Laughter and Tears

            Margret shuffled along the sidewalk in her usual way. She was slow and deliberate as she finished her morning walk to the corner store for Frank's newspaper. She felt autumn in the air as the breeze settled in her bones. There was a certain quiet in the mornings with a few people on the boulevard at that time. Frank used to be the one who went on morning strolls not so long ago. She began to see the appeal of making the short trip before the city truly woke. The slumber of dawn was full of possibilities and things yet to happen. Her future was not full of sunshine but the complete opposite.

            As she passed the café she peered through the windows. She always hated the trendy addition to her beloved boulevard. She would always think of this spot as Joseph's Emporium with all its trinkets. Not this horrible café full of pretentious youth on their portable computer devices. Whatever compelled someone to sit in public and act like they were alone? What was the purpose in that she thought? Although today she noticed something different as she glared into the café. A young girl in her twenties with soft curls framing the delicate curves of her slender face smiled broadly as she spoke with a long haired boy that she had seen there many mornings as she passed the place. There was a certain comfort in the way the girl looked at the boy and how he reciprocated. Margret was taken back to her own youth when she met Frank on this very street. He was rather dapper in his fedora, leaning against the light pole on the corner of Boulevard and Main. He was smoking and peering out from under the rim of his hat. How she loved that devilish twinkle he had in his eyes. Frank had grinned from the corner of his mouth and tipped his hat. She knew from that moment that she would be with no other.

            As she shuffled by the café she caught her reflection grinning back at her. She could not recall the last time she had smiled. The world began to cloud over as she fought back tears.

            As she got home she placed the newspaper in the corner with the others, discarded remnants of old routines. The apartment was stuffy and stagnant but she knew the fresh air would only chill Frank. She found him in his chair by the window where she had left him. He was looking out the window yet his eyes seemed to cast out beyond the row of buildings that framed the boulevard.

            “It's a beautiful morning for a walk” she said.

            Frank did not even stir at the sound of her voice. His eyes were fixed on the window or somewhere beyond deep in the recesses of his mind. She stroked his thinning white hair and kissed the top of his head.

            Margret stepped into the kitchen, resting her palms on the yellowing Formica of the counter top; she tried to steady herself as the tremors began in her gut. She tried not to cry, to be strong for Frank but she found herself mourning her husband. He sat in the other room and yet he was already gone. That devilish twinkle long ago faded into a distant stare. But the tears came today and she didn't hold back.

            She recalled the pretty young girl in the café and how enamored she had been for the boy. It reminded her of why she dedicated herself to what was left of Frank. She realized she never gave up on him. He had to be in there, his soul trapped behind a traitorous mind. Her cries came in gasping sobs as she chocked back, hand cupping her mouth. Frank might hear and she didn't want him to worry. She laughed at the absurdity of her concern - laughter and tears.

            She felt she was now losing her mind. She took a deep breath to calm herself and stood in the dank kitchen wondering if she could find a way to bring her Frankie back. She wanted to see his smile and hear his dry jokes as he gave her that sly smirk. She found him still staring blankly into the sunny morning air.

            “Would you like me to go to Demeres' and get a nice mango?” She asked.

            “I know you love mangoes the most and the fruit market has the best” She continued.

            It was then she caught a shift in his gaze. He scanned away from the window toward her voice. His eyes transfixed on her and he simply stared.

            She had not seen any glimpse of acknowledgment in so long it was like a prayer being answered. A miracle of muscle turning Frank's eyes in response to her voice, she would later question if her imagination had gotten the better of her but she thought she caught a glimmer of the devilish glint in his eye.
            She almost forgot that her seventy-eight year old legs would not support her rush out of the apartment – searching her handbag without an upward glance. She stumbled down the last steps and into a small fair haired boy with his hands over his ears. He didn't even have time to dodge as he fell onto the concrete. There were no tears. The boy quietly sat on the pavement observing his torn jeans and bleeding knee with disinterest. Margret felt horrible that in her excitement to retrieve a mango she had been oblivious of others.

            “Are you okay, son?” She asked.

            “I've seen worse” He whispered. She barely heard his words - he avoided her eyes.

            “I need to get to school” He said, scurrying up and checking his palms for additional wounds.

            “Can I help?” She asked.

            “Help with what?” he said in confusion. He never got any help any other miserable day of his life. What could an old lady do to help? He hurried off and left the lady without a further glance back.

Margret’s concern for the boy turned to her mission for fruit and a heart full of hope.

Gravitation

             Annie walked slowly along the boulevard – her soft brown curls bouncing off her shoulders. Her head cast down as she most commonly did without any conscious idea that she was avoiding others. Alone amongst many as she strolled along the boulevard. She always enjoyed the walks even though she seemed oblivious of those around her. Her pace quickened with purpose to reach the park before all the benches were filled with old men feeding pigeons. Annie had left earlier than usual and felt the difference in everything. The light cast shadows differently along each building and even the sound of the breeze through the trees along the boulevard whispered a different tune. She realized that she was so attuned to everything around her except people. They passed in hurried manners that perplexed her and she had little care for their stories. She realized that she was isolating herself from them solely in her mind. It wasn’t something she often thought about but she took her walks to clear her mind and enjoy what little fragment of nature still remained in the city.

            She was aware of each step and the sound of her shoes on the concrete - the soft echo as it cascaded off the nearby buildings. The warmth of the sun cast on her face as she closed her eyes for a moment and inhaled the morning air. Suddenly there was a disturbance, something so minor, a slight refraction of light, and a minor shift in the breeze. An almost extra sense woke her in a fraction of a second that made her blink as she felt the small terracotta pot brush off the tip of her nose - a mere molecule of space between them. She caught the slightest glimpse of green as she jumped back an moment before she witnessed the explosion of pottery and soil at her feet. The small plant lay decimated on the sidewalk amongst the remnants of its life. Annie glanced up sheltering her eyes from the morning sun to ascertain where the plant came from. No concerned heads poked out from beyond. She tried to take a deep breath and settle her nerves as she realized how close she came to possible oblivion.  A matter of seconds was all that meant an end of all she knew. One step sooner and the pathetic little plant would have cracked her skull. She collapsed on a nearby bench to try and gather herself. She suddenly cared little for the sounds of wind or the touch of sunlight. She was now acutely aware of all the people around her and the looks of concern and curiosity that glanced her way. She didn't like the attention and wanted to disappear. Refuge in the café across the street would have to suffice.

            The café was warm and enticed her with the aromas of coffee. She seldom visited the place although it seemed to meet her criteria since most people seemed to either glance with indifference or ignored her entirely. The barista prepared her order with a monotonous routine and a cryptic smile. It was good to feel the warmth of the coffee in her hands as she found a empty chair by the window to watch the world go by. It was safe from rouge pots and unwanted interactions from strangers.

            “Are you alright?” a voice from behind her spoke as she was lost watching the stream of pedestrians.

            “What?” She whispered as she looked at the inquirer.

            “I saw you had a close call out there”

            She gazed into warm hazel eyes that showed tenderness. She was not used to seeing anyone look at her in such a way. Annie had thought he was speaking to someone else until his attention persisted. He had a crooked smile and chestnut brown hair that matched her curls. His brow furled up as he waited for her to take the bait and respond. He seemed to be someone who had a certain ease with speaking and he was treating her like an old friend. She was uncomfortable with such a direct approach but liked to know someone showed concern.

            “It was close but I didn't get a scratch”

            “It seemed more than close from over here” He smiled casting his head over to the barista station. I was making a café mocha when I happen to see your near miss. You are so lucky” He grinned and cast his eyes from under his brow. He squinted as if he was trying hard to read her reaction. She gave little away in terms of what had happened or how she felt about talking to him.

            “Well I'm just glad you’re okay” he said.

            “You are? You don't even know me” She was surprised by this sudden defensiveness. Why did she care why this stranger showed concern or interest at all. She had kept herself distant from others for so long it was hard to grasp the simplest gestures from others.

            “Hey you are one strange bird” he laughed.

            “What?” she whispered. Again she was thrown off from what she expected.

            Was it so hard to know what to expect from others in response to what they were saying? Her pessimistic nature gnawed at her. She though his intentions hide a deeper desire to simply sleep with her. Add her to his list of conquests. Had he seen her walk by as she did every morning. Until today she never deviated from her routine and he could easily set his watch by her route down the boulevard. But of all days for a pot to drop into her life it had to be today. One simple little moment and it changed her course to this café and into an unwanted conversation with the cute barista. Why did she have to decide to leave early of all days?

            “Sorry I'm not used to hearing concern from strangers” She admitted.

            “That's kind of sad if you ask me” he replied.

            “I wasn't asking” Annie said with a smirk. Something warm began to blossom as she opened up to talk with him. A smile met with a smile and the connection began. She liked it and it was the most unexpected thing since she walked out the door that morning.

Lost

           The fragrance of dust drifted through the morning sun as the solemn man traced his fingers through the staleness of the grime. He knew the instruments that drew the line in the blanket of neglect would soon be cold. His last testament was a mere mark drawn on a disregarded desk top. Much of his life seemed like the apartment, left alone without care, life's debris settling and burying one in forgetfulness.

            His mother had often said dust was a sign of an unsettled mind. He believed he was quite settled in what he was doing. If he was unsettled it was in the fact on how could he live amongst thousands of souls and still experience loneliness. No one visited him and he cared little for having unwanted attention. He was a citified hermit.

            The morning sun warmed the dark wood of the musty floor as he opened the window near the single living thing that he cared for. His fingers caressed over the smooth green leaves with delicate care. The plant wavered in the cool breeze as if responding to his attention. He liked caring for something that remained quiet yet responded to his care. A little water and sun and it showed all the appreciation he needed by staying alive. It was the one thing in the apartment that was not layered with dust and clutter. His sole attention remained on the plant - the sun bathing it in warmth.

            He glanced down along the boulevard from his window. This was as close as he got to interacting with others - a silent watcher from high above - casting a cold eye down with envy at all their interactions. How easy it seemed for them to talk and laugh - carrying on with others. He marveled at the ease in which they moved along the street with confidence. What really happened behind those masks? Was there true feeling behind those smiles or were they like him - orchestrating a play of muscle and grinning in response. He knew with certainty there were thoughts and feelings that did not surface in those gleeful facades - letting others see what was expected. He was done with such things. It had all become too tedious and tiresome. He was punching the clock and moving on.           

            He left the window open for his little green companion. Tending to it was his simplest joy and his one regret was that he would not see the little one grow. He watched its leaves sway in the breeze, waving good bye perhaps.

            He set a chair near the window to reach the large steel beam running through his loft high above. It took several swings to get the rope to cast over the massive support. But he managed to tie the knot and form a crude noose at the bottom. The rope was course and stiff. He wanted to know he had something strong enough to get the job done. There was no hesitation or regret. He was at peace with his final act, no action he had taken in life had ever meant anything to anyone and this wouldn't either.

            The chair rocked unsteadily as he readied himself and reached for the noose. The rigid rope scratched over his head as he managed it. He steadied himself and closed his eyes for a moment as he inhaled deeply. He thought of all those that went before him. Perhaps he might see them again after the tough business of dying was complete. When his body grew cold and piss ran down his leg he may be embracing those that meant something to him. It felt like so long ago that he had anyone like that in his life. Why else would he be leaving in such a way if it were otherwise.

            He rocked the chair to gain momentum and felt it fall away. As he was suspended by the neck he was surprised how much he suddenly struggled for life. His last image was of his little plant being kicked off its ledge from its sunny window. One second it was sitting happily on its perch, freshly watered enjoying the sun and the next it was gone -  then he was as well.

Prisão

The viscous toxin amasses - a potent darkness invading lifeblood, flooding the system with destructive intent. Not venom of a defensive serpent. No scorpion sting. Not even the plotting of a rival. The poison is self-inflicted - blackness created from within.

Forming judgments, holding onto resentment is self-imposed harm that is an internal fire that scorches oneself more intensely than any other. I have those in my life that hold onto grievances that span decades. While their perceptions of time seem locked in the past without the wisdom that others evolve, learn, transform over time is strange to yours truly. Often confronted with these criticisms I am at a loss to recall the offensive words, actions or intent that is attributed to me.

Much of my past is obscure; an observer casting a gaze from shore over misty quiet waters in the still of morning. Only faint images with little notion of time or sentiment surface, the only testament of my personal history remain. Is it my fragmented recollection or my willingness to absolve that permits me to move forward without this disquiet others cling to? I cannot control the judgment of others and carrying such negativity is their burden. Like a fair-skinned lad venturing to the shore on a blistering summer day; I better have my sunscreen against the burning rays of cynicism.

Upon My Death

I move the yellowing envelope between my fingers. The memories of what lie on those pages are vague at best.Words scribed on what was supposed to be words of wisdom, encouragement, for my son years after my death. At the right time the discovery of these words would bring solace and reflection to an adult I may not know. Yet holding the document now held no consolation and merely the most bitter of reflection.

My own obsolete intent is a testament to my shameful arrogance of what I thought the future held. How often do we make bold assumptions on what will occur? How often do we plan what we will do in some future moment with a certainty that strikes against the firm logic that anything can happen any time for any reason?

So many years have transpired. Often I think back to my illness, to my newborn son that I held solemnly in my arms. I did not consider I would see a year or two and yet here I am twenty two years later - alone. The words of encouragement, perspective, of life that most assuredly wrote now seem hollow and pointless. Why even break the seal of time and read words that were meant for another. Words that will never be received by the one they were meant for. Sadness roils my gut and clouds my vision with tears. My hands tremble, shaking the faded packet. My thoughts of destroying it are fought by a sense that the words may not entirely have been intended for my future son – lost, but for the my future self, filled with self-pity and responsibility for a young life. I trace my fingers along the words on the envelope’s surface as if I truly understand that it was destined for me.

Upon my death