Pride and Prejudice

The earthquake, it shatters their expectations. They can't believe we found our voice, and are singing our praises to the Lord. For every day is a celebration, and we embrace our very identities. We climb from the dregs of misfortune down yonder, to the great machines and skyscrapers and the prosperity that lines every street. Our very souls cry out in exultation, and the music, our own creation, spells deviance from the social standard. Everyone alive, truly alive, that is, dances along.
Yet we cannot forget who we are. They will not ever let us forget. The claw, green with envy, strikes with brutal force, claiming we have no right to set ourselves free from that quagmire. Innocents, just like our Lord Jesus, are struck down by crosses of steel, as the wood ones smolder in the darkness; the price of "liberty" forcefully paid.
Inspired by "Song of the Towers," pictured above, by Aaron Douglas. 

Alone

There she sits, across the way.

There, surrounded by nothing.

Her eyes, downcast, flicker
    Following the shadow of a person
She knows will never glance up.

She is stillness
   And the only one to notice doesn't care
   Glances with unsympathetic eyes
And a self-satisfied smile.

Footsteps
   approaching
But no, they couldn't be.
    Not for her, anyways.

Ever nearer
   My feet slapping concrete
Because I'm nobody as well.
    A nobody with a curiosity, that is.

Why?
   Why the frown?
   Why the silence?
For souls do not cease their singing without reason
    Especially those as beautiful as hers
        At least, how I remember it being.
It's been so long.

Maybe she's not the same?
   Time changes people, after all.
Still I must find out
   Why?

Here I stand.
   What to say?
Her eyes study my shoes.

"April. Are  you all right?"
   The obvious
     And if I'd thought twice,
   A certain negative.

But her eyes glance up
Catch mine

And away I turn.
   Anywhere but there and those haunting eyes.

I cannot think exactly why I ran. Maybe the raw emotion caught me off guard. Maybe the fear, the vulnerability, the pleading. Maybe the anger and hatred. Maybe the pity. Her eyes were a broken bottle: the glass shards scattered hopelessly, forgotten in the empty parking lot.

I may have been curious, but she didn't want my concern.

Her hollow laugh trailed my guilty conscience back home.

Her eyes shift down again
   A tiny sigh escapes her lips
And there she resides
                               broken.

Ojala' (Only If)

The pavement is slick with memories. I trudge towards my car, wanting in a way only to rev the engine and speed away into the slippery night--to forget that twinge to pause my life and go back three months, back before my perspective changed. But I turn away, returning the keys to my pocket, and walk uphill into the soft patch of  light from the streetlamp. I take in the scene, so alike yet so different.
~
There we were, taking in the gentle crickets' song, the sky spattered with stars, and the long-lost comfort of the other's presence--a familiar presence that I had definitely missed. Out in the great wide world beyond I had seen and experienced, but now, here, I was living. The August evening brushed up against us, soft and balmy, clear and reflective. Despite the months apart, we were one now. That welcome home was the best I've ever had. There and then, he was my savior--from insecurity, from wanderlust...I found my home in that moment.

And it is true, that moments can last a lifetime. That words can paint a picture that the eyes cannot see. That some of the greatest music is silence. But such moments have to end. Such words can settle heavy on the conscience, and consume it until only guilt remains. Guilt not for what I am, but what I should be. The silence from within is deafening. This intermezzo must end.
~
The November breeze worms its way into my jacket, reminding me of my solitude. It seems to be pulling something out of me--the memories relived. Yet, their warmth is chilled by reality. By how things turned out. The stars that comforted are obscured, and raindrops threaten to spill out of the thick gray lid on the earth.

That seems to be the only thing left: a frigid world dipped in solid ambiguity.

As It Should Be

As I gaze out the window, I am home. Everything is as it should be, the sun setting behind the little blue house across the street, the hill sloping leisurely down to meet the two as afternoon slides to twilight.
The light is on in their kitchen window, a caregiver watching over the two timeworn souls inside. The kindly light behind the blinds is a beacon, upon which my comfort is tethered.

Now there are cars across the street. Not just the exchange of nannies. There are relatives. Too many. Too frantic. The whispers: she's gone. He doesn't want to leave. He'll die without her. What to do?

Then nothing.
He's gone too.
Not forever, just away.

So the house sits empty for a time, a lonely relic of what once was. Of the poisoned blessing, time.

Then a sign: FOR SALE.

On Saturday morning, an estate sale. The house is gutted and the delectable organs are displayed for all to see. Curious vultures come to prey on the remains of the deceased, haggling over the price of memories.

Real estate can be something of a blessing. The cars, one at a time, were reminiscent of the nannies, of the time before.

The sign went down all too soon, on a gloomy, dripping day. The garage door across the street opened, a rarity. A man and a teenager maneuvered a shiny sedan in reverse to rest. The garage door closed.

Mom met him the other day, the man. Nice enough, she said. I was glad to have a good excuse to leave.

There was a van in the driveway this morning. Tile Remodeling, it said. Kitchen Resurfacing. blah blah. Not even the hollow interior is saved, it seems.

The sun has set for good tonight, a hint of purple on the horizon the only memory of today. There is nothing more than silhouettes, the hill and the little blue house across the street. The light in the kitchen is not on, and it seems will never be. At least, not like it was before. The only trace of those souls is in my memory. The house that was theirs is foreign to me.