Thursday, July 1, 2010

Summer Years Ago

It's Summertime Frost. The world is bright with heat, there is water for splashing in, and baby birds learn to fly. I have been taking life slow. I have been reading and enjoying the work of others, letting them guide my thoughts. It's easier. Right now I need easy. When the pain comes up I fall into it so deeply. So I'm trying for easy hoping that the pain isn't triggered. This is why I've had a hard time writing lately. I've wanted to smile and feel the way I did before all of the death.
The first death I remember was my grandfather's when I was six. He died in the summer on his birthday. I remember going to the funeral home for the visitation and touching his hand and it being as cold as I had ever felt. I remember crying with everything I had. I remember the loss. I also have a false memory of the time, something that I remember that is not possible. My parents did not think that I should go to the funeral because of how upset I got when I saw him in his coffin. So I stayed at my Grandma and Grandpa's house. The false part of my memory is that I remember being there with my Grandma during the funeral. Of course she was not with me, she was at the cemetary putting her husband in the ground. I think that I painted this false memory for myself to make things easier. I don't know what older person was really with me, but when I remember it in my thoughts it is always my Grandmother.
The deaths continued and the pain of them got harder and so it became harder for me to make them easier. My Dad and you. Not easy at all, Frost.
So tonight I'm going to do something easier because it's a way for me to be close to you, I like to think that you are watching me and know what I say and think, and believe that all the good in it is for you.
I found this piece of old paper in a box in the basement, I wrote it when I was in highschool. I don't remember what I was thinking at the time. Maybe you have an idea.
One night I wrote Carthage on my foot,
And then I built a little house.
In the house, two children lived.
The children were different.
One with eyes of purest charcoal,
Yet in shadow, neon.
The other's were black also, yet collected light secretly, as a prism does.
Their home, a huge window, was carpeted with pith and dying ferns.
The foliage was trapped in shapes that resembled both lofty parlors and the humblest of shacks.
It was the craft of Gods, and angrily they played games of nothings in the soft of the moss.
It was ornamented only by two forms.
Each looming distant and strange.
One was the stream, a horrendous waking pool.
A shrinking curve.
The second, an art of the simplest form.
Two points and a smear, the unprotected door.
And there the children played, waking each day anew.
Their soft snouts breathe with every sound,
And toss about, through cheek and bone.
They tell no stories, nor hear of pain.
They only sleep, in seeming and sensuous crowns.

The easiest thing for me in the world is to believe that I knew of you and your sister before you were named.
Night, night Frost
Mama loves you.

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