Content:
II know where the memories are kept-
where they are housed.
It took me awhile, but I know the secret, I can see them.
They are not where you think, not where you know.
You see - memories, faded and gentle memories
are remembered, reserved in the crease.
The almost translucent, soft skin
that softly lays where the eye lashes meet.
Pulled faintly, maybe wrinkled –
this is where memories are kept.
I see hers.
Some faint, some tragic, some laughing
where that skin is starting to droop lazily now.
The day in the Hospital –
they placed her baby in her arms.
And in the same instant she noticed, they called him a mongloid.
But he was beautiful, his little low ears and crooked smile.
And that smile, his smile, that transformed her own.
How her lips softly curled up –
Pushing the delicate crease upward.
And when her oldest son –
His body lay limp in the pavement, wet with rain and blood.
Her tears fell slowly, and trickled down the path where wrinkles cradled her tears in each crease.
They fell
down onto his brown leather jacket.
Another wrinkle.
When she became an orphan at 58.
Her parents both gone,
another crease in her eye was molded out of that delicate skin –
and the tears fell.
Another wrinkle.
Her first grandchild lay warm in her arms
blood of her blood, love being passed down into new life –
his black hair crowning the top of his perfect head.
The joyful tears fell into sync with her proud smile –
folding the fragile skin into.
These things –
these things
they have kept her, they have made her
her skin so beautifully worn,
her memories, experiences, trials, triumphs
all cut in,
to form the proof that she has lived.
He goes to church just to hold her hand.
He puts on that tie –
that same one with the simple yellow diamond pattern
so he can hear her sing.
He sits there,
waiting for her quiet Amen.
He does not hear a word the pastor says -
the thoughts of her block his sound.
And his fear,
his vast and powerful fear,
of not having her –
it’s as mighty as the God
she sings to.
2238 Spruce Ridge Dr.
To the right you will see the barn. That looming, burned red barn that looks just like any other barn, and yet I could pick it out in a heartbeat. The red is faded, and desperately needs a new paint job, but that probably won’t happen. Two worn out white pillars hold up the front, and the unpainted wooden door is always left open. When you step inside, the sweet smell of oats and hay stirred in with horse manure hits you. Two old, rusted barrels hold the oats, and a metal Folgers coffee can lays on top to scoop them out. There are homemade wooden cabinets along the wall that hold old riding equipment once used enough to keep out. Saddles stacked up in the corner still have the warm musty smell of leather. The little black radio covered in a film of dust is plugged in on top of the cabinets playing old country music softly, to keep the few animals company. Amy, the barn cat is curled up in a tight, soft circle, her brown and white tail covering her face, leaving her post of catching mice for a nap. There are six stables, each still lined with sweet smelling hay, as if ready for a new occupant. The stable doors are rough, dry wood, and if you’re not careful, you can get a splinter opening them. Wooden rafters running above have even more saddles slung over the sides of them, a tribute to how used this barn once was.
When you step back outside, you have to squint your eyes because the brightness of the sun will shock your eyes, and that sweet smell of hay is gone.
