The International Writers Magazine: Contemplate
For holidays, an objective appreciation of thematic nostalgia
can get you by, orphan gifts from well- meaning acquaintances,
uneasy smiles or an afterthought of a free perfume set from Macys.
Time spent staring at someone elses's tree, hung with anonymous
ornaments, foreign memory.
sad smile - as you watch the snowflakes fall, knowing that each individual
one is its own Universe, comforts you because you know they think
the wrong things about you, they think you've never been loved.
You know the truth, that you were loved the most, and now it's gone.
This simple fact stretches your own love to places usually only filled
by promises that people make in the dark, not meant to be kept. The
word death is a shameful one, it makes you feel apologetic when you
say it. People look at you after you speak it as if youre looking
for a donation, when all youve ever looked for is truth. People
wonder why you have such disregard for your self, as you hang half -way
in and half -way out, there sometimes, but always about to fade away.
Youre looking for where faded things go, looking for blurred daugerrotype
faces that look like you, your eyes, your lips- there's a place they
go when they're forgotten. Surely the dead remember you, and surely
they feel the sun and rain on your face, still.
You're looking for an end to the confrontation, an end to the question
that you can't stop asking. You sit in a remnant chair, all thats left
of 100 years, earned by fields upon fields of tobacco. A legacy can
be elegant and at once dispersed, it can happen to anyone.
I have: a few pictures, a round, silvering mirror, and a horsehair upholstered
chair. Next year is the year I will outlive my own Mother, and you know
29, really is such a young age.
© Lauren LiFari Dec 2005
More Stories in Dreamscapes
Marja Hagborg in the snow
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