Tag: reflection

Dusk on Fall

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Dusk on Fall
Drapes the sky in ember hush;
Wandering winds whisper secrets to the cooling earth.
Fruits, flowers, and leaves — all ready to fall with the fall,
As cider’s sweet breath and pumpkin pie dreams
Float like gold in the gathering dusk.

Shorts and skirts set to hibernate;
Fleece and wool take their place,
Welcoming the holidays — oh, what fun!
Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year.
Letting go the warmth, embracing the chill,
Weaving comfort with family and friends.

Beanies cover my greying hair,
Jackets hide the little pot belly.
Only my beaming face remains —
The one the world can see now.
I love this part of the year —
No tissues to wipe my sweat,
No sunscreen, no tans,
Just me and my cozy cheer.

The sun sets early — no need for blinding curtains;
Keep them open.

Lying beneath the cozy comforter,
I gaze at the sky, the stars, and the moon.
Clouds moving slowly across the darkening horizon.

I whisper —
Welcome, winter.

I Wander, and Wish, That Love Would Last

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I Wander, and Wish, That Love Would Last,
And nothing could sever you from me,
But this world hurts everyone willing
To reach out and touch it; a spindle,
Spear, or guttural glass of everclear.
I’ve drunk too much, again, and choose
To see things blur, you blur,
And I wish, and wonder, how broken
I got to be when we carved our names
In that tree on Sycamore Street;
I miss things, languish, ponder,
Pounce on every hello with strangers
Just to feel something other than the
Crystallized honey stuck fast to my
Memories; when the leaves bud,
I think of how the branches brace themselves
To lose, siphon, spread their fingers, only
To watch the nails fall off, green, gold,
Heavy as a heart.
You said you loved me as a leaf caught
In your hair,
I fished it out like a deep-sea vent,
Bubbles, burning, branding me to you,
And then you chose to leave me here–
The tree’s gone, too.

Absolution

Posted on by Jonathan

Absolution

Tattoo my sins across my arms.
Turn to my chest
When words continue
And wingspan ends.

Write the story of my crimes,
The why, and when,
And who was hurt–

And what I lost–

I’ll bear these marks
Through my death.
Ink them deep,
So when they extract bones
From pitch bogs,
They’ll know, 
But not too well.

Though you forgive, 
You won’t forget,
So I dare not plead–

Absolve me, please.

You Wake Up In Your Childhood Bedroom

Posted on by Jonathan

You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. It should make you happy, but instead it aches. You can’t curl up inside your childish innocence because it isn’t there. You could pretend it was, if you really wanted to, but you don’t want to really. As you watch the early morning sunlight dance across the wall, you wonder if you can change things this time. You wonder who you’d be if the bad things that happened to you never happened to you. Did they make you better? Did they make you worse? If the bad things that happened to you never happened to you, would you truly be you?

You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. You realise that you’ll need to pretend that nothing has changed, and so you go downstairs, your bare feet treading on stairs that you haven’t touched for years. Your brother is already in the kitchen, and he is still your brother because he doesn’t hate you yet. His face is the same as it once was, trapped in the liminal space between boy and man, and his eyes meet yours with that look that only a brother can master, halfway between awe and disgust, respect and embarrassment, shame and love. Before it really occurs to you what you’re doing, you pull him into a hug, the kind of hug that clamps and tightens, the kind of hug that suffocates but is all love, so much love, love that can maim you and love that can mend you. He stiffens at first, then realises that there is no audience to perform for, no jeering friends lingering in the corners of the room, and, as his bony arms wrap around you, a thought solidifies in your mind that things cannot decay this time, that you must hold onto this bond for dear life, grasping and gasping until the rope burns your palms, because this time you cannot lose your brother.

Your sister is not there. Your sister is never there. Your sister is an absence. Your sister is the space between heartbeats, the gap between ribs, the sound of silence on the other end of the telephone. 

You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. Your dad comes down and makes breakfast, because that is what he always used to do, and the crackling of bacon and the music on the radio hit you like the melody of a song you haven’t heard in years; first slowly, then like a fierce punch in the stomach with all the force of a car crash. You realise now that you never used to appreciate these tender moments, too tired to do more than sit and watch the breeze dancing through the kitchen blinds. You never appreciated these moments, because you hadn’t realised yet that one day they would be over. You never noticed that, morning by morning, your father was getting older, his presence less resolute, his voice and body less strong. You never considered the fact that one day your mornings would be silent, that one day your father would be gone. But now, burdened by the knowledge that your father’s time is running increasingly short, you wish that you could live in this moment forever, eternally untouched by the sands of time.

You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. You make your way back upstairs after breakfast, and, as you reach the hallway, the scent of your mother’s perfume drifts towards you, as gentle as the lullaby she would whisper across your fevered forehead on unsettled nights: a balm of words, a remedy of song. There was always a tenderness to your mother, but there was a sharpness too. She was quick to comfort but even quicker to blame. She was there to take you into her arms after the bad things happened, but she was also the first to suggest that you might have deserved it somehow, that perhaps you had been too forward, too bold, too reckless, too impulsive, too much, too yourself. She was a confidant and an accuser, an ally and a judge, a friend and a stranger. She was your mother, and yet you never truly knew her. You knew only the masks she would present to the world, the image she would carefully curate while the rest of the family was eating breakfast, the perfume, the final act of the performance. You do not knock on the door, because you don’t want your mother to see you. You never wanted your mother to see you, and yet, at the same time, you wanted nothing more. You don’t want your mother to see you because your mother could always see through you, and she would be the first to know that something was different, that you weren’t the child you had been the day before, that you never would be again.

You wake up in your childhood bedroom, and the bad things that happened to you haven’t happened to you yet. You realise with a sense of certainty that you cannot stay. You have long overgrown the mold that was cast for you there. Trying to live out a life that you have experienced before makes you feel ungainly, a giant trying to live in a miniature cardboard town. You’re the only living soul in a house of ghosts, and you can feel yourself slowly becoming haunted. The bad things that happened will happen, have happened, will never not happen, and you would be foolish to try and change that. You wake up in your childhood bedroom, but you do not fall asleep there. You close your bedroom door for the last time, walk down the stairs, open your front door, and walk out into the mild summer night. You don’t know where you are going, but you know that you can’t return. You try and tell yourself that things are better this way, but the lost child inside you knows that that is a lie.

The Boulevard of Yesterday

Posted on by Jonathan

The Boulevard of Yesterday

To my great surprise, the year has turned its cogs once more through their cycle, delivering us to the dreary descent of winter and everyone’s favorite pumpkin-slaughtering holiday — Halloween. Now, the day itself doesn’t represent a great deal for me or my family. I know Mum will be tucked up in a blanket next to her expensive log burner, enjoying the autumnal chill that October heralds — the excuse for tucking away on lazy evenings. Dad will have forgotten (not for the first time) to stockpile any sweets before the inevitable stragglers in threadbare costumes come salivating at the door. There’s never been much ceremony for ghosts and goblins, or any of that materialistic nonsense, but this year will be special.

Not to blow smoke up my ass, but I am my parents favorite (and only) son, and I will be blessing them with my company.

Feels like an age since I saw them last. Life just escapes you, doesn’t it? One’s parade of self-importance and fractured completeness overwhelms everything; that’s to say, I’d be perfectly happy to kick my feet up with the wife in Hoxton… sneak in a signature mocktail. Perhaps bump uglies over the ominous tones of Michael Myers rampaging through Haddonfield (such a ridiculous franchise — I mean, it’s iconic and undoubtedly transformed the slasher genre, but Michael, my buddy and pal, walk a little faster). Something about this year though… We’ve grown tired of routine. “To hell with automation!” So Laura’s visiting her brother in Ireland (who’s a bit of a nut for the spooky season himself — she’ll never escape), and I’m visiting the hallowed streets of my glorious hometown… Dramworth.

You know when you’re a kid and everything feels more compact? Everything makes more sense when it’s handed to you on a silver platter — nothing adult to worry about, only your numerous group of friends, who’s snogging who and which local park you’ll be vandalizing next. A town like… Dramworth (God, I can’t even say it without dying inside) can feel like your whole world. Then you reach that second stage of young adulthood where you’d literally dig through hell and back to escape those cloying memories and never return? Yeah, the older I get… and the more this bus does a kickflip every time it hits a pothole, the more I understand where that impulse is borne from.

Something’s changed here… Even the generic bus smell is different, more clinical. Less likely to taper your nose hairs with curling wafts of ass dust… Well, no one’s mourning that loss.

Stepping off the drear-mobile, I realize it’s a remarkably on-brand day. Dull, gray skies; the distinct possibility of rain, foretold by hurried attempts to fold up the standing dryers lurking in front gardens; a biting wind that tears through any attempts to appear cool or nonplussed. There’s literally a tumbleweed in the gutter. The local witches will be most pleased.

I’ve packed only the bare essentials for staying a few nights — let’s just say I’ll be reusing underwear. I don’t know, it’s difficult to visit my parents regularly nowadays for more than short, controlled bursts at a time. I’m not attached to them by the hip anymore, so they’ve taken that strange path of evolution, upgrading from parents to just… people. People I don’t necessarily get along with all of the time. They’re like my in-laws now… Actually, no, that’s not fair. My in-laws are much better.

Still, it’s necessary, isn’t it, to repair those broken lines of communication before the portent of mental decay and the rapid search for nursing homes. That’s when they become children for the second time. When you suddenly look upon them with tinted eyes and wonder where the time escaped to. And you confront the things that were never said and now cannot be understood. Makes me shiver a little bit, so it’s not something I dwell on more than maybe… once a week.

I want to see them. Maybe I have to keep telling myself that, hoping the fact sinks in, but it’s absolutely true. There’s many a life update to share. It’s all been hush-hush till now, but… Laura’s expecting. We haven’t had the scans yet, but she’s secretly hoping that the gods of anomaly are on her side and we get twins. Two little girls. I must admit, the idea appeals to me greatly. Plus, work is blooming on my end. The company just recently processed a vacancy and they’re recommending me for…

The fountain’s gone.

Wait… Am I in the right — Yeah, I’m not that lost. This can’t be right. Ron’s Fountain, it was right here in the town center! It was, like, our one notable tourist destination. What happened? Did it get airlifted?

Come to think of it, everything’s half-falling apart around here. The shopping mall is a quarter-mile of tired linoleum and B-side shops that fall just outside the region of relevancy… Well, it always was like that (I enjoyed poking my head into Home Bargains every so often, trying to find the weirdest drink possible and sampling it with a group of my friends — that’s how I figured out I like the taste of dandelion and burdock). The market stalls in the plaza stand empty, now a labyrinth of obstacles for young lads on their Voi scooters. Exposed brickwork, fading plaster, repurposed windows… When did it get this depressing?

It’s just a shell now…

And suddenly, I get the distinct sense I’m being watched. Not maliciously, in the way of sizing up a target or judging someone’s appearance. Just a vague, apathetic awareness of one’s presence crossing into another, invading an alien space and loitering… And I realize how long I’ve been standing in this one spot, staring into an empty fountain basin and drooling onto my chin. Damn my nostalgia!

Can’t believe this. Back when I was young, that fountain was a sight to behold. One of the jets was said to reach twelve feet in the air! My friends and I never really spent much time around the fountain itself — I mean, it was swarming on all the good days, people making wishes, flicking coins into the bottom and all that schmuck.

But we knew Ron, this homeless dude who draped around the alley on Knox Road. Before the market got really busy in the mornings, around the time my friends and I would be heading to school, we sometimes caught Ron splashing about in the fountain, having a whale of a time (I mean, genuinely, I’ve never seen unfiltered joy quite like Ron’s when he got into that water). Usually we sniggered and moved on, making fun of him as young kids do, but sometimes we called out. Went and bantered with him. He was honestly such a down-to-earth guy (if, admittedly, a little unfurnished upstairs) and not at all the picture of the loony we’d generated in our heads. He always stank of petrol for some reason…

One time, the police caught him in his act. There was a standoff, apparently. Reports say he held his hands up as if they’d trained a gun on him and assured them he was only washing himself. Naturally, this didn’t go down well. Ron was chased out of there (with his pockets chock full of silvers and pennies, I imagine). From what I know, he was never apprehended, but… we never saw him again after that day, so I couldn’t confirm that.

Now that I’m three blocks away from my parents, I’m absolutely sure I’m being followed. It’s funny… I think I’ve seen maybe five people out in Dramworth today. That’s it. Maybe everyone’s fully embraced the Halloween spirit, becoming masters of disguise and fading into the creeping shadows, but I doubt this town’s coordination is that strong. Dusk is descending, so it’s possible people are just settling into their evenings. Still… It’s eerie out here, and every footstep is magnified. I’m not even sure which direction they’re coming from, but I can hear them. Around every bush, between every parked car.

I don’t fancy turning around to confront them. Back in Dramworth, having eyes on you is something you just become accustomed to while sticking to lit paths and fostering a monumental sense of awareness. I’m almost home now and, hey, I’m a grown-ass man who don’t need no…

The footsteps recede. I stop still as a crosswind picks up, scattering skeletal leaves across the dented pavement and into the road.

There’s a faint whiff of petrol on the tide of the breeze.

– – –

I ring the doorbell. Crusty old thing — one of those Victorian antiques, now green with oxidation. The front porch is inherently familiar, coaxing like a warm embrace. Mum opens the pine door. She smiles. I smile. She reaches down to help me with my case.

Yeah, this will be okay.