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CYNTHIA RUTH LEWIS
YEARS AFTERWARD, CROUCHED ON A COLD BATHROOM FLOOR It all seemed like a million years ago; we were sitting in the sun-bright kitchen talking about our childhood, remembering the good times, laughing and trying to recollect certain events, like which car trip it was where you lost your G.I.Joe at a rest stop and had a temper tantrum for days, the time you played God and jumped off the roof to impress your friends, the little nerd down the street who dared me to eat a worm which I threw up moments later, the endless clubhouse fights, bike races and skinned knees, and the time you hid Dad's wallet but couldn't remember where and I got punished for it, and we're laughing so hard the tears are rolling and all the while you keep fidgeting with your sleeves, tugging at them, trying to cover the scars on your wrists LAST WORDS Signing the papers, finalizing my father's cremation, they asked me if there was anything I wanted to go along with him: keepsakes, jewelry, anything? All I could think of were words; things I always wanted to say to him that he never would have heard I put it all in a letter to be burned, and drove the next day in 100 degree heat to avenge his death; unsaid words creased neatly in my shirt pocket, a monument to silence The mortuary seemed a lifetime away, further now than yesterday. Perhaps it was only the heat, the temperature stretching the asphalt and stinging my eyes with sweat, the thin paper now dampened at my breast, words blurred beyond significance and sense Overhead, a few clouds push in, distorting the atmosphere, the day, casting everything in shades of funereal gray... even the sky loses its edge CUT & DRIED I felt a lump under my arm the other day Could be nothing. Could be something... if it's something, it's almost a relief knowing how it's going to end you see, I have little faith in doctors-- if this is my lot in life, so be it. I'm not about to fight it I'm not interested in going through months of extensive treatment, prolonging my life to the fullest extent; stretching out those golden years, settling in my rocking chair on the porch telling friends and neighbors how I beat the BIG C, and how much more I've accomplished since then I'm glad the decision might have already been made for me: no more wondering how I'm going to take my own life when the time comes-- visions of pills, ropes and guns dancing through my head in those gray moments, wondering which one would win out when the desperation overtook me and I couldn't bear it anymore Death doesn't frighten me-- let it come, softly, at its own pace like night ends the day, taking it under its wing when it's spent, slipping gently into oblivion; a quiet ending to a day undone-- a tender, new moon rising to replace a burnt-out sun PASSING THROUGH I didn't know you all that well; just enough to say 'hey' during my morning walks You weren't much for talk, either, but your face always seemed to mask a myriad of depth I doubt any speech could lend credence towards, had you the opportunity, like voice dubbed in a foreign film; the lips not quite matching the words Sometimes I felt like stopping for small talk, but something always compelled me to keep moving, as though I were an intruder, as though I might trespass on something I didn't need to know. I heard you died the other day; heart attack in your sleep. I was stunned at my reaction, bemoaning the fact I'd never stopped to listen, as if voicing your trials and tribulations would have made a difference, as if it would have made them any less real, like dispelling a bogeyman hiding under the bed simply by saying his name I remember one particular morning just a few short weeks ago, seeing you sitting blissfully on your porch, oblivious to passersby, your face turned comfortably towards the sun, its light enveloping you in a halo of peace as though there was no such thing as any pain or darkness beyond its reach Cynthia Ruth Lewis: I'm 38, having written poetry for the past 17 years. Currently back in the publishing world after having taken a 2 year hiatus due to creative apathy and temporary insanity-- which, actually may have enhanced my writing. It has certainly enhanced my weirdness. |
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