My Abyss

When I regained consciousness

From the edges of my abyss

Not my residence of first choice

Just too easy to dismiss

With the ease of serendipity

And a dash of circumstance

Poetic rigidity withdrew without fanfare

So I now take my chance

I plead guilty to omissions

I beg for mercy from all

I will litigate my case forever

A tactic known as stall

Deprived of all senses

Leaving nothing to augment

Dealt aces and eights

Forced rapidly to repent

When I think of my abyss

I think of little else

Beside orange, month, bulb, and silver

And assonance words that help

what lies behind the mirror

what makes you even ask

it's never what we long for

since we hide behind a mask

or is it masks that we don

ever more than one

a face for each occasion

lest we come undone

fall apart, implode, decay

frighten the world away

leaving us alone and fey

to all our fears now prey

Should we look behind the glass?

Do we really want to know?

Is ignorance truly bliss?

Shall we just enjoy the show?

Life once told the god of spring,

Immense beauty suits you quite well,

To which she smiled and responded,

I touched death as the night fell.

In autumn, the wind was heavy,

it carried past me, notes of death.

but when the sun came out again,

the wind felt like a fresh breath.

Spring brushed a petal from my hair,

and handed me a wilting flower.

Do not confuse beauty with life, she said.

Giving the world beauty is not my power.

With my breath, I only can give life.

How you see it, is left up to you.

People miss beautiful things every day,

The most beautiful things are seen by few.

Life wrapped a hand around mine,

The signs of life surround you, my child.

When will you look up and see them?

Then Life closed its eyes and smiled.

Later, I walked through a dormant garden,

and like a tree, I planted myself in the grass.

Through the winter, I stayed there.

feeling like ice, transparent like glass.

There was warmth coming from the soil.

Where I touched the earth, the earth made room.

If I hadn’t looked up, I would have never noticed,

The flowers had already begin to bloom.

His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke. I tasted it a few times, and I remember how it burned. I never saw him doing shots, instead, he'd make a tall glass with just a little ice. The Coke was always kept in the fridge, and I recall he bought the one liter bottles back before two liters came in plastic. Brown bourbon fire would sit on the kitchen counter, vibrant orange labels aflame.

Nobody ever had to worry about me drinking underage.

He often smelled of Winstons and sweat. He didn't stink, not really, but it wasn't a clean smell, either. Hell, none of us probably smelled too clean in his house. He grew up in Chicago, and he didn't believe in air conditioning. How the fuck does someone live in Savannah, Georgia, and not believe in man's greatest gift to man? The air is so thick down there that breathing is a chore. Most of the time, winter is a distant goddamned dream or a hazy reminiscence in the dog days.

Fuck me. Didn't believe in air conditioning.

He retired from the Army. I think he got out as an E-6. That's not stellar, especially for somebody who served multiple tours in the jungles of Vietnam. I think he got in around '65, and I'm not sure if he was drafted or volunteered. I know he got busted a time or two, and I know he ended up in motorpool. I'm pretty sure he was motorpool for most of his hitch, working on deuce and a half trucks. Not exactly a glorious assignment, but not everybody is Rambo, and there are no unimportant jobs in war.

Well. Rear echelon motherfuckers can certainly clog up the works. Wirerats can cause trouble in a smooth operation, but I have no evidence to claim he was a hitter or just a driver. It doesn't matter.

I can't find his records. I've tried.

What does matter is the way memories have a way of sneaking in punches when I look the other way. A turn of phrase from a friend at dinner can make me jump back forty years like it was five minutes ago. Smelling someone's bourbon and coke hit me so hard tonight that I could hear Men at Work talkin' bout a Vegemite sandwich.

I don't miss the man. Hell, I hardly knew him. I didn't much like him, or the company he kept. We were too different, he and I. We came from different places, we had different drives. He lacked ambition, was always hard-luck. He cycled through women after his third wife left him. I liked her, even if my mom and she had a strained relationship; wife three was the other woman for wife two, after all.

I was born to wife two.

My mom tells me I inherited his hair and his sense of humor. I probably should have started shaving my head at 20 instead of 21, but I dated a girl who hated the bald look, so I kept it for her. She left me, and about a month later, I went right for the razor and never looked back.

I stopped referring to him as my dad at around age 12. The man who raised me, the man I call my father but I never called father, he kept his hair the same way the Army vet did. Naturally bald, with the silly wings on the side. If I were to grow mine out, I'd probably have the same thing happen, but I'm not interested.

I never was one for wings. I take solace in solid ground underfoot.

Rooted. Based. Planted.

He was a bit of a rolling stone, that man I once called Dad. The last I heard, he ended up in Augusta, likely in the free hospital there. I understand his last days were spent in hospice, a final gift by way of Agent Orange.

I didn't go to the funeral.

I didn't hate him. I don't hate him now. At the end of life, I just didn't care.

I'm not sure what that says about me, but chalk that up to another thing I don't much care about.

His favorite drink was Old Grandad and Coke, but I never did grow into liking it.

I guess I never really grew to like him, either.

Some people say family is what we're stuck with.

In the end, that's not always true.

Even though I may return

To empty places on my own

They still remind me of lessons learned

For the truth of you is now unobscured:

Just because something can be missed

Does not mean it was ever truly good

Thanks to everyone who participated in my challenge! I did not create it as a competition as much as a chance to more easily read your earliest works. As much as I love to write, I am a reader first. Thanks again for taking the time to dig up your first posts (I know that was not an easy task for some).

I also created the challenge to celebrate the recent one year anniversary of my own first post here on the site. I am relieved the winner was decided by all of you, because I could never choose from these great entries, so…

Congratulations @dctezcan for taking the win! You truly are a favorite for so many reasons :)

As we head into a new year, happy writing everyone. I can't wait to read what's next.

❤️ Mariah

recently,

i've been climbing mountains

& picking stars out of the sky

.

(like a giant)

i could blow them out like

birthday candles, if i tried,

then - - -

today i curl

into

a ball

(like an infant)

&

toss myself

back

into the sky.

i just hope i know how to climb back

out again

Congratulations thisisit! What a great write and a thoughtful nod to Sylvia Plath. I really loved that you touched on the little-recognized side effect from simply having too much (good) to choose from: decision paralysis. There is also that unique type of dread that can arise in the midst of it all. You summed it up perfectly with this line:

“There's no way to enjoy all the figs.

And if you don't choose a fig, it drops to the ground and rots. It's too late.”

*chef’s kiss*

Honorable mention entries are from the suspenseful amandabjaworski, the aquatically delightful pretty_archaic, the heartfelt ErJo1122, and the ever-scandalous Ferryman.

Thanks again for everyone’s thoughtful entries; you all continually amaze me with your talent! I hope to see you again for my next challenge <3