I Want Them to Know How Real You Were (picture of my baby Frost - you don't have to look)

I'm sorry if this is too difficult an image for some eyes.

Frost, I want to show you to people so badly. I don't know if this is the right thing to do. For me right now I think it is what I need to do. I am being selfish. This is the only time I will do this. I love you too much not to show you. I can't stop thinking about who you would have become.

I'm going to write something now to take up space before your picture.

The sky was made of Renaissance colors today. I had seen this morning's clouds in a painting in an art history book years before. Not in a museum in a foreign country, I am not that fortunate. But today I walked under it, today I felt it, as if I were far away and years apart. I walked under the past this morning.
A cricket circled in on itself in front of me. The two birds that had picked off one of the insect's legs, had left the remainder as they scrambled away from my jutting footsteps.
I went inside, the light was no longer that from the brush of a 16Th Century Italian Master. It was harsh and a reminder.
I saw another bug on the linoleum. This time a beetle. It turned its head as a cat would and looked to my feet, no longer jutting. I stood still as the insect chose its path. It scurried off in a straight line.
I continued to my destination. Niceties were exchanged and I went back the way I had come.
I returned to the hall, the beetle was still walking. This time I noticed that it was dragging one of its back legs. I wondered how many times it would travel in the same direction today. Did it know where it was supposed to be? Where it was going?
When a part of one is injured, one seems to repeat a motion over and over. Therapy, I guess.
I went out the door. First, I noticed the two birds. One, or both, had collected on their interrupted meal. Second, I noticed that the sky had given way to the blue of mid-day too early. Only one monarch of a cloud, poised opposite the sunrise, had remained in the colors of the past. The past of 500 years ago. The past of five minutes before.
I drove by the place where a boy died 13 years ago. My brother's friend. All that remains in the spot where he died is a white scar on the trunk of a tree where his car struck fast. And two reflectors on the wooden fence to warn eyes in the night. These are the only markers of his sad end. People driving by know nothing.
No one will ever know about these creatures if I don't tell about them right now before I forget. Their reason, I still do not realize.
A bug was trapped inside a hospital, what purpose could it serve outside of its natural ecosystem.
A cricket was eaten before it could chirp, the birds made a sport of his life.
A boy let go of caution and sped into a tree. The next day it was said that he was to be a father. His son grew up without him.
I will tell your story forever Frost. I don't have to hurry because I will never forget.
A baby died inside of his Mother. All twisted up in his life line. He had a face, he had a body, he had toes and fingers. He had our blood. He had eyes. And yet he never saw a sunrise in the sky, or in a painting.




Night, night Frost
Mama loves you.