Putting this back...
“I know this place,” he said. “Where the dew is on the grass and the freshly mowed lawn sticks to my feet. Where the sun rises in a cloudless sky and the colors are not tempered or tinted by the weight of the previous day’s humidity. There is a breeze, just enough, not too much. To comfort, not to disappoint or discourage.”
“It is here,” he said. “Where I came to find, the solitude, the solace, in my time. Where lies are told to ease the pain as the lightning strikes on a starless night. It was the end. It was the beginning. Another life, another time. Where the air is heavy and I can not breathe, and prayers are dreams. I whisper in the dark, I believe.”
“I am scared,” he said, to an empty sky. In words too familiar but never said out loud. There are tears on the grass from a voice never heard, as he lay dying. There are sheets that rise as they breathe in the breeze on an old clothesline. “I am too young, I am too weak, I am too old,” he said. There is blood on the grass this time.
“I want,” he says, but has forgotten the words. No favor, no fortune, no benefit. Alone he weaves the tear stained grass around him, finding familiar comfort in the solitude, shelter in the only thing that is his. The light fades and the lightning strikes…but no sound is heard. The little boy is gone.
Memory fades and dreams are scattered across a clear blue sky. A young man emerges with paper wings, waiting anxiously for them to dry. It is the beginning. It is the end. Conviction finds fortune, proving that he can fly. “I need,” he says, “nothing from you, I want nothing more.” But when the lightning strikes on starless nights, the dreams call out, “come home.”
“Stay with me,“ he said. Grief is a shadow as the sun goes down, where the horizon meets the sky. In words too familiar, a voice still not heard, the storm clouds start to gather. Truth invades, there is blood on the grass, the sheets are tattered and worn. The young man schemes using forgotten dreams, the paper wings are torn.
“Do you love me?” The man said, to the little boy that lay dying. “I do not,” the little boy thought, but knew that he was lying. “I try so hard,” the drunk man said. “I am so alone.” The lightning strikes through drunken tears, “please,” he whispers, “come home.” The poverty of loss is a distant voice, forgotten now, not dead. “Yes,“ he says, in a familiar voice. The man pulls back the sheets from the bed.
Pain screams as the lightning strikes, then into the dark disappears. Paper wings can only bring you home, not back again. White cotton glows, in pale moon light, “help me, father,” the little boy whispers. But the father dreams of other things when darkness becomes night. The lightning strikes again and again as the little boy lay drowning. Until the waves pass gently over him, the dreams calling out, “come home.”
Because you have traveled so far with me, I will tell you now the words. “I am scared, I want…I need…stay with me, I can not do this alone. Stay until the sun comes up, where the dew is on the grass and the freshly mowed lawn sticks to our feet. Where the sun rises in a cloudless sky and the colors are not tempered or tinted by the weight of the previous day’s humidity. There is a breeze, just enough, not too much. To comfort, not to disappoint or discourage.”
checkin out for a few weeks...