This might be it. I meant to take a nap, but instead I let this out. (I suppose it's an equally refreshing process.) I do intend to add Parts I and II, but these Parts were of higher priority, more immediate.
_______________________
Part III: Revived
A discovery. A muddled heart finds companionship in another reality-stricken soul. A boy-made-man with a big heart, a heart of reinforced steel, strong enough to house those he loves, those who must never change. Comfort is shared; friendship is made.
There is freedom in trust.
The reality keeps in a niche of the girl-heart and creeps out to explore its new territory. Questions. The girl-heart shakes, and its fear leads it to seek refuge in the fortress. Comfort is shared; friendship is made.
There is surprise in the comfort of steel. The taste of metal and the feel of metal warmed by blood and breath.
An unexpected home to the girl-guest. The girl-guest: the girl guessed wrong. Hospitality does not make a home. Accustomed to the generosity, the warmth of the reality-stricken-boy-made-man host, the girl-heart opened the door for herself. A fortress must not be forgotten its function. (But it may be forgiven.)
A fortress is not a home, and it is not yet a house. The windows are being opened, one by one, with informed care, to let life in. See what is stirred by fresh air. The boy-made-man with his reality-stricken soul invites the air in, one channel at a time. See what is shaken by this freedom of motion. Time is allowed to pass; movement, to proceed. Watch carefully. Will the under-bed, stubbornly clung-to-corner, dust-bunny-demon-cobweb-phantom-monsters be blown out, swept clear?
Papers are blown off desk, settle in drawers not yet to be opened. Locked drawers, with easily excited skittish secret-mice, eager to streak to corners, to under-bed and distant-corner places, to nestle in dust and scatter it on the floors, the drawers, the cabinets. Happy mouse-baby, demon-phantom-memory nests in a mildly-aired fortress.
How?
A holding hand. Pleasant. Warm.
Why? A door was opened. Boy-made-man closes window, forsakes papers for fear of phantom-loving mice. Escorts girl-guest-girl-wrongly-guessed out.
Alienated.
Come visit. Sit with me sometimes. Only.
Only this: I can’t open the door… What might crawl through the window when vigilance fails?
Girl-heart takes up rustic bench across the street. Fades into scenery. Shaking-girl-heart-statue upon bench.
Part IV: Future?
Children walk the sidewalks. Strollers. Mothers: pregnant mothers, experienced mothers, old mothers, worn mothers, mothers with lovers, mothers without. Children: glucose-coated, sticky-fingered, carefully-brushed, dusted-off, freshly-dirtied children. Ask: But who is that statue? Why hasn’t she a plaque? How silly! Answered: She’s only been here forever. Why the town would put a statue on a bench, who knows? Yes, that is silly. Isn’t it?
Girl-heart-fixture petrified by time and love-loss, love-bath, tub-drained. Cold air on soggy skin, a figure shelled in bronze goose-bumps—stylistically.
Girl-heart-statue-bench sits opposite a home, with windows open, glass door set aside for warm air. Broken-girl-broken-heart-phantom resides. True-man-not-boy-made embraces air. If the doorbell rings, will a gray broken-girl-broken-heart-phantom crawl through the window? Linger under familiar aired-out, life-filled, dream-graced bed? Be swept out by warm-summer-breath or stimulated-to-life to dust-bunny-demon-cobweb-phantom-monster-Frankensteinian life by the cold winter-death-breath who slides his fingers around the storm window?
Perhaps this: perhaps a blessing on a yellow-shining home of mystery dust. Dust of unknown origin. Not paper-dust, skin-dust, dander-dust, food-dust, wood-dust. Not mold-dust or paint-dust. Broken-girl-broken-heart dust found in creases of frames on walls, on pages of loved books—particularly fond of polished wooden string, a ballad in minor dust, and boy-made-man finger-pads.
Not a curse, but a blessing. A bittersweet confectioner’s sugar coating walls, making winter chill snow sweeter, and making the sweet sigh of spring sweeter still.
_____________________
Comments/criticism are Much Appreciated.
_______________________
Part III: Revived
A discovery. A muddled heart finds companionship in another reality-stricken soul. A boy-made-man with a big heart, a heart of reinforced steel, strong enough to house those he loves, those who must never change. Comfort is shared; friendship is made.
There is freedom in trust.
The reality keeps in a niche of the girl-heart and creeps out to explore its new territory. Questions. The girl-heart shakes, and its fear leads it to seek refuge in the fortress. Comfort is shared; friendship is made.
There is surprise in the comfort of steel. The taste of metal and the feel of metal warmed by blood and breath.
An unexpected home to the girl-guest. The girl-guest: the girl guessed wrong. Hospitality does not make a home. Accustomed to the generosity, the warmth of the reality-stricken-boy-made-man host, the girl-heart opened the door for herself. A fortress must not be forgotten its function. (But it may be forgiven.)
A fortress is not a home, and it is not yet a house. The windows are being opened, one by one, with informed care, to let life in. See what is stirred by fresh air. The boy-made-man with his reality-stricken soul invites the air in, one channel at a time. See what is shaken by this freedom of motion. Time is allowed to pass; movement, to proceed. Watch carefully. Will the under-bed, stubbornly clung-to-corner, dust-bunny-demon-cobweb-phantom-monsters be blown out, swept clear?
Papers are blown off desk, settle in drawers not yet to be opened. Locked drawers, with easily excited skittish secret-mice, eager to streak to corners, to under-bed and distant-corner places, to nestle in dust and scatter it on the floors, the drawers, the cabinets. Happy mouse-baby, demon-phantom-memory nests in a mildly-aired fortress.
How?
A holding hand. Pleasant. Warm.
Why? A door was opened. Boy-made-man closes window, forsakes papers for fear of phantom-loving mice. Escorts girl-guest-girl-wrongly-guessed out.
Alienated.
Come visit. Sit with me sometimes. Only.
Only this: I can’t open the door… What might crawl through the window when vigilance fails?
Girl-heart takes up rustic bench across the street. Fades into scenery. Shaking-girl-heart-statue upon bench.
Part IV: Future?
Children walk the sidewalks. Strollers. Mothers: pregnant mothers, experienced mothers, old mothers, worn mothers, mothers with lovers, mothers without. Children: glucose-coated, sticky-fingered, carefully-brushed, dusted-off, freshly-dirtied children. Ask: But who is that statue? Why hasn’t she a plaque? How silly! Answered: She’s only been here forever. Why the town would put a statue on a bench, who knows? Yes, that is silly. Isn’t it?
Girl-heart-fixture petrified by time and love-loss, love-bath, tub-drained. Cold air on soggy skin, a figure shelled in bronze goose-bumps—stylistically.
Girl-heart-statue-bench sits opposite a home, with windows open, glass door set aside for warm air. Broken-girl-broken-heart-phantom resides. True-man-not-boy-made embraces air. If the doorbell rings, will a gray broken-girl-broken-heart-phantom crawl through the window? Linger under familiar aired-out, life-filled, dream-graced bed? Be swept out by warm-summer-breath or stimulated-to-life to dust-bunny-demon-cobweb-phantom-monster-Frankensteinian life by the cold winter-death-breath who slides his fingers around the storm window?
Perhaps this: perhaps a blessing on a yellow-shining home of mystery dust. Dust of unknown origin. Not paper-dust, skin-dust, dander-dust, food-dust, wood-dust. Not mold-dust or paint-dust. Broken-girl-broken-heart dust found in creases of frames on walls, on pages of loved books—particularly fond of polished wooden string, a ballad in minor dust, and boy-made-man finger-pads.
Not a curse, but a blessing. A bittersweet confectioner’s sugar coating walls, making winter chill snow sweeter, and making the sweet sigh of spring sweeter still.
_____________________
Comments/criticism are Much Appreciated.
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1 comment:
I stopped breathing for a second when I read the line 'a fortress must not be forgotten its function'. I know the story behind this story, so I was able to appreciate it even more personally, but I must say hon, you have quite a gift. A gift for using words to craft feelings, but doing i with a kind of honesty that sort of hits you. Keep writing!!!! <3 always.
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