Triumph - P.A.Bees (i can read books .txt) 📗

The Falsity of Time

Was it the moment I looked away, trying to live my life before it was stale? Is that when he became a man? Where once the boy had stood, (and I remember a young man too), I see a father. Maybe not as sure as he would like to be; maybe not so settled yet playing at house. One set of dreams dulled a little; hope rising with his child. He is not yet at the point where months and years are lost. He sees each day. Except the days that I now live and they are lost to him.


The Basket Weaver

Fingers sore from splints of wet wood, she weaves with expert hands. Bandaged, taped, and raw, still she plies her trade. Each basket with flat bottom and trimmed leather handles speaks to finishing what she starts. The monotony leaves her time. She wonders if each finished vessel took some of her away with it. Sold to unknown keepers, she lives in kitchens, family rooms, and dens. She holds yarn, peaches, and picnics. Someday she will gather them all and set them ablaze with her heart’s fire. The ashes will fertilize the ground that grows the trees that make more baskets.


Tracy of My Heart

We had no idea how precious time was and that there would be an end to it. She was gone so swiftly, without a chance for goodbyes, without a chance for hugs, our eyes cried. A tight, burning sensation overwhelms still, nearly a year later. This was not atonement for parent’s sins. It was not the fault of carelessness or ill regard. “Move on.” They say. When every spy of pink is a sword to my heart and a happy memory like a deep paper cut, burning and raw. Is it masochistic to want to feel? Move on? I’ll stay.

Publication Date: 08-25-2010

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