Children of Amethyst
In the field of amnesty, between the smooth road
of wickedness and the muddy path to salvation,
unborn children crawl among the purple flowers.
Flakes of amethyst dance with the winds
above the heads of small children;
when they are born, they will heal many hearts.
Their presence in this world will not appear
like a clap of thunder or suddenly roll in like a rogue
wave from the middle of the ocean.
Their existence will be subtle; a soft beauty
in the arms of a mother who will know,
finally know, true love and worry.
Black Clothes and Mr. Whiskers Part 2
There are no whispers flowing from the mouths of townspeople or annoying yaps coming from the aged jowls of neighborhood hounds behind their iron fences. The birds have become too sad to sing their songs of the morning and house cats, like Mr. Whiskers, are no longer twitching their tails or jumping from one countertop to the next.
Those hounds trot inside and fall asleep at the foot of their owners’ bed while the townspeople are out, stumbling together towards the crooked steeple of a cliché white church. Their small children sit on the yellow curbs of streets, watching a line of black cars go by and disappear around the corner, one by one. They are too young to understand the things that make adults cry.
What little Tyler Webb does understand, though, is that his Tonka truck was left behind at the house and that he is still wearing those funny clothes that make his arms itch. Tyler sat comfortably between his Nana and Mom in the backseat of a spacious vehicle he had never seen. His Nana rubs soothing circles into his back, while his Mom stares vacantly out the window. She hasn’t spoken a word to him since before leaving.
“Mommy?” he says, waiting for her attention to turn from the window to him. It doesn’t.
“Mommy?” he tries again while tapping her arm. She remains motionless.
“Hush, Tyler; leave Momma alone, child,” his Nana whispers into his ear. He looks at the grieving face of his Nana and nods, still wondering why she looks older than before.
After a few more minutes, the vehicle stops and the statue that was Tyler’s mother, finally moves. Tyler climbed out of the vehicle and sees that he is at his church. His eyebrows crinkled up as he looked up at the steeple.
“Mommy, it’s not Sunday,” he says as if she forgot that it was actually Thursday. His Mother finally turned to look down at him before she lowers herself to his level. She avoids looking at his face.
“Momma knows, honey. Right now we need to go in there anyways, so you be a good boy and act just like you do when we go on Sundays. Okay?” She straightens his suit and waits for his reply, but he just nods his head, watching his mom’s hands fix the wrinkles he created.
“Is Daddy in there?” Tyler asks. His mother’s hands still and clench his suit jacket, crinkling what she had just fixed. Her head bows towards the ground as she continues clasping onto his jacket before finally looking at him; at his face. She puts her hand on his cheek and caresses his face before standing in front of him. She grabs his hand and leads him into the church.
“He’s in there, sweetie.”
“Can Mr. Whiskers come too?” His mother shakes her head no and smiles sadly.
“No sweetie. Mr. Whiskers can’t come in here.”
Here
I love Here and now, where the ground shakes when herds
of children fly down white walled halls,
I love Here and now where the old wooden doors groan
when they open and close,
Where gossip runs like poison from the lips of bottles
that are called teenagers,
Where children see their parents cry with pride and joy,
Where girls become women and boys revert back to
infants trying to impress them,
When desks are just a memory after four years and a day
have passed,
Where kids spend half of their time goofing around and
learning, and spend the other half waiting for the bell,
When we dreamed of getting where we are now, or where
we still wish to be,
Here, on the nurturing and dangerous battlegrounds, we
claimed victory and defeat, wishing for the moment we
may return to those white walled halls,
May we return and march with patient strides, remembering
our childhood,
Through countless days spent Here, we became sculpted
individuals,
May we never forget who we are; why we are,
I love Here where it took courage to speak and laugh.
But we knew that laughter was pure; uncorrupted,
The purpose of Here was a prologue leading into the
next chapter of a book that doesn’t know what it will be about,
Here, gave courage and support to children who
are now adults with battle scars across their brains.
French Company
Life has always been about choices, and having to decide between the important things and the not-so-important things. As Elizabeth sat at a table, looking over a menu with a million things that she didn’t even know the meaning behind, she was faced with one of those decisions. It wasn’t an important one, but it didn’t mean that the choice wasn’t there. She also made the choice to refuse to look up at the empty chair across from her.
She couldn’t decide if she wanted Boudin Blanc or Bourride, so when the waiter came, she just pointed to one and said a sloppy ‘merci’ to her American waiter. He nodded his head and walked away before she could also ask for another refill of the cheap French champagne she was constantly sipping at.
The flickering candle set in the middle of the table sent shadows dancing on the velvet chair in front of her; they turned into the moments she had spent with the person she normally ate here with. He still hadn’t shown up. It felt like it was just a moment before her food had been placed in front of her, and with a friendly ‘bon a petit’ from the waiter, he refilled her champagne before she could ask him to herself. When he left she began to eat her Bourride and thought of the person who hadn’t shown up. It was their anniversary and he hadn’t shown up; he must have forgotten. She continued to eat, surrounded by the sounds of clanking silverware against plates and bowls and the constant buzz of whispers. When she heard a familiar voice, she looked up to survey the crowd. Her heart started to beat in anticipation at seeing his face among the rest of the nameless crowd.
Her eyes landed on the shoulders of someone sitting behind her. Elizabeth knew those shoulders, that voice, his laugh. With a sick feeling in her stomach she slowly stood and saw the woman he was with and how she leaned over and ran her hands through his hair, whispering in his ear. His laughter boomed out and through the restaurant. He forgot their anniversary and this was the reason why. Elizabeth walked to the front of him so that he could properly see her stare at him with a force in her eyes that rivaled a tornado. When he saw her, his eyes widened, his mouth gaping open and closed like a fish suffocating on the beach.
Just as he was about to say something, she shook her head and removed her ring from her finger. Elizabeth thought about just throwing it at him, but changed her mind. She dropped it into his wineglass and ended their relationship the same way he began it. She leveled him with her eyes again before walking over to her table. She picked up her bill and set it on his table.
“Happy Anniversary, Richard,”
Elizabeth walked out of the restaurant; the only thing on her mind was how much she hated French food.