This morning, as I slept, I dreamt. To me this was remarkable because REM has been such an elusive white rabbit as of late...taunting and teasing me, laughing at me as the night passes. But this morning was different. As my eyes fluttered back and forth in my skull, I could see her. I was talking to her. She was feeding me chile, beans and fresh tortillas, made by her own hands with love. I could feel her touch, her presence, her affection. Her smile warmed even my physical coil in reality, so imagine how warm I was in dreamland. I wish I hadn’t awoken. This world is so cold without her. Her message is always the same.... “you are loved, stay strong, mijo.” Our grandma Francis was one of the greats. A cornerstone on which a formidable family was forged. We still feel you every day. We love you, we miss you, and we carry you with us.
Normal?
Still, I sob when I write of her. Not a tear hear and there, but actual weeping. A release of the soul. It's uncontrollable. An evocation of emotion - indescribable. It's as though parts of me are letting go, piece by piece, shred by shred, one at a time. If I were to let her go all at once, I would implode, or worse, forget. Perhaps I'm not supposed to let go. Is this why I keep it all in? The anger is what helps sustain her memory (I think). Either way you cut it, the emptiness remains. Are these feelings normal?
Dreams of a Mustache
She turned to me and said in disgust, "you look as though you were raised in a cave."
"Well, rest assured, dear, I was not." Can I help that I've been blessed with a thicket of wiry, untamed mane above my lip? No, I cannot. I do, however, think the absence of her face pressed against mine in affection has had profound effect on my being.
I've always wanted a mustache...
I would much prefer the companionship of a bird of prey.
To me, living vicariously through the heart of an owl would bring great satisfaction. The ancient soul of a magnificent creature such as this can only inspire wisdom, while whispering "wake up" to the sun as it creeps to life every morning. Perched a mile high, he sees everything...day or night.
"Where have you been this evening," would be my query every morning. "What sorts of wild events did you witness? How high did you fly into the midnight sky?
Did you kill last night?"
Unfathomable freedom, yet he returns to me out of loyalty every dawn.
I Still Feel It
Thinking about it makes me feel as though someone has me hemmed up with a forearm in my throat
Choked up...
A lush grapevine tarps the western property line... a thousand shades of green
The vegetable garden is situated in the southeast corner, adorned with true hues of red, yellow, and orange
I see her...a vision
Tending to her tomatoes
A sun-bleached yellow bandana drapes her exposed and sensitive scalp
She looks up at me with pride in her eyes, and sweat on her brow How did she muster the energy to work in the yard after all she's been through?
Her energy was always a mystery
Life had taken her health and hair, but it never took her spirit
I still feel it
