When the Past Touched Now
Fifty years of loving you, of having you by my side. Gone, save for memories stored inside me. Oh, if I could only see, speak with you once more. A dream from an old
man. But I still smile from the first day we met, our wedding day, our children, our
lives seemingly became as one. What I would give to have one minute, one second to
speak, to see you again.
John.
"What? Who was that? Where are you? Show yourself!"
John. I am here, next to you. You just have to believe.
"It ... your voice, you sound like, oh god, it is you! Angela!"
Yes, John. I am here. I have always been here and always will be.
"How can this be? You died. I kissed you goodbye. And now, I
can see you, touch you, an...."
No, John, you cannot touch me. As you see, you slip right through me. My body is gone, and what you see, what you hear, is my ghost-like appearance, though we called them angels when we were together. I have come back to you, John, to tell you your time is near, and when it happens, I will return and take you home with me.
"Will I then be able to touch, to hold you? Will it be the same as before?"
John, once you come over to the other side, you will see me as you always have, as I will see you. In heaven itself, we will look as we always did, but as I am here now, this is all you can see and speak with. Know this, my love, I have carried you with me, and soon, you will be by my side, forever.
"Angela, I want that more than anything else. This has been an empty place, a lonely world without you."
Soon, John, very soon, your world will no longer be empty, but filled with new purpose, new meaning, and our lives and our love will continue to grow beyond all measure.
"Angela? You’re fading! Wait! I want to tell you again! NO! Come back! I LOVE YOU, Angela!"
As I love you. As I have always loved you.
"You did hear. My tears are happy ones. Soon, Angela. You promised, and you have never broken your promises to me.
"Was this just a dream I had? Surely not. I think I will rest, just close my eyes for a moment."
**********
Bells were heard, crowds appeared at the gate, cheering, welcoming John home. And as he made his way, there in the forefront of the people, stood Angela.
Dreams can come true, they can happen to you. Just believe.
. . . We have a Visitor.
We art hallowed ground that we’d visit still,
we who whispered loud at the entrance hall...
who sent longing drafts by sighed window sill;
who then echoed back our own slightest call...
We are sacred mounds from clay compound; fired
yet soon tested by the slim nerve endings...
poked and prodded in our thin membranes; tired
of the outside that seeks small openings....
And soon presses thoughts as of Itself/ soft
not yet parted to show the Spirit how....
to act alive in its warm shelter/ clothe
of Life before Death and Its endless Now...
We are greeted by our own molted paths;
far crossed journeys in slow heated baths.
#TheVisit #Challenge
Rain beats against the windows with a vengeance as I lay in my bed, empty chocolate wrappers scattered around my messy sheets. The lights are off, lightning casting ragged shadows on my bleak walls.
It's been three weeks, a small voice from somewhere in my head reminds me. I bury my face deeper in my pillow, not wanting to move. Classes close in two days. I can't bring myself to care.
The doorbell rings loudly through the quiet thunder and tittering rain drops and I jolt up, chest heaving as I clutch my pillow close. Just as I begin to think it's my imagination, it rings again. Then again, more impatiently. I roll my eyes, flopping back onto my bed. Seven more rings. Twelve more. Fifteen. Eighteen. Twenty.
Heaving an enormous sigh of frustration, I fling my pillow aside, stomping hard enough for my bare feet to slap loudly against the wooden floors. I levitate myself to look out the peep hole once I get to the door and see my old friend, Detective Jordan Trafford.
I sink back to the ground and unlock the door, yanking it open.
"What," I mutter sourly.
"Get out of your rut, I've got a case," He says briskly.
"No." I move to slam the door.
He stops it. "Yvani, you're literally the only necromancer in our precinct_"
"I don't want to."
"Your brother would have_"
"My brother isn't here. Nor will he be again. Now leave me alone before I call another cop. Harassment is still illegal; even for you."
"This case will interest you."
"Doubt it."
"So you wouldn't be interested in a thousand-year-old murder uncovered near the sacred dragon sign?"
"What part of 'no'...wait."
He hands me a file, displaying a dead body perfectly preserved by the magic runes it's encased in. He arches an eyebrow at me.
"Fine. But you have to buy me tacos, chocolate, and a soda. Like, a huge soda. With lots of caffeine. Let me change."
"I thought so."
"Don't gloat, you cheated. Also. Do not sit on my suede couch. I don't want it getting wet. You can sit in the arm chair." I slam my door behind me, using the time it takes me to get dressed to mentally prepare myself for the first case since my brother's murder.
Habitue
For two weeks a former coworker of mine kept popping into my head, even in my dreams. I had not seen him, or even thought of him in over 7 years. He had retired suddenly after a battle with lung cancer. Half of one lung with the cancerous tumor was removed successfully.
“That’s weird,” I thought. “Why do I keep thinking about Gerry Smith?” It was a nagging feeling, as if he was demanding my attention when I suddenly thought, maybe the cancer came back and he passed away. Google just makes these moments so easy. NADA. Of course, he does have a very common name, but I knew where he lived and I also knew some of his family members. I checked him out as best I could. No one on Facebook mentioned his passing, and I found no evidence of an obituary. “Shame on me,” I thought. You’ve prematurely got the guy six feet under and you are spying on him and his family.
I was heading up to NY to visit my relatives who happen to live near where Gerry and I used to work. The nagging feeling traveled with me. I thought about calling him, but what would I say? “Hi! Remember me? I can’t stop thinking about you and I dont know why? Want to hang out?” That would probably go over really well with his wife and would make no sense since we really weren’t that close and as I said we had been out of touch for seven years. So I just chalked it up to crazy old me getting all stuck up in my head and went about my road trip.
Being Nana, and away from my grandchildren is tough. When I arrived in NY, my daughter informed me that my grandson had to make up a gymnastic class. “Would you like to take him?” she said. “Absolutely!” I was thrilled to spend one on one time and see him tumble. He was only four at the time, so he held my hand when we arrived at the gym, leading me down a staircase and said, “Come on Nana, the grownups can come sit down on the mats over there.” And he pointed towards where I should sit.
I sat down in the lotus position and was gazing at my grandson with utter pride when low and behold, Gerry Smith popped into the old bean again, but this time it was as if I heard a voice and it said, “Look up.” So I looked up at the glass enclosed viewing gallery above where I was sitting, knowing the next thing my eyes would see was Gerry Smith and there he was, his face sort of pressed up against the glass. I waved and he didn’t wave back. “Does he not recognize me? Well, now I know you are really as weird as you think you are, my dear,” I thought and was a little annoyed because I knew I’d be distracted while watching my grandson until I could get up the stairs to talk to Gerry Smith.
The class was ending and I quickly grabbed my grandson’s hand and pulled him along back up the stairs to where Gerry Smith was sitting. Gerry, I could now see, was hooked up to oxygen and in a wheel chair. “Gerry. Gerry.” Nothing. Did he not hear me? “Gerry, it’s Bonnie from the post office, don’t you remember me?”
“Oh hi,” was all he said and he looked away with a faraway look.
Obviously this meeting had more significance for me than it did for him. His daughter was standing beside him. I had met her a couple of times at the post office and she recognized me. We started talking as if Gerry was not there, because unfortunately, it sorta seemed like Gerry was not there.
“Sorry to see your dad’s not doing too well.”
“Yeah. He’s having a rough time.”
“Sorry.” I said again. “Hey this will sound weird, (I just had to tell someone) but I’ve been thinking about your dad for two weeks nonstop and it’s such a weird coincidence to bump into him here today. This was a makeup class for my grandson.”
“That’s funny," she replied. This is a makeup class for my son. I was bringing Dad back from the doctor and decided to stop in spur of the moment. I had no intention of coming today and had the overwhelming desire to stop. It’s difficult to take Dad in and out of the van but he said he wanted to see the kids tumble.”
“Really. Huh.” So I did the only thing I thought appropriate at the moment. I leaned down to the wheel chair and gave Gerry a big hug. He smiled and said nothing. I said goodbye and walked out feeling like I was grasping at something unfamiliar yet somewhat thrilling in an odd sort of way.
It wasn’t till later that evening that I thoughts of the supernatural. What if what was calling out to my psyche for that two week period was the future ghost of Gerry Smith? If we don’t know for sure ghosts are real, how do we know ghost behavior? Maybe our own ghosts are just floating around ready and waiting to take over at the crucial moment of our demise.
“Aye Aye captain. Coming in for a landing.”
Truthfully, I have absolutely no idea what this little story means if anything. Coincidence?
I had never been inclined to believe in the paranormal. Was I about to change my beliefs now? Call me cold if you like, but just in case this had to do with something metaphysical, I decided to forget all about Gerry Smith. No googling, no facebook, no thoughts, until I decided to write about this today. I truly prefer to live in a ghost free zone.
P. S. This is not fiction. The last name of the subject named has been changed to protect their privacy and identity. Your thoughts @Danceinsilence?
a visitor
I’m at home.
In the kitchen, alone.
Kids at school.
I’m washing dishes.
Daydreaming out the window.
About swimming.
And how long it has been since I felt the cool water on my skin.
Felt the freedom of my whole body floating
Lying on my back looking at the sky.
My mind starts to wander
To that time
When I travelled to Morocco over spring break
To see you
After you begged me on the phone.
I could hardly understand you.
And why did you sound like you were crying?
So many years ago.
A few weeks ago, I had just come across your Facebook page after all those years.
I almost fainted when I saw your face.
Those sad eyes.
Thinning hair.
And why did you not smile in the profile picture?
Your eyes and your face
had always had such a mischievous wile.
The years had not been kind to you
I supposed.
Marco told me as much,
“He lost his girl in the past and he travelled all over looking for a replacement,” he had scoffed.
Funny, I thought you said you and he were friends.
_____
That day in the dunes
A few minutes private
Just me and you
I slipped my hand in your pants.
Made you squirm
Nervously.
Dunes are nice little pockets
For lusty couples
I thought as I nuzzled my lips on your neck.
Hand gripping your stiffness.
Embracing the veins with my fingers.
Mmmm
Two tongues joined now
Eagerly lapping each other
Lost in a moment
Until...
A knock on the door
And I’m wondering
Did I order something?
I dry my hands.
I open the door.
There he stands.
Transcendent
My muse visits often
When I'm asleep at night
A compilation of people
I've met through my life
Some are uplifting
Filling me with hope
Others have harmed
Many repeatedly
An abundance of esoteric scars
Which I cannot erase
Yet inextricably connected
To profound meditations
Encouraging synergy
Awakening the sublime
#poetry #freeverse #visitor #challenge #Prose #amwriting
Song of My Soul
There’s this feeling within me, an all consuming emptyness, an emptyness that seems to have an unmeasurable weight attached to it. It’s as though I’ve become the beast of burden who’s carrying a load that is infinitely multiplied with every inevitable stumble along a narrow, eroded lose gravel path. The view of grand, statuesque, snow covered mountians that seem to be nothing more than an extensions of their own flawless reflection created by the exquisite, crystal clear lake they border, serve as a treacherously beautiful distraction. On the breeze dances a sound, a song, one I seem to know perfectly, even though it has never before been played. Every beat of the song in precise timing with the pulse of my heart. It’s angelic and seductive, indescribably innocent yet extraordinarily perverse, as if it were the song of my confused soul. The fog which seems to consume the stagnant air around me dissipates when it’s played, a song that is my light, a light so bright it could illuminate my darkest night. So completely entrancing I’m blind to the transparent premeditated serendipity of it all. The majestic mountians, and sublime crystal lake are nothing more than smoke and mirrors, enticing me to, even just for a moment, relinquish my vital full attention from negotiating every step I take along a more treacherous, narrower version of Hells Gates Trail. The blatant premeditated serendipitous moment has been victorious in its task, as I give in and seek solace in glory that is the mirage. Only to be torn away from the euphoric mirage and reacquainted with the daunting face of reality as the lose gravel gives way beneath my feet, and I am brought to my knees in unbearable emotional and physical pain. My heart seems to skip a beat or even two, the silence is deafening, the song of my soul ceases to play, the darkness blinds me, my light has conceeded to the darkest night. I am once again alone, exhausted, my emotional energy depleted, my soul, every fiber of my being beaten down, believing I am too weak to continue, I curse the song, but before the last word is able to escape my lips, once again I feel it, the pulse of my heart, I hear it, the song of my soul, I see it, the light of my night, but this time, I remember it, the euphoric mirage of my heaven, that leads me to suffer in pain in my hell. You will always be, the Pulse of my Heart, the Song of my Soul, and the Light of my night, but you’re also the inevitable pain of my euphoria, which I have to remind myself is merely a mirage.
Visited by an Angel?
This is actually true for me. On June 1, 2015, I was so angry that I was taking it out on others and onto my horses. That was the day Renada had the horse accident, too. She was taken to the hospital and I stayed home. That night I went to bed and fell asleep for a while. I woke up about 3 am and thought I saw Renada with wings. Not White, but purple wings.
She said, "Sleep, Shellee. I am okay now. I have been taken to help with the horses and other animals in Heaven."
I shook my head and looked again, but she was gone. I started crying. I didn't get much sleep for the next few nights because I wanted to see Renada again. Not hooked up with tubes and Ivies, but free and happy.
From then on, I have seen her when I ride or even when I run at barrel races. I will never forget her. I have even seen her in my dreams. She misses me and I miss her, a lot.
I will always Remember her and Love her like she isn't.
Bring Me Peace
I couldn't stop thinking about it. Actually, I still can't stop thinking about it.
You see, my dog died seven weeks ago. 52 days ago, to be exact. I've been counting.
That was the worst day of my life.
My dogs are everything to me. They are my world. My life. I would do anything for them. And this little guy . . . well he was something special. He was a Chihuahua mix. With what, I don't know. But his legs were twice as long as any Chihuahua I'd seen and his snout was half as long. He had an underbite and sometimes his tongue would stick through it. I was never a Chihuahua person. Never wanted one. Never really cared for them. Until the day I brought him home.
It was January 27, 2018. He would be dog number two. And I only got him because my other one needed a friend. Somehow, my rowdy 40 pound dog chose to take him as her brother. She loved him immediately. Even cried when I hopped in the car without him, but I had to run to the store.
I, however, was not quite sold on him right away. He was a scrawny, mangy looking thing. And the dumbest dog I'd ever met. He never did learn much. But there was something endearing about it. The way his ears flopped over. And how he would prance instead of run. How, when he and his sister wrestled, he would jump on top of her and then make sounds like he was dying. And then at bed time when he would come curl up right next to my neck.
Before long, he too, was my world. It was just me and my dogs.
But then, something happened. The dumb dog started a fight with his sister. She tried to be gentle. Grabbed him by the scruff and threw him away from her. She actively tried not to hurt him.
There was no blood.
He seemed fine.
But then he started to swell. The vet said his trachea was torn. He said Patches would be okay. That it would heal on it's own in a few days.
But Patches continued to swell.
Bigger, bigger, bigger.
And the next morning, he died in my arms.
The moment I lost him is a moment I'll never forget. It was the day before Easter. I still have his basket.
I can't seem to get over the loss of him. I wonder, if I'd gotten him to the vet sooner that morning would he still be here? If I'd put an end to the fight even a second sooner, would I bubba be alive?
I'll never know.
I have stared up to heaven and begged his forgiveness. Apologized over and over for letting this happen. For not preventing it.
And then one night, as I lay in bed, sobbing uncontrollably. As I thought about everything I could have done to save my Patchy boy, I felt the familiar warmth of his body against the back of my neck. Instantly, my tears stopped. My dog was there with me, I knew it. And he didn't hate me. He didn't blame me for what had happened. In that moment, I knew my dog loved me. He didn't want me to tear myself apart over losing him.
I felt him there until I fell asleep.
I know, it sounds silly. He was a dog. He can't have possibly been there. He can't have possibly communicated with me that night. But I know what I felt. I felt my Patches. My buddy brought me peace when I needed it most.
@danceinsilence
The story of my aunt P
I am often visited by the memory of my great aunt P who died age 92. I still smoke and I remember that she was a smoker when I was a kid but then she quit. I can still remember her 6 walls bedroom where she spent most of her last years.
The ashtray of my great aunt P was silver-plated alike the old mirror sitting on the shelf under the window; it was an ashtray with a nude fisherwoman hauling a net for stubs and ashes with her strong arms, and, who knows, perhaps a goldfish would have appeared there to fulfill three essential wishes in everyone’s life.
Aunt P gave up smoking a long time ago. She used to smoke the finest Romanian cigarettes available in her youth. But she was a poor woman all her life, as well as the great majority of my relatives. Then she grew old, her hair became brilliant white with a tint of blue-violet gentian tincture used by many old ladies, her nails got curved by age and thickened, even though she still used her precious manicure tools, because, in fact, my aunt did not forget the way of life she adopted in the hair salon where she had worked. In the last ten years of her life, my aunt gradually lost her sight, but she was still able to wash under the shower alone, even though she did not quit for 15 years her room strangely built with six walls instead of four.
Times were spinning around my aunt’s house like a toy globe in a child’s hand, meridian after meridian. In the 60s her third husband died, leaving her to care for the three elder relatives. Her husband was said to have roots among White noble Russians (he was a white émigré), and he found refuge with modest financial means in Romania. Coincidentally, my aunt’s brother was a different kind of adventurer, a former worker in the construction industry and traveler in the Arab countries, who had spent several years in a concentration camp in Russia, because he was a prisoner in the Second World War. Aunt P too had traveled in her youth around the world, as a stage dancer, together with a friend. She had pictures of her in beautiful ballerina white dresses. In addition to the hair salon, she worked as a public servant in a state institution. In the ’70s the trolley wires circled my aunt’s home, and then they disappeared. In the ’80s my aunt often walked around the city to visit her sisters and brothers and in the suburbs area too, to take a breath of fresh air and stretch her pretty legs on a lounger in the sunlight. She loved very much herbs of all kinds, to refresh her blood, but she was a perfect hostess for her younger relatives when they congregated around her round and a small table for a card game named Ace of Spades, staking on very low-value coins. In her later years, she began to stitch and make superb needlework and to decorate cushions according to her Hungarian origins traditions, with incredible craftsmanship for the hand of an apprentice. That cushion cover is now mine...
In the ’90s, my aunt, aged almost 80, had traveled on a plane over the ocean in the U.S.A. to attend a wedding of one of her nieces from an elder sister. She was always the same lady with impeccable manners and a small head standing with her curled hair and her pink lipstick on her mouth over her thin and a quite tall body, more and more fragile through the years. My aunt’s house was neighboring the government’s building, and on the ground floor they set up kiosks for petty merchandise. Only the framed pictures of my aunt were the same: her husband, brothers, and sisters, and relatives from afar.
I visited her from time to time and she joked that she was the doyenne of age in our family. I still have a few old books received from her. In her youth she loved rumors about celebrities, in her old age, she listened to the radio sitting on her bedside. I loved my family and her too with all my heart. Before she died, she synthesized the wisdom of life in a few words: “It’s better on the ground floor than in the basement, that’s what I think, and while my Lord still left a living time to me, it should be lived”. This woman was shrouded in a fragrance of mystery, but in reality, she was simple like jar pickles. She kept the flavor of times gone by, but she was spiced with herbs and resilient, yet open-minded. She has given me a few things before she died, but I only preserved her simple, cheap Romanian coffee cups and saucers. Yes, she liked the taste of coffee and she died on New Year’s Eve, probably as a result of the aggravation of her aorta aneurysm and other age-related illnesses. Because the staircase to her apartment (which she no longer could descend for a long time), was twisted to a maximum, they came down first with the coffin and then with her in a blanket. I thought that’s exactly what her life was: twisted like ivy around some men, twisted, but fragile, rambling on devious paths in mysterious ways, where not all people sleep between four walls. And at the end of her journey, my aunt offered once again a proof of her proverbial capacity of adaptation. At the graveyard gate it was snowing, it was a very peaceful and thin snowfall, gracious like her ballerina days…
There are many other stories about aunt P which I regret I did not write in time before forgetting them. There are stories about her adventures with unknown men in cheap motels, whose advances she had surely rejected and the memory of her own youth in black and white photos.