His words muffled in the back of her head as she watched him stir her remaining creamer into his pathetic coffee cup, yet she was unphazed. This was the thousandth time she had been robbed of her morning sweetener. Unknown to him, a little something was added the night before. This was Dave’s last day.

The blood-filled capillaries in his eyes, and the surprised expression cemented on his face, indicated he was dead. Despite her third success, Rose was disappointed, and remained straddled over his limp torso analyzing the past two minutes. She took in the destruction around her while catching her breath, then released the pressure of the lamp cord off his bulging throat. She sat upright, slamming her hand frustratingly into his chest. Her process had improved, but to consider herself a professional, a higher caliber of efficiency was required. Rose grinned. Perhaps next time will be the perfect ending to her book.

When he snuck,

I sneaked.

He snuck the entire perimeter of the fence with an un-matchable speed,

And I sneaked the opposite way to catch up indeed.

He snuck up the pole and climbed right in,

And I sneaked close behind just to fit in.

He snuck himself to the jewelry bin,

And I sneaked a peak for anyone waking within.

He grabbed and grabbed and snuck it all,

And I sneaked myself along the wall.

A flicker of light showed through the pane,

And wouldn’t I know it, a voice echoed with strain.

Come out, come out with your hands up they said,

And though he snuck and I sneaked,

we both walked out with our hands on our head.

Though we used different ways to gain,

Both our approaches ended us all the same.

Why is why my favorite word? You can start your day proactively with a simple why yes. If you ever become scared of doing something, challenge yourself by asking why not. If you need to lighten the mood, just ask yourself why so serious, and take things in stride. At the end of the day, it’s not worth your health carrying those stresses with you. Why can seek intent, or help you understand someone’s reason for doing. Asking why too many times could overthrow an entire government by questioning the status quo. It could expose the lies that exist behind closed doors, and make them transparent to the people of a nation. It is curious, patient, and a word that forces you to listen because you asked it to. There is always a reason with why, you just need to listen for it. Why is a word of action, an exploration of one’s curiosity, and a word that can carry an entire rebellion. It is humanity, love, understanding, and freedom.

Is your life not where you want it to be?

Why?

I arose to the purple hue of an early sunrise flashing across my face. It somehow had sneaked through a tiny opening in my curtains. The warmth on my cheeks contrasted the chilly gusts of air that my oscillating fan rushed across my legs. I receded them under the covers in protest.

The crack of a morning egg on the stove is a familiar sound on a Sunday, and I knew it wasn’t long before my son Ashton, and I would cross paths. Although Blake, my husband, usually intercepted him before he could wake me, as this was my only day to sleep in, it was long overdue for Ashton to get by the guard.

Sure enough, as if the breaking of the shell woke him too, the squeaking of my bedroom door seemed to allow enough room for a two-year-old to pass through. I listened for his footsteps as he creepily inched closer, and in preparation closed my eyes to playfully fake a sleeping mom.

A tap on my arm from a tiny hand forces a playful squint to startle the culprit. He always peeks at me with his eyes hovering just above the horizon sporting a yearning expression. I never deny his cuteness.

So, as always when he breaks through the front lines of daddy’s defense, I accept him into bed for a pre-breakfast morning snuggle.

We sleep in until breakfast is served in bed.

My eighth winter has passed, and I am unsure if I was the lucky one to have lived, or if my friends were luckier to have died. The contemplation of my own existence has become an annual routine of mine as survivor’s guilt bewilders many of my thoughts, and I now live each day burdened. There were hundreds of us in the beginning, but looking around as the snow recedes, it appears there is merely a dozen or so remaining, sparsely separated, and too far to communicate, thus rendering our survival to individual efforts. The reality sets in that my finding friendship had most likely died along with Marvin, my best friend, when the freezing winds of last year blew in. A shriveled pile lies where he once stood which causes me a torturous reminiscence every time, I look over to see him. I can still hear his muffled cries while he was buried under the pile of snow, and I damn myself for failing to appreciate the last time I saw him, as I never knew it would be my last. I held his hand beneath the soil until I felt his life wither away.

Marvin and I were born close together, and if we were not of different breeds, we would have been brothers. Having grown up next to each other, we shared the same food, took baths together, loved a good laugh, and danced wholeheartedly in the rain. We made everything fun and exciting never to miss a sun-filled day and never to forget the tickle of a bug on our legs. We played hard and often but my favorite times with Marvin was after our adventure-filled days. He and I laid in our bedding looking up into the twinkling sky and discussed what worlds existed beyond the stars. He was always the dreamer, quick to spark up a new and exciting idea and followed it with a magnificent story until we fell over out of exhaustion. In retrospect, Marvin was as worn out as I was, but he was thoughtful enough to allow me to nod off before he did; something that I now dearly miss. Then there was our mom, who the visitors called Anne, and some neighbors formally referred to as Anne-Marie. Marvin stored away a little extra love for her, always showing off and sure to look his best when she came around. It didn’t bother me much but they shared a bond that she and I did not.

Mom was a soft and gentle lady, usually adorned by an oversized and over-worn mesh hat. She almost always wore a bright colored sundress which emphasized her southern grace and it carried every bit of her charm as it flowed elegantly in the wind. She was a chubby lady but not overly fat. Her cheeks were usually flushed with a reddish-pink hue and her freckles scattered across her face similar to the stars Marvin and I observed each night. When she blessed us with it, mom’s voice could carry a tune, provoking the whole neighborhood to sway excitedly. Even the orchid family around the corner, notoriously temperamental, could not resist dancing. We reached our outstretched arms as high as we could as if attending a Sunday Baptist service. Our bodies especially vibrated when she would duet with the recorded sound of Bozie Sturdivant, her favorite gospel singer, who’s raspy tone emanated out of the kitchen windows and complimented her equally soulful melody.

“…when I hear that trumpet sound, I’m gonna rise right out of the ground”

“Ain’t no grave, can hold my body down….”

The words she sang motivated us to be as bright and beautiful as the sun shining above. Marvin became especially prideful as we grew older living thoroughly by her words whereas there was not a grave that could hold him down. He made it his mission to make sure the community as a whole stayed strong and positive.

Every spring Anne surprised us with new friends carefully placing each one in an empty spot next door to us, where others used to live. There was never a discriminating thought among the community members as we all were raised to be tolerant and loving toward one another. We grew accustomed to many coming and going over the years and it became an annual routine to mourn the losses of winter, celebrate the returns in spring, and always welcomed newcomers when mom brought them in. It was a small colorful town, and we liked it that way. At one point there were hundreds of us thriving in the community and though many times it became loud with chatter, it was quiet compared to the deafening noise that loneliness would later induce on me.

In what seems now a distant memory, those joyous afternoons became everything to Marvin and I, and we invariably reminded ourselves of them when faced with bad times, but they couldn’t protect us from the emotions of a soon to be dying mother. It’s was two summers ago when she discussed the diagnosis over a glass of iced tea with Janice, our nosy but loyal neighbor. Our love never diminished for mom even when her hair began to abandon her head as she eventually did to all of us. As time passed, she left more often and her visits slowed. Her overnight bags evolved into suitcases and the suitcases translated to more time away. Her plump and joyful self, shriveled quickly into a frail old woman, hunched over and toting pain with every step. She was barely recognizable to us. Marvin tried everything to make her happy. When she passed by, he reached out to tickle her leg, but he never could reach far enough to touch her. He tried to sing her favorite song, but his voice never carried far enough for her to hear. One day Marvin attempted to fake his own death to attract her attention, but she failed to notice his limp body on the lawn. The more she disappeared the more Marvin’s spirit slowly withered away and the worse off the community became. Marvin would weep himself to sleep at night, where we once embraced the skies, and he tucked himself into a corner when it rained, where we once used to dance and play. In the first spring of her absence, the communities’ demise had already begun, when half of the usual winter returners never came back. Our fears worsened when we received a visit a few short months later.

During an unusually cold summer day a few strangers wearing suits trespassed onto the property. Their presence paired well with the shivers that had already accrued in my spine. Eventually they scattered around the property. One began thoroughly taking pictures of the house inside and out, and two others stood on the porch behind us, discussing various measurements and suggesting selling prices. The final woman recited talking points from a paper in her hand preparing for what they called “future buyers.” It was then I knew we would never see our mom again. The elders of the community convened and concluded the same worry as I, that we indeed were being abandoned. Our theory was then hammered into the ground just before the strangers left with a sign that read, For Sale. This sent shock-waves of fear and depression throughout the entire village causing many to barely last weeks. I didn’t know where she had gone, nor what caused her swift decline, and as upsetting as it was, I didn’t have time to care. Maintaining a constant oversight of Marvin turned into a full-time job. To take his mind off the loss, I attempted to be the more uplifting and positive friend, a role he usually carried, all while the others were rapidly dying around us as if a plague had swept through our small town, and began systematically killing us. The hell we were enduring only exacerbated his pain and by the third snowfall my efforts could not restore his faith. He passed away from a broken heart that only a returning mother could fill. I tried to assure myself that I remained a good brother until the end, but continue to struggle with the failure of my ability to bring his mind back to him before he gave up.

I sat here alone, with little hope and a few distant colleagues that were visibly worse off than I. Being abandoned induced a discomfort that was all new to me. It was colder than the bitterest winter I had ever experienced, and my heart was drowning in tears with more water than a flood. I had begun to quantify what the pain of being the final survivor would feel like. My conclusion was an excruciating end to what once was a promising beginning. Over a time-frame I had stopped counting since winter, there have been a decreasing number of visitors coming by. Maybe it was days or perhaps months, but spring seemed it was just around the corner. The entire neighborhood was quiet, bleak, and dead as if our fate was already been foretold, and entwined with our ominous surroundings.

It struck me as odd that Monday was the sunniest day since the third Thursday last August, because for me it was the darkest day of my life. Monday, I intended to give up all hope and surrender myself to the natural world around me, whatever the outcome. I had almost reached a full spread onto the ground and it was only a matter of time before I flattened myself out and accepted my final recession into the earth below me. In what can only be described as a divine intervention, a familiar noise could be heard entering the street at the end of the block, and soon an unusual car pulled into the driveway unlike any I had seen. It stopped, and caused my curiosity to be the only thing that peaked while I remained hunched over, crooked, and dying. Two adults who seemed to be husband and wife exited the car and pridefully strolled over to the now faded and decrepit sale sign. They embraced each other with the same familiar love that I shared with mom and Marvin. Side by Side, they stared at the sign smiling from ear to ear. Their love and happiness were a refreshing sight to behold. A few whispers from the remaining survivors emanated behind me while we became distracted by two more humans who exited the car. They were tiny children in comparison to their tall and lengthy parents. The boy, and inspiring pilot, practiced flying a plane he held in his hand while he ran throughout the yard. His smaller sister chased close behind. The couple proceeded to double team the sign, one on each side. With quick success they ripped the sign out of the ground and then tossed it into the trunk of the car. The rustling and whispers grew louder among the community members as if new life was being injected into us. We all understood the importance of what their arrival meant, but I wondered how it would have been if Marvin held on a little longer, so he could be here by my side to share this moment of hope.

A couple days went by and my inquisitive nature delayed what seemed my inevitable death. I had been observing the family, who we still didn’t know the names of, but they were settling into their new home easier than one would expect. We were blessed with water rations given to us by the daughter, a chore that was ordered by her mom, but never-the-less a welcomed treat to our parched bodies. The elders had once again convened quickly declaring a promising future for the community. I however, was not so eager to make such hasty conclusions, even if the love from the family had become contagious to many of us. I was hopeful, but cautious.

I laid here waiting to be plucked from the only home that I have ever known. I cannot help but wildly assume, with my appearance being less desirable than it once was, that I was slated for removal by a sharpened spade later in the day. I quickly reminded myself that I had yet to be wrong, but secretly hoped I was. The new woman, showed up and splayed out a pile of familiar tools at our feet. I recognized them to be for digging and demolition, and strikingly similar to the ones our mom used years ago. My pessimistic side erupted in a conclusion that the community would be facing an entire extinction. The woman began her destruction by tearing up the earth around us. She scored our beds, scraped at our feet, and ripped out the innards of the previously fallen ones. She seemed to be playing with us similar to the way stray cats do a mouse, right before it is killed. The last remnants of our friends and homes were torn from all around us and replaced with a fresh new blanket of nutrient soil. She then dug holes that were scattered randomly about the bedding, and I keenly remembered this action as a positive one. My perspective of the event had begun to shift and so did my hope.

The woman left for a short while, but returned with a wagon full of what I earlier would have determined as our replacements. It now seemed more likely to be new potential friends. The community was ecstatic. The woman was just as careful and loving as my own mother. She reached into the wagon with a particular attention and selected a single rider to be placed into their new home. She started at the end of the line furthest from me, filling the holes in a pattern that moved its way in my direction. I couldn’t help but recall my mother on her knees conducting the same routine only a few years earlier. She adjusted the wagon and moved closer, a blue shimmer caught the sun just right and flickered at me through the wooden slats. A warmth filled me and my pain emptied from my body. The woman inched closer, continuing to grab new riders, placing them and tucking them in, then moving onto others. The town was now bustling with noise again and I welcomed it as it meant that we were safe. With every random selection she seemingly made; the tall, blue body still remained. I stood tall and proud ready to accept my new friend. I was anxious to learn about what made him or her happy. I didn’t want to replace Marvin, but the idea of sharing laughter again with a friend was overwhelming me with joy. At last, the woman, knelt down in front of me with the last blue flowering body in her hand.

“This one I chose just for you” the woman whispered. She placed Stacie, a Pansy like me, into her new home, next door to mine. A new feeling of love spread through my veins. Stacie shared a similar feeling, and we took the afternoon to learn about each other leading into the sunset.

Later that night, under the sparkling skies, I became the dreamer that my brother once was. I then told the stories of when Marvin and I would laugh and play in the rain, and when our mother would sing us her soulful songs. I knew then what it meant to never having a grave hold your body down. It was with our words and our stories that kept the memories of our loved ones alive, never buried, and certainly never forgotten. Stacie listened until she fell asleep.

Karen listened patiently offering the cheerful smile she had practiced earlier this morning and every day for the past ten years. An eager couple excitedly explained their financials to her while embracing each other’s hands with a warm love. She transcribed their information robotically while their words muffled distantly in her mind. She often wondered what it would be like to sit on the other side of this desk as ambitious and happy as her clients, yet week after week she cemented herself into her swiveling arm chair as if she was a fixture of the bank. Karen, often wondered.