Days passed by and the weariness still had a subtle effect on her. The couple tried their best to keep Hao content but their efforts were to no avail. Constant efforts were made by everyone to keep her spirits up but the consistent regret of leaving them made her feel vacant.
Holding tight to her green and arid sierra shawls,
she peers over a fresco valley set in leprechaun gold.
Like a megalithic Buddha she rests on a boulder's shoulder
beneath a thulian sky lit by a gingerline disco sun.
The storm raged on, and our mom settled my sister and I in the back corner on the folding bed with the squeaky springs. My sister began to read the book she had brought downstairs instead of her pillow.
The walk seemed endless, but after a while, I found myself back to where I started. It had been a painful walk in the shadows. I thought I could face it with less tears, but I didn't. Although, by any means, I think I had been braver still.
If walls could talk they would be a point of reference to recount the true story of every human tragedy and joy. If walls could talk, they would show more sympathy and understanding because they can listen for a lifetime without leaving.
On precious occasions, Margaret will share with me stories of her childhood, her teen years and stories from as recent as 40 years ago. She is a walking, talking history lesson. All of her stories have a purpose.
She danced for 10 years and travelled everywhere competing. She decided her dancing days were done and took up the clarinet. Her exposure to music through dance and movement and her ability to sight read music enabled her to learn at twice the pace as everyone else.
Maggie, the white cat Yawns softly Rests on my tummy And sleeps. I stroke her fur. Feeling yellows And rainbows In my ribcage. I smile. The yellows And rainbows. They were blurred images Of memories I haven’t visited In awhile.