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The breeze came up and tapped me on the shoulder,

 I turned to face it, but it had already passed me,

Changing direction it came and nudged me down the hill,

The sun had sent it,

To tell me that she’d be going soon,

And I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As the sun put on her evening show,      

And dusk crept in to take up the day,

Night hesitated to swallow up the mountain,

The animals ate their evening meals,

And began to think of bedding down.

 

I wanted to stay,

I wanted more time with the mountain,

The wind nudged again and reminded me,

I better not be caught up here alone.

 

As I headed down,

I looked around,

Trying to remember every scene,

To commit to memory the place where your ashes now played,

I’d never be here again,

Not in this way,

Not with you.

 

I’d better not be caught up here alone.

all rights reserved 

glimpses

 sometimes I see glimpses of other worlds

they are just movements or patterns seen in my peripheral vision

out of the corner of my eye, a dark column moves

a shadow has dimension

I feel a cat jump onto the bed when none lives here now

a window frame reminds me of a place I've never been

a smell of ... what? I can not name it or remember it's place

I look up and hours have passed without my noticing

the sun has set but I'm still basking in it's warmth

I feel a caress, but is it just a memory?

small movements in my otherwise still rooms

a tapping from the hallway

meant to draw my attention away or to push me back to now?

just glimpses 

even alone, not truly alone

The book of our love.

 When I said "we need to talk", 

I was asking for your help,

 your love, your input, your phrases, and arguments.

 I knew we had fallen off the same page,

I wanted to ask you to make some revisions.

But you just closed the book.

You didn't want to finish the story.

You pulled the pages out and threw them in the fire.

I was on those pages. 

I was on the ones that went in the bin.

I was on the ones that were thrown into the wind.

I was on the ones that were crumpled and discarded.

I'm writing a new book now. 

But you still mark the pages. 

Like a stain, a water mark made of tears.

There's still more to be written. 

The single volume you destroyed still informs the series.

Writing you out of the story hasn't been as easy. 

I've made mistakes that can't be erased, 

but they are in that other book.

This one is still a rough draft,

but writing it without collaboration hasn't been easy.

Your editing isn't kind and it isn't constructive. 

I want to build. 

What is your new book going to say?

The little girl under the clothesline.

 

Shorter than most, this story begins with a moment in time that hasn't happened yet. It is a look into the future by someone who lives in the past. Which, if you think about it, makes it a story about now.

Emily is on her death bed. She is telling her daughter about her life. She wants to make sure that she has told her the precious memories that have been with her all these years. Her daughter wants her to conserve her energy. She thinks she has heard all these stories already. She makes sure the tape recorder is recording and allows her mother to go on. 

Emily was sitting in her rocking chair, holding the baby. She started to think about days when she was a child. She remembered a special day. She wanted to make sure that when the baby was older she would remember the story so she could her tell it to her. She felt it was important. 

She was just six years old and was a shy child. She loved the outdoors, the sights, the smells, the tastes, the adventures found in the most unusual places. Her imagination ran wild with worlds of talking snails and fencing crickets, and wondering every day, "What did Katy do?"

On this particular day she was playing under the clothesline, watching her mother hang the sheets to dry. She wondered if mommies thought about the little tiny creatures in the grass while she worked. She asked her mom and to her delight, her mother stopped working and came and sat on the ground next to her. Her mother said, "Yes, dear, I think about them, but mommies don't have as much time to dream about the little things as little girls do. We have to do the laundry, and keep the house, and make sure our children are safe and happy." The little girl was sad and thought she would never be a mommy then. Her mother said, "Let's take some time to do it now. Let's think about the ants who live in the grass." She and her mother sat in the grass for a long time, making up stories, and talking about the language the ants would use. Or it seemed, to her, like a long time. Mommy had to get up and finish with the sheets. 

Emily, the little girl, now on her deathbed, began again, "I believe I was around six years old. It was a sunny day in summer and my mother was hanging sheets on the clothes line. I was playing in the grass and looking for worlds even tinier than mine..."

depleted

I keep looking for your love,

but it's not there anymore,

It's been used up, 

depleted.

but you, 

you have this habit,

this habit of keeping tabs on me,

dependence.

but you, 

you like the attention,

you like me chasing you,

ego.

but me,

I want the attention,

I want to be seen,

ego.

I want to be cared for,

I want to be needed,

I want to be guided,

dependence.

My patience is failing, 

my heart is hurting,

My love is not yet,

depleted.

The American Inn

Allen knew what he was about to do was going to get him in trouble, but he didn't care. Not now, not after that hot head bartender shut him off for the night. Who the fuck did Gary think he was? He was a jerk in high school and he was a jerk now. He wasn't anybody. Just a lowly bartender in the local watering hole, in the next town over from where he grew up. Gary with his "I don't like your attitude, son." and "no more drinks for you tonight, cowboy" and his smirk as he checked to make sure the waitresses heard him exert his power. Sure Gary had a job and Allen didn't. Gary probably had a girl and Allen didn't. But Allen had the money to pay his bar tab and he had every right to buy himself a beer now and then.

Allen was all worked up now, standing in the parking lot with the baseball bat he had retrieved from the back of his pickup. Maybe Gary would remember that Allen was a star in high school and stop treating him like a good for nothing.

He finished his cigarette and stumped on the butt. And that's when he got the idea. If he couldn't have a drink then no one was going to and then Gary would have to close up the bar and he'd lose some tip money and his manager would be pissed off. That's what Allen's next big idea was. Shut it down. He went back to the pickup and traded the baseball bat for his electrician's gloves, a flashlight and some wire cutters and stole around to the back of the house that was the American Inn. He had worked on the renovation and he knew where to find the breaker box and the wires that led into it. He tried the basement door and for once something went his way. It was unlocked. He went into the dark room and switched on his light. He made his way quickly to the box. After flipping the breakers and shutting down the electricity, he went to the side of the box and cut one of the main wires. Even if they flipped the breakers on, there were be no juice. He let out a self satisfied giggle and casually made his way back to his pick up truck. He pulled out of the lot, nice and quiet, so as to not draw attention to himself.

Allen woke up the next morning with a hell of a hangover. After some pain reliever and strong coffee he checked his phone. 15 messages and multiple texts. What the hell could have happened last night?

First text: Holy Shit Man, the American is on Fire! Are you there tonight?
Second Text: Hey Man, I know you said you would be there.
Third Text: Allen, man, pick up the phone.

They went on just like that. The voicemails were similar. The American Inn was his hangout and all his friends knew it. He sent out a mass text. He had been asked to leave and he had done just that.

He put on the local radio station. They were talking about the fire. Electrical fire, started in the basement, no injuries, but the owner has lost everything. The building went up and with it all the alcohol he'd been stockpiling for Nascar season. They suspected foul play but the fire investigator hadn't been able to get inside yet.

Allen knew what he was about to do next was going to get him in trouble. But for some reason, he did it anyway. He called Gary, the old son a bitch, to make sure he was okay.

Today I met my mailman.

Today I met my mailman. I live in an apartment complex. I haven't ever seen him while he was delivering the mail before, although I've seen the truck parked outside. Today, I had a piece of mail that was delivered to my mailbox that wasn't for me. I happened to see the mailman walking to the next building. I thought to myself, I'll save myself the trouble of going back upstairs and writing on the envelope, "not at this address", and later driving to a blue mailbox. We don't have a blue box in our neighborhood. So, I followed him. He appeared to be young as I followed him to the next set of mailboxes. He certainly was walking at a good pace. I caught up to him and after saying hello, I explained why I was handing him an envelope. He looked at the envelope and read the address. He said my last name and said, "oh, I try not to let this happen." I was impressed he had memorized the names at the mailboxes. This is a big neighborhood. We chatted for a few minutes. He was so nice. We talked about Covid 19 and making ends meet. He worked a second job as a dishwasher but the restaurant was closed. I told him what I did part time to make grocery money. As we were parting, I told him my first name and he told me his. We laughed about his name. Swan, the name of a bird. I jokingly called him George. As I walked away with a smile on my face, I was glad that I had met him. He was a nice young man.

That was a couple of days ago. Today, I wonder how he is feeling. I wonder if he was protesting. You see my friendly mailman, is a young black man, in an America that is suffering from unrest. I look forward to seeing Swan again, to making sure he knows that when I met him, I met him. I met a bright, young, hardworking American.  And I stand with him. #BlackLivesMatter