Funny how vicious a cycle life is, isn’t it? It’s sadistic, almost. We spend most of it picking
up broken glass, trying to make sense of a deadly jigsaw puzzle that only leaves you
bleeding in the end. This is glass that, even when put back together, makes a window
that’s impossible to see out of.
When we finally slink away to lick the wounds, we return to broken sunshine glittering off
of the once again shattered window. Even though our old wounds are scabbing over, we
try to rebuild until there is nothing left but naked flesh, no protecting skin left, all blood
and exposed muscle…
But if we could only stop to see the way that the wicked sunlight shines off of our wrecked
windows or the way that the moon makes the pieces glow at night, then maybe we could
rest for one single moment. Maybe we could have peace… if just for one moment.
Maybe, even though the glass has shattered again, the beauty of a fresh breeze over an
abandoned window pane can remind us that, even though everything is damaged,
there is still beauty in the world.
There are still things worth living for, even when our hands are bloodied, even when
the pain of jagged shards in our flesh tortures us…there is always a way to find beauty.…
We called them his fish pants. If mom threw them in the hamper at night when
Knuckle stripped them off, he followed her and fished them back out. When mom
tried to sneak in to his bedroom after he was asleep, he took to stuffing them under
his pillow. They billowed out a chicken-of-the-sea stench that gave them their name
and lingering importance that pronounced them before they ever entered a room or
Knuckle was the youngest of seven in our brood. He went through challenging
phases. When he was two he was a sweeper. He carried the broom everywhere and
swept away at the floor, the rug, our desks and our dog, Shana, who wasn’t as easy
to contain. She kept biting at the bristles, which frustrated him and got in the way of
Dad took him to a Cubs game when he was three and he announced to the family
that he was no longer Knuckle. His name was Joe Pepitone. For a few weeks he
scrunched his eyes and looked sour all the time. If any of us called him Knuckle, he
didn’t acknowledge us until we said Joe, and then he’d throw his head back, tip his
baseball cap and nod.…
A Different Kind Of Summer
—–They were at the summerhouse on the lake. Every year her father explained to her
about the old well.
—–“You mustn’t climb up there or remove the cover. If you fall in, Sylvie, you can never,
ever get out.”
—–The rounded, grey stones were surrounded by high weeds and briars. Once, she had
seen a long, thick, black-silver snake slither around the base. Sylvie stayed far away from
—–This summer, Sylvie’s mother would be commuting. She explained to her five year
old daughter, commuters take the train into the city to work during the week and return
at the weekend to be with their cherished, delightful daughters. Sylvie’s lower lip
The same way that Winter
Wraps it’s cold fingers around my throat,
Is the same way it feels when you hold me.
I can’t breathe,
I can’t think.
I am frozen,
I am yours.
You are the Winter,
You blow right through me and chill my bones.
You raise goosebumps on my arms and legs, but most of all…
You are home.
You see, I was born in the arms of Winter.
I thrived inside a frozen womb,
I was raised inside of frozen igloos,
And learned to walk on ice.
I am home,
Even though the wind whips and burns my face.
I am home,
even though snow seeps into my socks and boots.
Even though I hurt,
Even though I freeze,
I am home.
– Holly Factorial…