Life Stirred (4 of 4)

Tired-david-cohen

(Credit: David Cohen on Unsplash)

I should appreciate it when life stirs

I should take the opportunity to whisper in its ear

Or let it stroke my hair

But I really need my eight hours of sleep

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Life Stirred (3 of 4)

madi-doell-silkSheets

(Credit: Madi Doell on Unsplash)

They lay like dead on silk sheets

A mosquito landed on a bare buttock and life stirred

However, it was not enough for a resurrection

 

Life Stirred (2 of 4)

She wove reed-fingers

Into baskets for carrying her withered roses

A bud blossomed as life stirred

Life After the Apocalypse

(Credit: Vladimir Manyuhin aka mvn78)

(Credit: Vladimir Manyuhin aka mvn78)

A new beginning, with fresh air and light greens. With summer dresses and the kind of music he had always wanted to enjoy from a large brass band.

And dancing.

He would learn the steps of interactions between equals.

And then he would whistle as he walked home through the woods to a small cottage. And there would be no one in that cottage to welcome him, except perhaps a blue budgerigar to remind him of the sky on rainy days. And the vines would crawl up under the eaves without ever being torn down by clumsy fingers searching for a way in. And there would be no crying at night from people he could not comfort. And every Sunday he would go out to the seaside and sing to waves which might carry seaweed and whales to the shore, but never bodies,

never

ever

bodies.

Scrapbook vs Diary

There are memories in my scrapbook. Of places and people I once knew. There are pictures of a dog I once had, and exotic fish from a tropical island which I visited with someone special.

They are all right there on the pages as if they had never changed at all. Time is frozen in my scrapbook.

There are thoughts in my scrapbook. Some of the most beautiful thoughts I ever had are there. Thoughts I shared with strangers, thoughts my best friends shared with me, and thoughts I only ever shared with one particular person.

I will probably never think anything to compare with those thoughts again, but they are all there in my scrapbook.

After the last page in my scrapbook there are about two unrecorded months and then there is my diary.

My diary is my life after the scrapbook. In my diary, time crawls at a snail’s pace.

It has entries like:

What will I need to sleep?

–          A large t-shirt. Very big and so worn and soft that the fabric might rip at any time.

–          Boxer shorts, about half a size too big.

–          Sleepytime-socks. Thick, warm, fuzzy.

–          Eiderdown big enough for two.

–          King-size bed, so that I can toss and turn without falling out. Or at least without falling out of bed before half the night is through.

Do I have these things? Yes. Goodnight.

And details like which hand soap I use and where I shop (it is always the same store), and how often (only when I absolutely have to) and long ramblings about my scrapbook and how my diary is compared to it.

Tornado

Her ankles had grown wings when she entered the forest, and her hair had a life of its own. Both her hair and the branches whipped her, leaving part of her numb, but she had no way of knowing if they were urging her on or trying to stop her. Regardless, her feet floated an inch above the soaked dead leaves of yesteryear.

Most of their dry brothers danced below her and in front of her, but some flew up around her and nested in her hair.

And the tornado neared from behind.

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