Point of View

Third Person

“All towns within 100 miles of the Fair Beach coast line are to evacuate immediately. Category 4 hurricane Haley will make landfall in approximately one hour. Everyone is to evacuate immediately.”

He sat in the old faded armchair where he had been since the previous evening, staring at the black and white television. The message tailored by a state mandate echoed through the hollow house for the fourth time in the past hour. The strained urgency of the message was paired with the calm monotone of the automated woman's voice speaking the words into the cold house.

He didn't move, staring through the television out into a place only visible to his tired eyes. His wrinkled, weathered skin hung from his brittle frame, pooling onto the arms of the old armchair. He sat, unmoving.

With a snap and a decrescendoing hum, the power flickered out. The television enveloped the picture from the outside in, smothering it with black and silence. Suddenly the only sound in the old house was the rhythmical tick- tocking of the clock mounted on the flaking wall paper.

He sat motionless as a stone statue for a long while, staring out through the television.

Second Person

“All towns within 100 miles of the Fair Beach coast line are to evacuate immediately. Category 4 hurricane Haley will make landfall in approximately one hour. Everyone is to evacuate immediately.”

You smash the car radio button with a shaking fist, realizing afterward that it was probably an excessive amount of force. It's just so damn frustrating! That message had been echoing in through every television and radio you had come across. You got the message: the down was about to be flattened by hurricane Haley. You didn't need some soothing, mechanical voice to remind you of that every 10 minutes.

You slid your hands free headset phone on your ear and call your mother. She left the town with your father and little sister about 20 minutes ago, leaving you to get the dog in the truck and be the last to drive away from the house you grew up in. The porch your parents had made you pose for 13 years of 'first day of school' pictures. The living room where your prided collection of grateful dead and other 80's folk rock Cd's still sat stacked in unorganized piles. The bedroom where Ronnie Simmons had stolen your first kiss on a dare. So many memories, all about to be washed out to sea in a million splintered pieces.

As you wait for your mother to answer her phone, you glance out your window as you pass by the old cobblestone bakery. The upstairs window, where the old baker himself lives, glows and flickers from what looks like a television. Thats weird, you wonder for a moment if the sweet old man forgot to turn his television off.

“Hello?”

“Hey mom, it's me.”

First Person

“All towns within 100 miles of the Fair Beach coast line are to evacuate immediately. Category 4 hurricane Haley will make landfall in approximately one hour. Everyone is to evacuate immediately.”

Every ten minutes or so, the name of my town shakes my mind from its wanderings. It shakes my mind, but nothing else. I have sat without moving in this dirty armchair for at least a day now, but it could have been longer. Time is so relative when you have no reason to keep it. The wind's shrill whistle echos through my empty town. I think my way down the stairs into my bakery, her rose colored walls near bursting with nostalgia. With religious diligence I had cut out each newspaper clipping of town events over the years. They decorated the walls, alongside signed album covers of local guys who had made it big, the beautiful work of local artists, and other such paraphernalia.

But they were all gone now. Fleeing this mecca, this utopian bliss, they had all packed up and left her for the waters to consume.

Well, perhaps they were wise, moving on to better things, to lives outside of this little beach town. Not I, though. This town, this Fair Beach, was all the family I had left. I am part of it, and it is part of me.

She is my ship, and like a good Captain, I will go down with her.

  

Boot Camp and Bird

Boot Camp and Bird

They were the only people around. King and Queen of the court yard they ambled about, uninterrupted. They seemed engrossed in whatever it was they talked about. I would have guessed them to be classmates, continuing a debate not finished in their philosophy class, but term would not start for another two weeks, thus I was stumped. They struck me as those sort of people, though. Ponderers – the kids who drag class discussions eight levels deeper with one rhetorical statement. They listened to classical music, wore scarves, and read Faulkner in their leisure. Yes, that was my first judgment of the two of them, as I watched them wander through the court yard.

She walked to his right, her auburn hair trailing behind her in the breeze. I could not decode what she was saying (I was never good at reading lips), but she waved her hands around as she spoke, making gestures and motions with great energy. At one point, it seemed that she could not fully contain her exuberance and she flit off a few steps ahead of his consistent cadence. She twirled one and a half times around to face him, losing her balance in the process. Her graceful spin was lost in her stumble and her arms pronged outward to keep her balance. I waited for the embarrassment, the blush across her cheeks as she tried to recover her decor. She looked at him for a moment, where he had stopped in his tracks, and then cast her head back and laughed. This was no reserved giggle, keeping the girlish front around the boy she wanted to make a good impression on, this was laughter from the soul – free and unbridled. The kind of laughter that came accompanied with tears. She carried the laughter for a good fifteen seconds or so, and then with a skip returned to his side. I decided to call her Bird.

Whatever it was Bird was saying in her animated fashion, the boy listened very carefully. Hands behind his back, he kept constant eye contact, studying her face as she spoke. For as free and unrestrained as Bird was in her movements, the boy was every bit as careful in his. His posture formal, the space he kept between them ample; I could imagine him with ease in military uniform. He chose his words carefully when he spoke to her, taking a moment to craft each remark, and he carried himself in prided discipline. I decided to call him Boot Camp.

I had watched them for a while now, searching for signs as to the status of their relationship. Was she his childhood friend, up to visit him before the semester began? A sister, nervous about her first year of college? Or were they, perhaps, more than just friends or family? Lovers, cherishing their last hours together before the boy went to serve his country over seas? No, I thought not. Not once in the time they were in the court yard had they given any indication of intimacy. I admitted, though, that I could not be sure, so I continued to watch, curiosity perked.

By this point, the two had made their way to the monstrous tree near the middle of the court yard. Her massive limbs could, and had, withstand hundreds of students over the decades proving themselves to each other by climbing her knotted branches. As old as the college itself, she had played host to a countless number of conversations, study groups, passionate make out sessions, and heart wrenching breakups. I cast my bet as to which would occur, and watched.

Bird got there first, stopping abruptly ten or so feet from the colossal trunk. She craned her neck, staring up into the ark of branches and leaves. Once Boot Camp reached her, she turned to him, doe eye. As they conversed, Bird twirled a lock of her hair smiling at what the boy had said. She looked up at him through her eye lashes as she leaned her back against the old tree. Boot Camp swayed, hesitantly stepping closer to her. He maintained a foot or so between them, but this was easily the closest they had been while in the court yard.

Thunder clapped over the scene, and moments later, rain began to pour down in sheets. I laughed, I couldn't help myself. Boot Camp looked out from under the trees protection, disbelief painted across his sharp features. He shook his head, and then turned back to say something to Bird.

But she was gone.

Boot Camp looked around frantically, turning 360 degrees to locate his lost Bird.

Her yell, not quite loud enough for me to understand, echoed through the openness. Boot Camp turned towards her voice.

She stood about 30 feet from him, out in the middle of the court yard. Arms spread like wings, her head tipped towards the sky, she stood amidst the rain. After a moment, she tipped her head back forward, wisps of hair clinging to her face. With an ear to ear grin, she locked eyes with the boy under the tree.

“Dance with me.” This time, her words were clear.

Boot Camp crossed the lawn slowly, eyes on the ground in front of him. Again he stopped, a foot or so between them. Then Bird did what I had been waiting for her to do the whole time. With purposeful slowness, she stepped towards Boot Camp, offering him her hand.

Boot Camp stared blank faced at her palm. I could feel the tension through the window as Bird stood her ground, waiting. Rain dripping down his face, Boot Camp finally lifted his eyes from Birds hand to her face. Slowly, a smile pulled at his lips, and he took Birds hand in his.

Packing my books back into my bag, I stood to leave the empty library. What would become of Boot Camp and Bird? I guessed I would never be privileged to that answer. But as I pushed in the old carved up chair, I glanced back to the window only to see them dancing a three step waltz through the cascade of rain from the sky.   

Climb

Climb

Grope at the black

for the dark reduces us

to our hands and knees.

Climb upwards

tuned with chaos

unable to grow numb to

vibrations of pain

echoing cold

through hollowed shells.

Trained to lack trust

in the humble dirt.

Yet we climb.

Yet we climb

this wretched slant

blind in eyes

in heart and in

direction.

Knowing but greed

and unchanneled ambition.

Climb, blind to hope

for anything further than

the next rock on which

to clasp an aching hand.

Climb higher.

Climb higher

until the ground falls flat.

Flat, even surface

no where left to climb.

No where to funnel a false

sense of direction.

No mountain upon which

to grasp.

So black

so flat

so trapped.

Face to the humble dirt

shiver in the vastness

of what cannot be seen.

The dark constricts.

No where to run.

The darkness surrounds.

No where to climb.

The adrenaline of the fight

no longer masks the

deeper aches.

Grope at the black

and find the edge.

The chasm.

The mouth of the Dark

gaping wide in welcoming call.

Sweet seduction, siren song.

Drop into the abyss.

Feed the Dark with

the bitter fruitlessness

of a lost fight.

Curled toes around the

ridged edge.

Sway in the indecision.

Stare blind

into the endless constriction.

Teeter back and forth.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Tipping.

Falling.

Arms wrap
around the fragile torso.
An embrace from nowhere
warm, safe,
foreign to the dark all around.
Pulls back
till feet hit the ground.
Safe.

Hallelujah to the One

who waits

with arms open

to catch us.
Where would we find

our hope if not

in Your arms?

Fireflies

Fireflies

People disappear when they die.  I suppose that is how it has always been.  The same way that the rollie-pollie bugs captured on childhood escapades never lasted long in Styrofoam cups, and fireflies seemed to always burn out when kept in glass jars.  They entranced you when they were here, but it was never a surprise to find them cold and still by morning.  Things live and things die.  This cyclical circle of life and death is unending, unchanging, and inevitable. Everything has it's time, everything has it's season, no one is exempt.  The sun rises and sets, the moon passes from full to nothingness, seasons arch and fade into each other; all of these cycles continue, and we build our lives around them. 

A gust of bitter wind shocked me from my thoughts.  My weary eyes shifting back into focus, my body becoming reacquainted with the old rocking chair in which I slouched.  It seemed that the storm I had been watching for the past while had already rolled onward without my knowing.  The pale beach stretching across my line of sight sat limp and heavy from the rain, the vast ocean nipping at its heels with each pulse of the tide.  The once pristine, vibrant shoreline endured much through the course of the storm, the gleam pounded out from its sandy skin.  A humorless laughter bubbled within me at the sympathetic understanding I felt for the beach.  In days gone by I would have reveled with pleasure at such a thick irony.  Moments like this, I believed in that past life, were God's way of reminding us not to take ourselves too seriously, after all, we live on borrowed time.  Without hesitation I would have thrown my head back and let laughter erupt from the depth of my being.  I now rendered such simplicity of thought unacceptable, knowing that kind of naive freedom came at a hefty price.  Only a child could look at the world in such a trusting manner.

My throat tightened around the sob that had begun to form.  I swallowed it down and blinked back the tears damed behind my composure.  I had come here in search of peace, to escape the sorrows eroding the remainder of my loved ones.  My husband, parents, and friends; they had all stayed behind, making sure all our affairs were in order.  I wished I could have stayed, wished I had the strength to grieve alongside them.  But memories lurked everywhere in that town, in that house.  My parents house, where she took her first steps.  The park, where we had caught fireflies every summer.  The elementary school, where she had learned about astronauts and vowed to become one someday.  The hospital, where I held her in her first moments, and her last.   I could not even weep to, let alone comfort, my beloved husband; for she shone through his eyes.  I fled to this foreign, rickety beach cottage not in searching but in retreat.  It seemed, however, my attempt at separating myself from reminders of her was made in vain; the storm had followed me even here.

Her tiny body shook with unchecked fear in my arms, her angelic face buried into my chest.  Thunder clapped, the wind howled; the tree we huddled beneath despite it's colossal girth failed to fully protect us from the sheets upon sheets of rain.  The summer storm had in it's notorious fashion struck without warning, catching us in the middle of one of our firefly hunts.  She screeched as the lightening flashed, brightening the dark sky.  She clutched a dimly glowing jar between her adolescent hand, a treasure that would glow by her bedside for the rest of her short life.  I stroked her golden curls, ignorant to the rapidly shrinking window of time in which I would be able to hold her, to feel her so full of life.

The wind whipped again, the icy sensation pulling me back into the present.  I retreated back into the house and ambled my way to the bedroom.  Heaping my tired frame onto the bed, I reached for my briefcase.  I did not truly believe I could be distracted by something as trivial as work, but despite myself I waded through the throngs of paperwork.  

A yellow piece of construction paper sat within the papers, out of place amongst the identical forms and files.  With unsure hands I pull the paper out and set it on my lap.  Scribbled in blue crayon, crooked words covered the page.  The heading was addressed the way her teacher had instructed.

“To Mommy.  From Hope.”  I slowly let my eyes fall to the rest of the words adorning this precious paper.

“If I could be anything in the world

I'd be a firefly.

I'd twinkle brighter than the stars

up in the big black sky.

But don't worry Mom, don't be scared

I won't fly very far.

I'll always be your firefly

you don't even need a jar.”

The dam broke, and the tears fell.  Somehow though, in the midst of my anguish, as I clutched that paper to my chest, I could feel her.  For the first time since her passing, I could feel Hope.  My little firefly did not need to be contained by this world for her to stay with me.  She was here; in me, in her father, in the lightening, and in the lightening bugs.  

The cyclical circle of life and death is unending, unchanging, and inevitable. Everything has it's time, everything has it's season, no one is exempt.  But people do not disappear when they die.  Hope bares no flesh nor blood, I cannot hold her in my arms.  Yet she holds fast, alive in those who look for her.  She is the silver lining to even the darkest storm clouds, and she is my jar of light when the rest of the world falls dark. 

Fly free, my little firefly; live on, my Hope.

Cherry Blossoms

Cherry Blossoms

This filth-laden coat hangs with excess cloth around my frame, smelling of cigarettes, cheap alcohol, and loneliness; all of which I am well acquainted.  Darkness is everywhere, the sky, the trees the street I walk.

Tonight I’m going home.

As I count the houses I pass, each an identical, constricting box in a pallet of rain-washed colors, I wait for my number.

I stand in the front yard, just for a moment.  Our house, once white, has yellowed with time.

Light explodes from an upstairs window, illuminating familiar silhouettes, and familiar sounds.  Father yells.  Mother yells.  Something smashes.  Mother cries.

My body wells with sadness, aching to cry for her.  But tears take time, something I have no more of.

Tonight I’m going home.

I cross the lawn I played in as a child, withered grass collapsing under my feet.

By the sharp corner of the house grows a cherry tree, delicate blossoms protruding from every branch.

I stoop in front of her, running my fingers over where I had carved my name years ago.  Though it was the same knife with which I would gouge my own limbs in years to come, this tree never faltered, never bled.  She’s stronger than I am, I hope strong enough.

Tonight I’m going home.

I climb her branches, careful not to disrupt the white blossoms.  Reaching my favorite branch, I trust her with my weight, taking a deep breath.  Sweetness caresses my lungs.  They ache for more, but breathing takes time, something I have no more of.

Tonight I’m going home.

I see my finale, preset above me.  All I must do is reach.  I set it in place, shivering as it scratches my neck.  Once more I inhale the sweetness, then let my weight slip from the branch.

White petals fall.

Storm

Storm

Sky of glass

one tone of blue

untouched, untainted, undiscovered.

A swollen cloud; black with determination.

Unheard, unwelcome, unstoppable.

Shatters the blue

with his rain.

Glass Barrier

Glass Barrier

Mirrors reflect separation

A flat, glass wall separating you from yourself.

A fragile obsession

All else falls away and you are alone.

An idol your only company.                       Yet to smash the mirror

to let the sharp pieces fall to the floor

would be a separation

in the purest form.

To separate from separation.

To let it fall,

let shatter what you hold most dear.