I expose a tender, still-hurting place.
He responds: Maybe that’s the lesson you need to learn before you’re allowed to go on to the next life.
Cold. Careless. Cruel. Calculated?
(an accidental alliteration)
What to do but keep walking.
Sad feet stain the forest road.
A muddy pond sinks me lower. Sympathetic trees attempt a rescue.
Signs wave at me.
He punctures the silence with a single word, punctuated by his point: Look. My eyes follow his finger skyward.
A hot pink balloon is, trapped in the paws of a grizzly pine.
To all viewers but yourself, what matters is the product – the finished artwork. To you, and you alone, what matters is the process: the experience of shaping the work.1
A struggle with my daily drabble. Three discordant points occupy my mind, defying order; a disparate triangle.
Kendrick Castillo. Student (their child!) dies defending his Colorado classmates during (another!) school shooting. We the People christen him a hero.
Kurt Cobain, beautiful, (self-deceased) idealist. All apologies.
Brown Bird in my garden, perched atop a sunburned finial. Teacup size, befitting call of teakettle, teakettle, teakettle. Translation: In the sun I feel as one.2
I called the rain and it came. Night alone was insufficient.
Come on baby
To witness and permit my dis/quiet. My cheerless lullaby.
La, la, la, la, la
I sigh my side of the story. The dis/respect and dis/honesty. A sincere betrayal. My ridiculous indulgences. On repeat.
Baby take my hand
Loved falsely. Without strength and without fruit.
Baby I’m your man
Evicted moon and runaway stars. I laugh at the poets’ dependence on the subcelestial. Ha! I am the fool with avian heart. Writing per requirement. (By far my weakest drabble!) A dead end bitterness.
Don’t fear the reaper
I am seven years old at my cousin’s McDonald’s birthday party and I am Happy™.
I cheer the birthday girl as she opens and aahs her tower of unmemorable gifts.
Her Mommy materializes a promise pink suitcase. White-painted block letters parade purpose: Going to Grandma’s. My hard initiation to presents-inside-presents follows. Footed pajamas and a day outfit. A pouch with lip-gloss and her very own bath things. A favorite picture book to conjure candy-coated dreams.
I wish her smile to go the way of doomed balloons in the corner.
I wish I didn’t delight in this hive inside my heart.