You always said the kitchen was our gathering place.
“Over fine food families are saved.”
We’ve finally begun washing away the smoke gathered on your plates. Odds and ends scavenged from charred remains gather dust among piles of bills. There’s a bill for every emotion it seems but our payment for grief falls short.
In your absence we gather under your favorite tree. We try to laugh but they burn our lungs on the way out, so we stand and pretend. Maybe we believe you’ll turn the corner, picnic basket in hand. Maybe if we just squint a little harder …
I swallowed a seed Completely on accident you see It nestled to the folds of my being Grew within me Ivy limbs sprinted for the Sun I wanted to tell you not to be afraid But my tongue is replaced And bark hardens my veins.
Photo: Cal Redback – to see more of his work click here
My grandfather planted this tree with roots poisoned after the war. His father watered it, the seed which came before. My father nurtured them, these roots of ruined fiber. This tree grew ever higher. Its fruit, rotting, my mother prepared for me. She sweetened it, tried to soothe it down, Nothing could disguise the smell of these roots rotting in the ground. It falls to me, as this tree must be fed; A living sacrifice of a life never lead. I toss my children as far as I can; Mutter the same empty words my mother offered Over knotted hands.
Word Count: 100
A write for Friday Fictioneers, roped in by Rochelle Wisoff Fields. I also think it’s Sunday (though I am not 100% sure). I’ve been writing my research proposal/thesis. I’m afraid I’m not good for much else right now.