"Delicate like a flower", I remember that's what our Ma would say about little girls .They're like flowers in the sun , pretty and vibrant .I remember Ma would brush  sisters hair. In her bedroom , sis kneeling on the

floor in front of the bed. Ma would run the comb then the brush , in long strokes through sis's lovely long hair. "Strawberry blonde" thats what ma called it .It was angels hair sure as much , I knew that . I would stand

quiet in the doorway watching each gentle stroke . The sun shining through the window .They look like angels with the sun behind them like that . Fuzzy auras surround them . Dust floats in the shimmers like wishes

caught in time. .The curtain  sheers billow in the light summer breeze. Thier gossamer waves adding surreality to my fantasy.I have played this memory over and over through the years . The reels in my mind tick away the moments , frame by frame , in a lazy syncopation, clack ,clack, clack.Sometimes I play the movie with sound ; angels singing and trumpets blaring . Sometimes its in silence Just for its simple beauty .  This memory has become the benchmark from which I measure the beauty in the world and I am always left with a welcome longing for that moment .

 

 

I was five when she taught me to tie my shoes . She laughed with glee , at my big droopy loops, my tongue lolling to get it right . I smiled with pride when I had finally fumbled through the process. I had conqured the

world ; she laughed even harder. We laughed together in our shared delite. I could be a nasty boy , teasing her about her lovely cherry hair and the speckled sun blossoms on her cheeks. I towed rides on the rear foot stools of her tricycle .She would have to struggle so hard to pedal us about.She would wallop me good when

she finally had enough.I know I deserved it but that did nothing to quell the pain or to discipline my baggering .So it continued that way until I was eight.Then I was the wind , she would never catch me again.I would tease she would run her self frustrated to tears .I knew better than to get to near then . Somwhow that seems so

wrong now . I could have slowed up a little bit a time or two.I guess I knew she would always get me back somehow .

 

We grew to teens .I went away, free as the bird ,never to be caged again.I was busy trapsing the country by thumb and nick. I was some trouble I guess but not for sis. It got a little thick and a little thin form time to time. I was still the wind , when it got to thick I would just blow on again. I lost track of eveything everyone, myself, my memories.I learned later Ma dissapeared , a little time out, some time on the think stairs . In the end I managed, Ma did too in her own way. Sis well she had pretty hair I am sure .Time went on and time faded into decades . Ma took them think stairs right to them pearly gates . I missed the service , guess I forgot to tie my shoes . I was the wind , Sis had to go that one alone . She had to go so much more alone .I remember the sunshine in sisters hair. Thats where all the beauty began .

 

 

I step from the elevator.I smell disinfectant and something else . Something subtle yet lingering , an elephant in the living room .It smells like the elephant in the living room . There are no Living rooms here . Somewhere there are livingrooms , where expectant moms and dads wait away the pains to suffer the joys . Here on this floor is expectant death . I can see it in thier faces , cramped in the corners of thier mouths and eyes. They try to paint thier faces with masks of pleasantries .The staff with all the " how do ya doos, and good days". Everyone doing thier best to keep the gloom at bay . Death still lingers , its in thier eyes , I see them the caretakers of death.

 

I reach the room . I still dont know the number, I still dont care . Let the census takers and estate managers measure and compartamentalise death . The living have no need , no one gets lost when they're on thier way to

death .Somehow we all find our way , no matter the numbers .
 I open the door .
 She lays on the bed.
She is asleep.
She does not stir.
Sun shines in  the windows .
Still she looks so delicate.

 

I brought no flowers . The pretty flower days are long past . To much  whithered and scorched by the sun . I pull the brush from my pocket and look at it in my hands .There are blonde hairs tangled in it . Lovely strawberry blonde hairs . Did they tease her when she grew sick? Call her names . Crack whore? tramp?

druggie? Did she cry tears of frustration? Did she scream I was the wind ? I did nothing but love that man with the holes in his arms. Now I shall wither and wane bent by the wind, scorched by the sun, no seeds to

sow. I wonder did she think of me ? Of ma ? Was she alone ? is she alone?

 

I begin to gently stroke her hair.
She does not stir.
Each pass of the brush , I wish away her pain.
The dust bears witness as it drifts in the sun.
Let this be the day I wish away her pain .
I brush each delicate strand .
She does not stir.
The fuzzy aura still flames, but it does not seem so strong.

       

©tRm