balmed in a constant, gentle stream.
Filled with achingly quiet strength, healing purpose. Vibrating with the tenor of a generation.
He carefully strung his violin with them, using the instructions in the back of the book he was holding.
A journal he had found in, of all places, the attic.
His beloved father’s journal.
Sigh. What a beautiful performance.
Featured image: my husband’s
when I was walking around trying to avoid the mosquitoes and you strummed your guitar to the rhythm of my steps and the syncopated clouds confused you and we said it was the best thing you had ever written?
Got no regrets,
except I wish we had recorded it.
Oh,
and that I wish you were here with me…
They always loved the way they both loved waterfalls.
As if it weren’t enough to drive through that scenery on the way, with its exhilarating verdancy, the serpentine paths unmarked, illuminated by their shared love of, well, their shared love.
But now, his muscles twitched.
Her emotions repelled down, down from the cliff of his hardened inner life. Over the cascade of his own unformulations. Starting that landslide, you know, the inward one. The one that implodes stars…
leaving burn marks on the pavement. The ones that stranger, whistling at the end of the week, steps over.
He’s wishing those darn kids would quit playing with fireworks again!
But, you have to admit, it IS a great night for a campfire…
Originally posted Jan 13th, 2017
Confused by the vapid voices of renewal that languided out of the new year cake,
they did used to jump, she recalled,
she thought it was time to do something.
Something had to be done with this pile of the unsaid.
She searched for that wisdom file, the one they’d all spilt wine on at the new year’s eve party. How they laughed. Such a good night.
She wondered if she should rake through those coals over there. Some were still smoldering.
Melancholied by the cold she had a better idea.
As she cast the pile onto her knitting needles, she was struck by how colourful it was…
First day of the year.
Evaluating movement through life’s substance. (Or is it residue?)
Remember when you told me Vaseline was made from gasoline, and here, have some for the healing…
Remember how we wanted that clown for the party?
Me neither.
(I tried to publish this three times and WP didn’t save it for some reason. Hence the title 🙂 …I thought it was just me. Maybe it is…)
It’s futile to embalm those memories she said agonising the prolong before looking away the wisdom in her years across years not transmitting across tables to she where she used to be. but i hate it when roses die.
