If he could walk, he’d get there, but instead he sat wondering where the sycamore trees would pop up, and where the anvil would hit the iron. The mercury rose like thick lava, boiling his skin under the merciless sun, the rivulets of sweat pooling in the crevice of his bent elbows. Nothing shifted in the distance, just the wavy illusions of mirages against the dry pale grass, still against the dry cracked hills. The bugs stuck to his skin…
Mother, daughter, child of my womb, the center of earth’s desires and the kernel in my heart. Deliver the ripeness of your spirit to the indigent, to the empty ones that suck at your breast, consider the weary and the worn soles that stagger towards you. You are the light of the future, the distance in the past, you are the angel of mercy, yet you retain the power to demolish and to reprimand the wayward. Why is it that…
Have you ever had a cat (or puppy) lying across your legs and it’s so cute, it seems so peaceful, that you hesitate to move, not wanting to disturb the little critter? You wait patiently for it to leave before changing that awkward position or getting that drink of water. Life isn’t a straight steady line that we arrange our living on. It isn’t a predictable and consistent event that allows us to find our niche and sit comfortably in…
Sitting here listening to the cooing of a solitary ground dove outside. The sun still below the horizon, mist on the grass and silence wrapped in slumber abides. I drift back, slowly through the mist, slowly floating backwards towards recessive years, years spent finding my way to this day, this time in my life. I’d awaken to the cooing, a welcoming sound of dawn. The cliché Rooster crowing would echo in the distance, but my herald was always the ground…
“Look Auntie! Come look!” Oh dear, this child is going to keep distracting me, the clouds are coming in, albeit slowly but I want to get these weeds out of the gravel and plant the new Bougainvillea before it rains. She’s stooping beside the pink rosebush, her tiny toes crunched in the dirt, one hand clutching a dried leaf and the other pointing at some invisible thing by the roses. Standing carefully, as that’s how I do it now, I…