the seeds, the trees

"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach

Month: August, 2015

Mountains

“It’s time to fall,” whispered one mountain to the next.

“But I am not ready,” said the other. “It is too soon. Let’s wait. Let’s wait and see and then vanish in the night like we came.”

“I cannot wait a second more. They have drilled holes in my stomach and taken everything. They’ve shaved the trees from my back. I am naked. Look at me! Every minute, pieces of me fall and they don’t care. Yes, they’ll miss the birds that sing in my hair but soon the birds will be gone. I’ve heard them talking. The coyotes are gone and now the deer pound my head worse than the drills. Every day there is a war up here and they don’t care.”

“I think it will get better. And don’t you like listening to them sing around their fires at night? Watching their faces when they reach and see what we are?”

“Hah! You’ve gotten soft in your age. They will never see what we are because we have always been what they have wanted us to be. Do you remember how it was when we first came? How you could feel everything being born? Now it smells like everything has been overcooked.”

The other mountain sighed and did not speak.

“Fine, stay. You’ll see. In dust, my friend.”

“In dust.”

A family screamed, the windows shattered, atop a mountain, determined to fall.

All of You

She asked me if I think of you when I lay in bed, and I said I think of all of you.

Everyone I have touched and all the touches back.

The sleeved bartender from Germany who made strudels and told himself he did just enough coke, who tried to be a good dad to his baby girl who died too soon.

You taught me that it was OK to kiss someone again.

And the long-haired, bearded, oblivious boy who, when he told me he loved me, made sure I understood he didn’t love me as much as his guinea pig that died from thirst a few months later.

You taught me how to come and love my body. You taught me there are still things I want and can have.

And the intelligent and passionate being I never felt I deserved and didn’t really want. He stuck around for longer than I could understand, but he couldn’t wait forever. It – you – has its limits, he said.

You taught me that I am still far away from loving this whole self.

And then the arrogant boy from the trailer park whose mom overdosed on heroin. They told him she was dead weeks after she was buried. I’ll marry this princess one day, he said.

You taught me that working hard and kissing girls on their foreheads, making sure they’re never cold, is what it means to be a man. You taught me that I like to be a big fish in a little pond. You hurt me quickly and easily and I’m not sure why.

And of course there is you. There will always be you. I save you for last because you are the beginning of everything. I thank you for my genesis. You, I cannot describe because you are feelings and pictures and pieces of shrapnel in my head; you exist all over my body.

You taught me that I am built like everyone else – that I, too, can love and be loved, endlessly.

Everything we built was brought down. I thank you. I pray for you to keep me in your heart, where I keep my heart. Then I beg for you to give me back. I beg to forget.