Residue

I see the dust lining the edge of this monitor and remember the cause (mostly) of the dead skin cells that are shed every day. Ah, that science class so very long ago.

Could it be that memories are like dust we leave behind?

Could the phrase, “they left in a cloud of dust” mean more that what is kicked up from the dirt road as someone hurriedly leaves our presence? Well, my presence, at least. The dust is still there, lingering, drifting, waiting for the “dust to settle.”

The dust we leave behind.

Sunbeams that fill the dimly lit room, watching the floating collisions in space, drifting in and out of sight. In and out of memory. Those thoughts - those words that hang in the air. Drift into the sunlight. Drift into the foreground of remembrances.

Drift as dust we leave behind.

Is it all so much madness that we polish and clean, wash and sanitize, vacuum and wipe, all to remove the reminders – that dust – that returns to tease, to torment, to torture?

Time now to snap the rag. Release the dust to the wind. Empty the vacuum bag. The vain effort knowing that the dust returns again someday – maybe today – the cycle never ends.

To remove the dust we leave behind.

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United,  Friday Writings #37: Stay Happy and Alive

 

Sand

In darkness it stood before him, a sandglass spilling grey-white grains. Its speed flowed erratically, speeding up, slowing down but never ceasing. The sand trickled, then rushed, to the bottom measuring the years until a moment that he could only guess as “now” when the sand slowed to a tiny stream dropping into the mound below. The ever-changing flow continued.

Just as he knew that the person in a mirror was his doppelganger, he knew that this sand represented a life: his life.

“The carnival fortuneteller was wrong,” he thought, “There is plenty of sand in the upper bulb,” but the flow of sand will never cease until time is satisfied.  

 -------

The sandcastle, built with elaborate spires, parapets, and battlements to ward off imaginary foes, stood upon the sunny beach well away from the coming tides and ocean flows. The effort that seemed like years to complete was finally capped off with a single red flag on the tallest of the towers.

Shadows fell upon the western castle walls, across the keep and onto the slopes of the eastern talus. The first drops of rain moistened the sand and soon the torrential rains continued throughout the night, aided by the Northeastern winds as threads of lightning filled the skies.

By morning no castle remained. No red flag. No tower where damsels live. No battlements for defense. Only a mound to mock the builder’s folly.

The builder fell to his knees in silence, not to mourn, but to build again…

-------

The prisoner’s hands were clasped to a bar to keep them apart along with bindings on each finger to keep them separated. The guards prodded him until he stood next to a sand-filled cone that opened about chest high. The warden announced, “If you can carry a pound of sand to the scales, you will be set free.”

The prisoner held his hands out as the sand poured through his fingers and he imagined that he would fail his test just as every prisoner failed before him. He smiled to the warden and dropped under the opening to fill his mouth. With bulging cheeks, he quietly walked to the scale to spit out his pound of sand.

 

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United:  Friday Writings #34: Unsavory Topics

 

Days of our week

She came up and spoke in voice barely above a whisper. Soft, gentle voices – my ears can barely register their existence. Too many hours around loud, clashing machines roaring beside my head. I can’t hear gentle voices spoken by gentle souls. The harsh, brash intrusions that tunnel into my ear canal are all too familiar.

“Pardon?” I asked while looking for help from others around us.

She asked her question again. At least I thought it was a question. I noticed a pad in her hands and saw the list of days of the week, her pencil poised to register my response. Ah, she was asking for my favorite day of the week. My brain processed the few words that I heard from her and pieced it together.

I can barely remember was day this was. Wasn’t it just last Monday when I woke up in that quasi-aware, half-awake, half-asleep, semi-dream-world moment in a state of panic, thinking this was Tuesday and I had an early meeting somewhere? I have to process each wake-up call before I can remember the day of the week.

Thinking of her question, my only answer is that I don’t have a favorite day of the week. Each day is its own and I have some days I work here, some there, some outside, some inside. There are days that I can’t work outside because it’s too cold, it’s raining, or the wind and weather prevents me from doing what needs to be done. Some days are spent inside because that is what is needed. The day of the week doesn’t matter to me. The type of day does matter. My life is pushed by the winds.

“Any day I spend in the woods is my favorite day,” I told her. Her pencil did not move as she awaited my correct response. No tic marks were on her list and I was the first she asked. Or maybe I was the first she asked today. Isn’t Today a good response?

I sensed the beginnings of her frustration bubbling up and I told her, “Thursday.”

Why, Thursday?

I don’t know.

Maybe because Thursday happened to be:

                Tomorrow. 

Linked to Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #23: Write Your Medicine 

 

Easter Snow

While checking the forecast for this weekend’s Easter Sunday, snow is headed our way. Not a lot but enough that could make local travel hazardous. I’m reminded of another snowy Easter when I was fourteen or fifteen (I can’t remember exactly). That morning I counted our heifers and one was missing. She was due to calf but we didn’t think it was that soon and we allowed the small herd to roam the 20 acres that were pastured.

Besides being a holy day and the Sabbath among Christendom, I thought back to the parable of the missing lamb with the shepherd who was willing to break Sabbath rules in order find that one lost sheep. One heifer plus a calf meant there was money missing and money was tight growing up. One or two animals? It was sometimes all the profit a small farm had for that year.

The snow was heavy, wet, almost a foot deep. It stopped sometime before morning and I was fortunate that winds were calm(ish). No Tracks. She decided to sneak off before the snow ended. That wasn’t a good sign because most often, if a cow was in trouble giving birth, she would be in the worst possible place such as down in the creek where no equipment could easily be brought in.

I looked to the western fence and couldn’t see her. The ground was too wet and muddy underneath this new snow, so I trudged along, guessing that she was about a half mile away in the furthest corner of the pasture in among the trees. Cows hide when giving birth, it’s their nature. Mother and calf, a bull that couldn’t stand yet, were waiting for me.

He was still wet and huddled in the snow, a shivering newborn. Mother finished up what cows do after giving birth and allowed me to approach and pick up the calf. Some cows become defensive but she was calm and serene. She softly “mooed” occasionally as she followed me back to the barn, carrying her prize.

After penning them up, my thought was that I should have brought a sled with me, that calf was heavy.

 Linked to Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings 22: Upcycled Words