The strong overwhelming scent of the flowers  and vanella . Fill the room like wildfire. Filling my lungs with the fire of dread.  The song of the little dolphins playing through the coves of that little snowglobe that sits in the room full of Apple Barrel Acrylic Paint. fills the memories of us. The little yappy dog that was always by her feet. The clay statues that sit in the china case. Don't touch that! Echoes through the little apartment. The place she called home. The place I first learned to gamble on a little ipad on the uncomfortable sofa I slept on on the nights moma had to work in the city. At least I will get the big m and m panera cookie. The moments she was not so grumpy the world seemed to light the world. Sitting in the chair that was way too big for me but the paint on the table ready for the blank statues. “Go get my leg” she exclaimed. A sound I got familiar with hearing. Until the day we walked into a cold dreaded nursing home. The last time I saw her. It was bad. She was grumpy as ever. “Lindsay is that you? Get out of here!” My name is not lindsay. that snowglobe still sings in my dreams.

kyra haas 

I hold the bag of a man that wanted nothing more than to help people find the light in the dark. The man that glowed everywhere he went. In the crowded room of people he was only talking to you, a father. A son . my uncle. Now nothing more than a memory and  bag of bones with ash. When he was alive all he wanted was to see the world, to meet people. To let the world know they were seen. I sit with this bag of what was. The drive to spread the very man that was the reason we made it out. My moms best friend and the only father figure that I knew who wasn't the worst . we find beautiful spots across the coast of the pacific. The drive was made just for this. The moon glares through the windshield, giving the light in the dark just as he wanted.   The car shakes with every bump of the base. The music loud our minds race, but the car stays silente   

kyra haas