. Seeking refuge in any broken, run-down house that is still standing. Living every moment of her life in constant fear of death for herself and her children.
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.