I sit beneath the willows

Where shadows come to hide

The night— she welcomes me

Her stars have lost their light

I listen closely to the wind

And think I hear your name

But all I hear are muffled cries

That echo my own the pain

As I enter grief's dark portico

Of all that's left behind

This emptiness— it follows me

Your loss, my heart, entwined

I choose to believe

In you and me

Because

Even the desert

Will sometimes

Get snow

A minivan emblazoned with a home health logo pulled up in front of a small, well-kept house. Jacqueline put it in park, and grabbed her tablet.

“This one is Henry Kershaw. 92 years old. Hypertension and atrial fibrillation. He's good about taking his meds, but needs his blood drawn often. He's a surprisingly easy stick.”

Cleo glanced over at the porch. An old man sat in a rocking chair, whittling. He waved. The sunlight glinted off the knife in his hand.

“Umm… is that such a good idea?”

“What, hon?” Jacqueline mumbled, distracted as she gathered her supplies.

“He is on anticoagulants. So maybe playing with knives is not exactly wise?”

Jacqueline laughed, “He's fine! That's his hobby and he's always been quite safe about it. No worries…. Come on. This is the last appointment before lunch,” she lovingly rubbed her rounded belly, “and baby wants to go to Rib Shack today.”

“Now there's a lovely young lady I have not seen before. Pretty as a picture.” The old man exclaimed as they made their way onto the porch.

“Mr. Kershaw, this is Clementine— but she likes to be called Cleo. She will be covering for me when I go on maternity leave next week.”

“Nice to meet you,” Cleo stepped forward and shook his hand.

A strange mix of familiarity, hunger, and excitement flickered across the old man’s face. Cleo pulled her hand away and unconsciously wiped it on the pant leg of her scrubs. She felt deep disgust as she struggled to regain her composure.

Jacqueline began to go about taking the old man’s vitals, “Now you better be on your best behavior while I'm gone, Mr. Kershaw.” She teased and wagged a finger. He solemnly nodded and made a “cross my heart” gesture.

Cleo typed the visit note on the tablet as Jacqueline obtained the old man’s bloodwork. As soon as he possibly could, the old man gleefully picked up his knife again. He selected a peach from the table beside him and began carefully peeling it.

Jacqueline shook her head as she labeled the tube of blood, “I never know how you do that so nicely, Mr. Kershaw. You sure make it look easy.”

“Takes years of practice,” he said as he slid the knife along the delicate skin of the fruit in a slow, steady spiral, “I like to take it all off in one piece, but sometimes the blade really gouges into the flesh, like so.” He winked at Cleo and smiled, “But I just keep going, nice and steady...” He trailed off and licked his wrinkled lips, almost in a trance, “It's just so… satisfying.” He proudly held up the finished product, oblivious to the juice trickling down his wrist from the glistening fruit, “Pretty as a picture.”

*****

That night, as Cleo undressed, she looked uneasily into the mirror. She was reluctant to process this information.

It's just a superstition, Cleo reasoned with herself. Birthmarks don't reveal how you died in a past life. Give me a break. Total bullshit.

But then the picture came to mind of the old man twisting the knife blade around the fruit in his hand…

She looked at the pale, solid line, like a finger's width scar, that went from her right pinky and ran all the way around her body like a ribbon. A “runner”, it's called. An unusual birthmark of which she had always been self-conscious.

Her eyes fell on the spot where the runner suddenly widened and transformed into a large, messy blotch— referred to as a “cafe au lait” spot by her dermatologist. She followed the mark as it flowed across her sternum.

My heart.

She ran her shaking hand over it as her birthmark continued its path under her left breast.

“Sometimes the blade really gouges into the flesh, like so.”

Her eyes followed the line as it continued back into its original serpentine fashion around and around her body, eventually ending at her left ankle.

“But I just keep going.”

It occurred to her she was certainly not the only one. The sick bastard was a relatively healthy 92 years old. What a long, evil run he's had. And now he sits on his porch, peeling fruit and perversely reminiscing…

As she met her gaze in the mirror, Cleo's resolve solidified. She knew what needed to be done.

For some reason, my challenge was posted twice. Site glitch? Perhaps, but I'd rather consider it sweetly serendipitous. Either way, this means there are two winners!

“Loss”, by mishmash

And

“Untitled”, by Stori

Honorable mentions are:

“Come Back”, by Sandlot

“New Soul”, by AJAY9977

“The Return”, by ChrisSadhill

“Shadow or Dream?”, by AnnFan14

“I came back kaleidoscope”, by InvisibleWriter

I encourage anyone who has not done so already: check out all the fantastic challenge entries. Each offers something unique and beautiful. Thanks everyone!

♥️

Mariah

We stared in amazement at what this find may mean for us.

"It's here for the taking," Brother shrugged, "gimme a boost."

He landed in the dumpster with a thud.

I checked the school parking lot: empty due to Christmas break.

He pushed and I pulled. Success!

Ecstatic, we pulled our treasure away. In small puffs, our breath took wing upon the shimmering winter air. Giddy with hope, we hardly felt the cold by then.

We arrived at the door of our

impoverished home, filled with childish certainty: Santa would remember us this year.

This year we had a tree.