Bubbe

Life is never quite real until it happens.

I watched for years as she slowly slipped away. I watched the forgetting. I watched the regression. I waited for the day when she could say "I love you too" no longer. I hoped it would never come, but seasons change and years pass and the innocence of first snowfall is broken. White turns to gray, beauty to slush, and Death reaches out his shriveled fingers. I know she couldn't refuse.

I miss my grandmother. I miss the woman who laughed and tickled and did everything to make me smile. I miss the woman who played with me in pajamas and saved me from the Wicked Witch and made funny faces as soon as the camera flashed. I miss the lingering smell from latkes and the hours of anticipation New Hampshire bound. I miss the laughing and the hugging and the coming together again. I miss having a Bubbe to call my own.

The mirrors are covered, but I've stopped looking anyhow, and instead of ball drops, funeral bells will reign. The world keeps turning. New Years is on the way.

K. 545

Sometimes, I like to retreat into the furrows of my mind and toy with imagination. I like to curl into myself and allow myself to wonder. It's become less about answers and more about journeys, and as I meander the crevices of my thoughts again, I find myself content. 

I met a boy on the bus today who knew me with a glance. We'd never met before, but he looked at me and smiled, and when our eyes met, I was bare. I know he knew it too. I didn't ask and he didn't tell. I never caught his name. 

I had a friend knock on my door earlier to see if I was here. I answered. He saw through my facade and uncovered my exhaustion. They're begging me to sleep. 

My joints are cracking more than usual. I lean into the stretch. G major, but begging to resolve. I see tonic on the horizon, but the sun has already set. 

Tomorrow. 

There's a world of possibility and I'm aching to discover it. My shoulder grinds in its socket. My toes tangle with carpet. Tea tonight was chamomile. Cup number three is cooling.

Tomorrow. 

Why do we live to wait for sunrise? Why do we crave the break of day?

Tomorrow.

The development is just as beautiful. Dark does not suddenly turn light, and I love the moments of gray.

Tomorrow.

I know C major is dawning. I'll sit and watch it unfold.

Rekindling

I've claimed my corner of the library and have plans to watch the days tick by. I take comfort in the pen on paper, the highlighter yellow and pink and purple brightening my page. The sky is dark now, but tonight we light another candle. Tonight another spark will burn.

December chill is in the air. I feel it. I feel the cold and the wind and the moments of unease. The clock is running and the time is flying and I'm still taking baby steps.

I am determined not to fail.

You see, there's so much light between cracked corners. There's so much warmth in a friendly stare, in a gentle touch, in a laughing voice across the miles. Currents lace from me to you and I know Winter must mean well.