Waiting

The bus began to pull away.  Ignoring the kids throwing paper airplanes around him, Jonah pressed his face against the glass.  As his mother waved at him he gripped the edge of the windowpane, willing himself not to cry.  Someday, he told himself.  Someday I will never have to do anything I don’t want to ever again.

Fury

        when I meant to love you       

their screams made me leave you

heavy as warheads

this fear almost fatal

Truce

May 27, 2014

I am tired.

May 29, 2014

Had a funny dream last night.  I was outside somewhere with Matt and the kids when I realized there were four kids with us: 2 girls, 2 boys.  I felt confused, like I couldn't make sense of it.  So I asked Matt how many kids we had and he said three.  I then asked him their names and he told me.  I realized the one little girl I’d been talking to wasn't actually one of our children.  She was dark-haired, probably around 8, and she seemed unhappy.  I was trying to be nice to her and I did feel sorry for her, but her presence freaked me out.  It was as if she were a ghost—no one else appeared to notice her.  I woke up shortly thereafter and nearly woke Matt up, I was so spooked.  I was able to go back to sleep, though.  I can’t remember at all what the little girl and I were discussing.

Starting over

because this is a study in reality

what little of it is there is left to

hold against our one line of

defense

when wishing will not make it so

when the brutality of existing

requires me to let you

go

Locked inside

In her four and a half years at college, Kitty hadn't seen one sign of anyone from the Interior.  If she didn't still have the bracelet, she might have convinced herself that she’d dreamt the whole thing up.  Lately Kitty had even started to wonder if the bracelet came from some rummage sale she’d been to with her mother, and that in her need to feel special, she spun a fantastic story around.  The more time that passed since her last visit, the less real the Interior seemed, and the less she remembered about it.

Sometimes in her dreams she could hear the King talking to her but, of course, she never saw his face.  Nor could Kitty recall what the apartment looked like that she’d stayed in during her convalescence.  The much-faded scar where the Minister’s knife had gone into her side failed to jog her memory.  Even when Kitty went to visit the Minister’s grave, she found no marker, presumably because no one had known who he was.  Its absence only heightened her sense of unreality.  Not for the first time did she wish Jack could remember his trip there, if only someone could validate her experience.  But she seemed fated to just forget more and more about the Interior until, somehow, it would cease to exist in her memory at all.

Looking beyond

Recognized your torture, my friend,

but the the coldness of your world

froze useless my hands.

Mercy is a desert with a one way

sign,

strange we never could follow that line.

But I will remember you as the bridges

burning,

I will remember you as the leaves

turning,

and I will dream of you every night

even though I lost it all,

even though I meant to give up

believing.

The coming fire

                “Oh, it’s some kind of tumor.”  His mother waved a hand dismissively.  “Who can understand a thing those doctors say nowadays?”

                “But are you going to be all right?” Jonah demanded, a strange feeling of desperation burbling up inside of him.

                “Hmmmn.  Now where did I put that phone number again?”

                “Mom,” Jonah loudly interrupted, “are you going to be all right?”

                “What, dear?  Oh, that.  No, I don’t think so.  Tumors aren't good, you know, and they can’t operate on it for some reason or another.”

                “What are you saying?  Are you going to die?”

                “Well, we’re all going to die, dear.”

                “I mean soon!”

                “It seems that way.  Can you help me find this phone number?”

                Jonah stood there, watching his mother search the roll top desk that used to sit in Grandma Mueller’s dining room.  She’d mis-buttoned the back of her house dress, so that one of the tiny pink plastic buttons stuck out on top by the collar.  “Cheer up sleepy Jean,” she was singing to herself.  “Oh, what can it mean?  To a daydream believer, and a homecoming queen…”