Raspberries

The snowflakes caught in her eyelashes.  They seemed to make her eyes look sunken.  When had she become so frail?
Her spindly arms reached out for my own, and when I took her hand I felt how dappled her skin felt.
How long had it been?
Years.  Many years.
I remember running in her backyard.  I use that term loosely.  She had this little cottage-- very homey.  Quilts everywhere.  Cats.  And the smell... of contentment.  It was a well lived in home.
But the home itself was not the cottage, it was the garden-- or yard.
Filled with fresh strawberries, watermelon, apple trees, vegetables such as cucumbers, lettuce, turnips, onions.  It was endless.  But there was one favourite. The raspberries.
She would come out with us, and we would pick basket fulls.  Eat them while we were picking.  Then we would make jams with some of it, but eat most of them with a bit of cream.
If there is a heaven, this would be my own.  She was so quiet but soulful.  She always seemed to look old.  I know that sounds bad, but what I mean is she looked old at sixty and she looked old at seventy.  She was just ageing not so... gracefully.
She started having problems as we grew.  Harder to walk.  Harder to think.  Harder to remember.
For years... I had not seen her.
I heard stories of how racist she was.  How she had a foul mouth.  But every time I spoke to her, or listened to her, it was like honey.
Sweet, sincere.
My mum started telling me she was ill.  Every time she was mentioned I thought I was going to be told she had passed.
This went on for a few years.
She moved in with my grandma.  She was cared for.  But she slowly got worse.  See, when people lose their memory they can become easily frightened or confused.
She would get severely confused and that came with severe anger.
She was moved to a home.
I visited her.
I visited her five times.
The first time I remember seeing her with tears in my eyes.  She didn't say my name once.  I brought up my brother but she just nodded and smiled.  I knew she didn't know.
The second time we walked around.  She was calling me my brother's name.
The third time was short.  She was severely confused.  I barely got to tell her I loved her.
The fourth time she was quite tired.  She lay in bed while I read.
The fifth time, I walked in, knowing this would be the last time I visited.  I didn't want to feel heartbroken every time I left.  I didn't want to see her anymore.
I walked into the room and her eyes brightened as she exclaimed my name clearly, hugged me, and told me she loved me so much.  How much I had grown.  How beautiful I was.  She asked how my brother was, and we were able to speak.  I saw her drifting away, so I told her I loved her and we embraced.  Then I walked back to the car with my mum and as she drove I felt cold tears fall from my face in silence.
A month or so passed.
So had she.
I didn't cry.
I haven't cried yet.
Even writing it, I feel them in the back of my eyes.
I don't feel heartless-- I did at first.
But, maybe I am not crying because she is willing me not to.
Because we are still picking raspberries.
Because I'm still a five year old little girl, naive with what is to come and what has happened.
Because the snowflakes that fell in her eyes were not in fact snow, but ashes from the fires we had.
Because the snowflakes were just my imagination, just like many other day dreams have been.
And it is okay if you don't understand what I am talking about, because I do.
I still feel her soft skin.
I see her bright blue veins.
I see how spindly she is.
I see how loving she was.
I see red.
I see raspberries.

Falling Back

The simple fluttering of eyelashes
Turn and become that of a dream;
Inescapable.
The easy going reassurance
Turn into that of a sewing seam;
Shapeable.
In a flick of the wrist,
A delicate twist,
There again
To be pulled away,
Falling back
Into the day.
Birds.  Birds are singing now.
Green. The leaves are green now.
When did the season change?
How am I here?
Why is the sun setting?
My heart is holding dear.






But.. The silence is speaking.
My veins are creaking.
My thoughts are peaking.
In a moment my nails are going to my arms.
My doubt is leaking.
My words are shrieking.
Silence.
There is a warmth within now,
Full of potential.
My hands retract from my arms.






The simple fluttering of eyelashes
Turn and become that of reality;
A beauty that can't be described.
The easy going reassurance
Turned into that of a zipper;
One that is open and untied.
With a single motion,
Tugged to the ocean,
Back again
To run from sight,
Falling back,
Into the night.
Waves. Waves are crashing now.
Noise. My thoughts are restless now.
When did the season change?
How am I here?
The sun is rising.
My heart holds no fear.

Time

I walked hurriedly towards the bus stop, blowing my warm breath into my hands.  The breaths twisted out of my mouth in smooth clouds, contrasting into the chilled winter air.
My runners crunched into the snow in a fast pace, and I made an effort to make it in time.
I did.

First period.  I sit in my seat, Aria sits in front of me like usual.  She turns around and smiles at me. It makes my heart stutter.
We chat while walking to our next class and she grabs my hand playfully.  She kisses my cheek and flutters away to her classroom.
I'm happy.

Lunch time.  My stomach growls.  But mum spent all her paycheck on the apartment and on liquor.  It's been a week and we still haven't had a proper meal.
Aria shares her ham sandwich with me.
It tastes really good.

I hop on the bus.  The driver seems angry.  He's yelling to move back.  We can't, we are already suffocating in each others breaths.
I'm sweating.

I walk home, relieved it's so cold out.  I feel refreshed and light.  I get home when it's dark out, and notice the entire apartment building is dark.
My gut twists.

I have to climb the stairs because the elevators aren't working.  I get to the 5th floor a bit winded, but I'm okay.
I open the door.  Mum is sleeping on the couch with a piece of paper in her hand.  Curiosity fills me and I pull it out.
In large, upper case letters, EVICTION NOTICE.
I put it back.

I wake up late again.  Mum is watching the news.  It's weird that she's up so early.  I hear the newscaster say how the bombing in our country are getting more frequent as well as more intense.
I find an apple under a pile of rags.
I don't have time to wash it.
I run to the bus in the frosted air.

Aria sits down and talks to me about the bombings.  I tell her not to worry.  She smiles.
My heart stutters.

Lunch again.  She splits her sandwich again.
And she gives me her granola bar.  She tells me I need to eat more.  When I say she should have it she says she needs to lose weight anyways.
I tell her that's far from the truth.
She asks if I'm okay.
I eat the granola bar and kiss her.

I get home and open the pantry.  There's half a bottle of whiskey left.  I wonder what my mum did with the other ones.
She's not on the couch.
I scrap some money together for a small pizza.
I keep an extra slice for lunch so Aria doesn't worry.

Mum is watching the news again.  There's screaming on the television.  I ask her if she had breakfast.
She doesn't hear me.
I ask again.
She slowly turns her head.  Her blond hair is stringy and greasy.  Her brown eyes are bloodshot.  She slurs something.
I leave.

The bus didn't come today.  I went to Aria's.  Her bus didn't come either.
We lay in silence while listening to the radio.
They're saying our city is a target for the bombings.
She doesn't think I realize she's crying.
I stay the night.

We catch a ride to school.  The principle says class isn't cancelled.
First period goes slowly.  When Aria looks back at me it makes things better.

Second period comes, Aria and I part ways.

Aria gives me a piece of her sandwich.  When I got home after staying at her house I found my slice of pizza was gone.
I thanked her.
She gave me her granola bar again.
I thanked her again.

We go out after school and grab coffee.  She pays.  I hug her for a long time.
Her hair smells like flowers.
She always smells like flowers.

I get home later.  Mum is on the couch.  She yells at me for eating all the food.  I don't tell her she's the one who ate it, just to vomit it up.
Instead, I go to bed early.

I wake up late and run out the door.  My shoes are slipping on the ground as I run.
I just make the bus.
A few people laugh at me.
I watch the scenery pass as we drive.
A lot of people are walking around with large bags filled with what seems to be basic necessities.
We get to school.

First period.
Aria isn't here today.

I walk to second period alone.

I find a spot to sit at lunch.  My stomach growls.

I catch the bus home.

Mum isn't in her room or on the couch.  Her bathroom door is shut.
When I knock there's no reply.
I try to open it.
It won't.
The doorknob must be jammed again.
I notice there's no more alcohol.
Maybe she stopped.

I leave early, mum wasn't watching the news.  I didn't hear her come home last night.
I wonder if she's seeing someone.
The snow is melting into ice and it's even more slick.  I'm glad I left early because it takes me twice as long to get to the stop.

First period, Aria arrives late.
She whispers to me that her brother was sick, and her mum couldn't stay home to take care of him.
Her dad is out of town again.
I give her her homework.
We have time in class to work together.
She turns her chair.
Her hair flows behind her back.
She blinks at me.
Everything goes silent.
Suddenly, a loud ringing stings my ears.
Aria's eyes are wide.  They look like an endless void of fear.
Her hair is blowing to the side like in a photo shoot.
But the air is coming from the window.
The window that is shattering towards us.
Glass flies into our skin.
By the time that I see blood specking her face, everything is already black.
Everything is already pitch black.

A Memory

A simple memory passed through his mind.
Where was he heading?

A hushed wind blew over the hills, and he saw his old self standing on the top of the grassy dune.  His chest heaved. 
That's right, he ran.  
He had forgotten. 
His eyes looked upon the rising sun, and the stark yellows being blown across the lightening sky. 
Why did he come up here?
Insomnia?
Loneliness?
What made watching a sunrise make you feel content?
What made watching it make you feel in company?

He inhaled a chilled breath of air and pondered.

His thoughts dropped to Julie.  
Wondered... where she was.
Wondered... what she was doing. 
Just simply... wondered.

His eyes looked down below him, and he watched waves crash against the cliff.

His memories reached back to the last day.
She was tear stained.  
Her short black hair was frizzy and unkempt.
Her red lips were puffy and quivering.

His legs were shaking.

He reached for her, but she stepped backwards.
"Get out."

He stepped forward.

It felt like she ripped his heart out.
She was angry. 
This would pass.
She didn't mean it.

Another step.

He reached out again.
She screamed.
Why was she resisting?

Another step.

He felt defeated. 
Why is this coming up?
Out of the blue?
Julie... Julie listen.
I didn't mean to. 

He could hear the waves clearer now.

Her face.
Red lips.
Black hair.

He felt the wind as he grew closer to the ocean.

Red lips.
Black hair.

He was so close now.

Red lips.
Black hair.

He felt like he was flying.

Red lips.
Black hai- 

A Question

Isn't it funny how

a moment before

you could not feel your lips

and now, 

in a second, 

they're vibrantly alive.

Isn't it curious how

what seemed like forever

was a split time frame

that

didn't

even

last

a 

day?

The thoughts are tumbling 

through my mind

like a wave crashing

and circling down into the sand.

My breaths are caught like a hit

in the gut,

and the fear of never being able to 

breathe again

strikes

me

down

in

a

constant.

I blinked.

My lips parted.

As a question. 

Without 

an

answer.

The Feelings of Silence

His smile was slight, but I saw it.  There was an awkwardness between us that I didn't really understand.
"It's weird,"  He sighed.  Before I could ask what he meant he continued, "How we feel about each other."  A silence hung between us and I blinked, not knowing what to say.  We were walking now.  "How we feel so much towards one another but we don't hold hands or hug or--"  He paused for a second, "Kiss."
I felt my face burn, but I agreed.  We began walking between the trees quietly, and all I wanted to do was reach out for his hand and pull it into mine.  I wanted to look at his face and let his mouth draw my own in.
But I couldn't make myself do it.  It seemed that even though I wanted to so badly and even to have his reassurance about how we both felt, I just... couldn't do it.
I wondered why.
Looking back, I thought about our strange relationship.
It seemed as though no matter what I did or didn't do nothing changed.  It seemed like there was always an invisible wall.
I wondered if he tried to kiss me whether or not our lips would actually meet.  It felt strange thinking about it.
I don't think they would meet.
But I wanted them to.
The silence seemed like a wall too.  Something we couldn't really get past.  It made my heart heavy not being able to.
I turned to face him and watched his lips move into words.  But nothing came out.  I squinted and asked his to repeat himself.  I watched him laugh and 'speak' again.  But again, nothing came out.
It felt like he was further than ever.
I reached forward, but the gap grew.  He tilted his head in confusion and opened his mouth again.
"I miss you,"  His voice sounded like he was speaking under water.
I brought my hands to my face, and I felt a subtle dampness under my eyes.
I choked, "I miss you too."
The distance grew, and the trees seemed to thicken.
He spoke again.
"I can't--" My throat cracked, "I can't hear you."
His face fell with sadness.  He tried again.  I read his lips.
I was falling in love.
My heart broke.
"I was too,"  I brushed away tears, "I was too."

Birthdays.

Growing up, I used to think about my birthday always.  I would watch shows and movies and be in awe about how caring and loved a person could be on their birthday.  Plus there was one thing that I fantasized about.
Surprise parties.
What says 'We all love you so much and wanted to surprise you to make you feel bombarded with love' better than a surprise party itself?
And every year I would pick up hints like, "Let's go out for the day and just have a nice quiet evening at home." And of course, people not mentioning my birthday at all.
So for the entire day I would get so excited about a possible surprise party, only to feel crushed to see that there was no one.
And every year, that hope had lessened ever so slightly.
My brother's birthday and my own are a month a part, so we would go on vacation in the summer and a month after my own birthday we would celebrate both of our birthdays. But it would be on his birthday.
And my young little self always felt so defeated and sad on this day.  Because it wasn't like the shows or movies.
You see, I loved seeing people picking out these heart-filled gifts for people without having to ask the question "What do you want for your birthday?"
Because when people ask that it feels like a jab in the heart.
They don't know you.
They don't care to put thought into the gift.
All of these thoughts just jumble together and make the sad day a depressing day.
I wouldn't want to get out of bed on my birthday.  Not because of growing older, but because of how isolated and lonely I felt.
How I feel.
I love other people's birthday's.  I enjoy picking out a gift for them and celebrating with them.
But it's never happened to me.
The go to is a dinner out.
I don't like going out for dinner.
Yet every year it's the same "Where do you want to go for dinner?"
And the worst thing about this day?
How incredibly selfish I feel.
Because saying all these things seem awful to me because that isn't who I am.  Yet obviously it is because these are my feelings about it.
So it makes me feel like shit.
With telling people how I feel about my birthday, whether I say I just want something they put thought into (or even just hanging out.  I really like being with my friends) or saying I don't want to go out for dinner (in which they get sad and don't know how to respond), they do comply.
They'll say, "What do you want to do then?"
And the most horrible thing is I don't know.
If I were to say a surprise party, it would 1. not be a surprise and 2. I would feel depressed then too because I brought it up.  Not them.
So maybe television warped my views on birthdays.
I just want today to end and not talk about my birthdays anymore.