The Youngest Case [FICTION]

Choosing the life of a private investigator in a small town means you accept that dry spells will plague you. I have been reminding myself of that for the past few months as my phone remains silent and the only envelopes in my mailbox contain bills. I dipped into my savings and won’t even be able to do that if work doesn’t fall into my lap soon.

As I contemplate this, the phone begins to ring. I stare at it in confusion. At first, I fear I want it to ring so much that I am imagining the sound. As it persists, I reach out to pick it up. 

“Hello?” A hopeful little voice greets me as I put the earpiece to my ear.

“Eunice Lang, private investigator,” I finally cough out.

“I have a case for you.”

“How old are you?” Something about the trembling voice convinces me the caller is a child and thus probably a prank call.

“I’m ten. That’s why I need your help. No one listens to a kid.”

“I’m not sure I can help. You do know I charge for my services?”

“I know that.” His offense to my inquiry seeps into his voice, making him sound older, sixteen at least. “I can afford fifty dollars worth of your time. And my friends can afford another fifty dollars.”

That raises my interest. “Tell me about the case. We’ll see if I think I can solve it for under a hundred dollars.”

“My two best friends and I lost our grandfathers this past year. So we made special wreaths to place on their graves for Memorial Day. The big parade is in two days, so we laid them on the graves yesterday. Lewis lives near the cemetery, so he checked on them this morning and they were all missing.”

I nodded understanding then remembered we couldn’t see each other. “So you want me to find a couple wreaths? I am not sure that is worth your hundred dollars, kid. You could buy some real beauts for less than that.”

“Not just our wreaths. All the wreaths.”

Our small town prides itself on the service of our young men in protecting the freedoms of our country. The main cemetery always looks like a floral flag factory on Memorial Day. We wouldn’t have it any other way. I place my hand over my heart, reflexively saying a prayer for all those men and women whose sacrifices we honor.

“I’ll take the case kid. I will need fifty up front in case I have expenses. Want to meet at the cemetery and tell me everything you know?”

“Yes, ma’am. Lewis and George will be there, too.”

Since this is a busy weekend at that location, I ask one more question. “How will I recognize you?” 

“We’ll be standing at attention, ma’am, right outside the gate like they do at Buckingham Palace.”

I bite back to urge to ask if they will be wearing the tall hats. “See you soon, kid.”

As I hang up, I realize I didn’t ask his name. This could still be a prank, though an ill-advised one. You can tell as many “your mama” jokes as you want, but you never defame the memory of our veterans.

~~

I breath a sigh of relief as I pull up to the cemetery. Three young boys await me with their right hands at their temple in a prolonged salute. Nothing moves except their eyes as I approach.

“Lewis, George, and…” I trail off as I realize I never asked the caller’s name.

“Keith,” the boy in the middle grins, revealing a gap between his two front teeth.

He and his companions drop their salutes as I say their names and look at me expectantly.

I return his smile. “Care to show me around?”

Keith throws back his shoulders proudly and leads me into the cemetery. We don’t get very far in before I realize the boys underestimated the scope of the crime. The week before Memorial Day every grave in the National Cemetery seems to magically sprout flags and flowers. The green grass hides beneath an uplifting layer of red, white, and blue pride. Today, only green grass stretches out among the headstones.

As I stand contemplating what on earth this can mean, I notice a voice calling out for the first time. My head whips up as I turn to face the sound.

“Who is that?”

“I dunno.” George and Lewis shrug together. “We were the first ones here."

As their leader, Keith tries to be more helpful. “I saw some men selling flowers and flags to place on graves.”

“Really? Where?” 

As Keith rushes back out the front gates of the cemetery, I follow. Through the course of my whole life, I have never seen anyone hawking goods outside the cemetery gate. It would be foolish to steal items from the graves only to sell them back, but I have seen more ill-conceived plans in my time as a private detective than my optimism permits me to admit.

“Would you like to buy a flag and some flowers to honor one of our beloved veterans, boys?” An old man asks the boys as we step over to the back of his old pick-up truck.

“No, thank you, sir.” Lewis replies politely as their young eyes look to me.

The old man surveys me hopefully as I take in his set-up. He wears a worn and faded plaid coat. His tentative smile reveals more gaps than teeth. The remaining teeth barely hold on as discoloration creeps across most of them. Behind him, two young boys sit on the wheel wells, sorting through various large boxes. I stand on my tiptoes in the hopes of getting a peak inside one of the boxes. 

“Is there something in particular you would like, miss.” The old man’s smile fades as he regards me suspiciously.

“Maybe.” I look down at Keith. “Tell me again about the wreath you made for your grandfather?”

“It wasn’t very big. But I made sure it had his name on it.”

The old man turns toward the boys, giving them a hard look. As he looks away, I pull my phone out and begin typing a text to the one person on the police department who never admitted to finding me a nuisance. I explain my suspicions as briefly as possible and slip my phone back into my pocket. I look up to find the man and his two young accomplices watching me.

I smile reassuringly and touch the nearest bouquet of flowers. “These are lovely. I just feel like I want something bigger for my father. Maybe a wreath?”

“We don’t have any wreaths,” the old man informs me, though he gives the taller of the boys a look that assures me the statement was meant for him, not me. “Might be time to pack up, boys. Thought we’d have more interest at this here cemetery than the last one.”

The boys begin closing the flaps on the boxes that surround them. The old man carefully packs bouquets and flags into a box that he pulled out from under the tailgate. I try to rope him into conversation to slow him down. He manages to keep going despite my interruptions. Luckily, one doesn’t need to travel far to get from one point to the next in a small town. 

My acquaintance in the police department pulls up in his personal car, parking directly behind us, so the truck can’t to leave before he got a chance to talk to the proprietors of the pop-up flower and flag shop.

“What do we have here?” He asks in a deep rumble as he unfolds himself from the older model sedan.

He towers over me as he joins me in front of the peddler. The older man looks up at him with a hint of fear.

“Just moving on, sir.” The old man offers deferentially and places the last bouquet in his box.

“Ah. But I was hoping to get a look at your wares. I am always looking to show my respect for those who have defended my freedom.” He reaches for the box.

The old man turns to place it on the back of the truck. “Too late. We’re closed.”

“Then I will have to insist on taking a look at your wares in an official capacity.” As he speaks, he produces his badge from his pocket and holds it out.

The boys leap over the sides of the truck bed and run in opposite directions. The old man releases a set of expletives that will surely have the parents of my clients washing their mouths out with soap for the next month. 

“That sort of response tends to make one look guilty.” The officer says, stepping forward to open a box. He pauses to look up at the old man. “I wouldn’t follow your young friends. They’ll be coming back soon with some officers on their arms.”

He opens the box to pull out flags and wreaths. He sets some to side. One of which causes Keith to gasp in recognition. After a few minutes of sorting, the officer turns back to the old man and shakes his head.

“Some of these wreaths you have for sale have names on them, which could be a coincidence, but I recognize this one.” He holds up a wreath of white roses with red and blue ribbon carefully wound around it. “My wife made this one for her grandfather’s grave.” He flips it over to display a name inside a heart painted on the back of the foam circle that gives the wreath stability. “You are under arrest.”

As the old man protests his innocence and then devolves to accusing his accomplices of deceiving him, the officer turns to me and the boys. “I have to take the ones that can be identified, but no one in this town will sleep well tonight if that cemetery isn’t swelling with red, white, and blue. Do you have time to place these unmarked ones on some of the graves.”

“Of course.” We answer as one, collecting the boxes and heading back inside the cemetery to honor our fallen servicemen and women.

~~I really did grow up in a town where Memorial Day was bigger than Christmas. The schoolchildren still dress up in variations of red, white, and blue and proudly march in the parade, which leads to the National Cemetery where they lay bouquets on the graves. Of course, I think if anyone there tried such a devious act, they might not fare so well.~~

Amazing Adventure [FICTION]

“Oh no. I’m late.” I mumble as I open my eyes to bright sunlight.

As I blink back tears, the world around me comes into focus. Leafy green branches reach toward a deep blue sky way overhead. I turn my head to see immaculately trimmed hedges encircling me with gaps every ten feet or so. I sit up slowly. Every muscle in my body complains about napping on the hard ground. Even the lush grass underfoot didn’t fool my body into believing it rested on a nice firm mattress.

I take a closer look at my surroundings and find myself drawn to a sign hanging amongst the ivy on the far hedge. I limp toward it as my legs protest wakefulness. I finally get close enough to read it and almost wish I hadn’t.

“If in an hour this maze isn’t completed

You’ll remain here until eternity is repeated 

Just one warning, we must give

If you touch the walls, you may not live”

I peer at the walls more closely after reading this warning. I shudder as the ivy seems to slither under my scrutiny. I glance down at my watch and wonder if my hour started when I arrived here or the moment I read the ominous warning. I could have no time at all or almost sixty minutes or infinity if this proves an elaborate ruse.

I begin counting the possible exits. Three arches of greenery lead away from the circle in which I find myself. I have a one in three chance of choosing the right one. And the chance of finding my way out increases or decreases based on the luck of this first choice. As I contemplate my options, looking for any unique feature to distinguish one door from another, a small brown rabbit hops past me.

“It worked for Alice,” I murmur as I follow my new leaping friend through the archway to the left of the sign.

Noticing me behind him, the little creature hops quickly away, disappearing around a bend before I can catch up. I turn that corner and find myself facing a choice between traveling forward or left. A sound overhead draws my attention and I look up to see a buzzard flapping his giant wings to maintain his height above the maze. He seems to be circling above something on the path ahead of me.

As I take in his bald head and sharp eyes, I picture a carcass lying on the path ahead of me. I shudder. He would surely be drawn to someone else’s unfortunate demise. I turn left and continue scurrying hopefully toward an exit.

The path I travel seems to twist back on itself somehow. Then the path dead ends with another. I look both right and left. They look exactly the same, continuing the exact same distance before turning again. I look back and forth, unable to choose. I glance at my watch. Knowing how little time might remain doesn’t help me make my decision.

As I stand undecided, something slithers across my foot and I leap back, startled. When I look down, I see what looks like a flesh-colored snake about the same length as my foot is wide.

“How peculiar.” I whisper to myself.

Then I take a closer look and notice the grass ahead of the snake moving before it does. The snake disappears. I crouch down and fall to my knees, so I can see the grass better. The rustling continues toward the right hand path and I follow it.

I blink and lose sight of the rustling. I sigh and stand up, looking around again in the hopes of finding another animal guide. A crow caws overhead. The sound causes me to cry out. I clap my hand over my mouth, suddenly convinced too much noise will awaken whatever lives on the walls to permanently destroy my hopes of escape.

I keep track of the crow, determined not to travel toward it if I can help it. I breath a sigh of relief when the path splits in two. The crow goes one way and I hurry in the other. I think I hear traffic sounds on the other side of this hedgerow. My footsteps quicken until I reach a split that leads off in three directions.

I start to take the center path but am drawn to the left by an insistent meow. As I follow the sound, the path turns and I find a large, orange tabby regarding me with stunning green eyes. A rumbling purr erupts from it as it sets eyes on me. It stands up slowly and twitches its tail gracefully as if to encourage me to come along quickly.

Following the animals who seem to be surviving whatever terrors lurk inside the maze has worked for me thus far, so I follow. The cat moves quickly along the path, apparently uninterested in whether I keep up. My earlier comment about what works for Alice occurs to me, but I push it aside and keep following that wavering tail.

Unlike the cat who confused Alice, this one proves to be a good guide. I step out of the archway and into my own backyard. Startled I turn back toward the maze and see my own weatherworn fence. The orange tabby sits on top of it, happily licking his side. 

“Come on, Cheshire,” I say, walking toward my back door.

He meows and jumps down from the fence to follow me inside.

~~I could use a cat right now to snuggle my knee and purr until it feels better. That’s how purring works, right? Sorry for the late posting. I managed to fall on my knee not once but twice last week, so I have been a little distracted by trying to rest my leg and ignore the many tasks that await us mere mortals every day of our lives. Hopefully, this week is less painful.~~

Found in Memories [FICTION]

“This is your last chance, Tara.” My mother warns me. “Your father and I are moving, and we aren’t taking this stuff with us. So come over and help us clean it out of the attic or buy it from one of the local charities in a couple of weeks.”

I sigh. I want to say I don’t have time for this or lament that my parents are moving from my childhood home, but I know I don’t have the right to either of those responses.

“I’ll be over in the morning.”

“Oh good. It will be like a holiday. Robert will be here, too.”

The thought of spending the morning in a dusty attic with my older brother gives me cause to seek an excuse to back out. I open my mouth to speak but don’t get a chance.

“You two can be adults together for a couple of hours and I will make a batch of Christmas crack to munch on while we relax afterward,” my mother knows her children and our weaknesses.

~~

I arrive at my mother’s house early and find my brother’s boat of a car already in the driveway. I grumble as I park on the street and cut across the grass to the front door. I ring the bell. I feel I have outgrown just walking into the house. My mother obviously feels differently. No one answers, so I open the door.

“Mom?”

“We’re in the kitchen, dear.”

I join her and my brother. She stirs a bubbling pan of future toffee he while leans on a counter, sipping milk and nibbling on a cookie.

“I wondered when you would get here, slowpoke.”

I roll my eyes. “I am early, just like you.”

“Not just like me. I was here first.”

“You two. Stop distracting me, so I can finish this. You both know where the attic is.” She waves her wooden spoon in that general direction.

Properly motivated, we mount the stairs to the second floor. We stand staring at the cord that brings down the attic ladder for a few minutes before I give in and pull it down. Soon we are standing in the attic, blinking in the light of a bare bulb. 

“Wow.” Robert stares at the piles of boxes, “Are these really all ours?”

“Must be. I saw all the Christmas stuff piled up in the living room.”

“I am guessing the ones with pink stickers are yours.” He opens the box closest to him which has no label. “Jackpot.”

I peek over his shoulder and see cars jumbled together inside the box. He shakes it to shift them around, grinning as old favorites are revealed. He places the box to one side and opens the next. This one features college textbooks. He shoves that box off into another pile. I stop watching him and turn toward some of the pink-marked boxes.

The first few boxes contain toys in various states of disrepair. Each holds a special memory, so I start a keep pile with those. The next contains loosely piled papers. A quick glance reveals that these should have found their way to the recycling can before I moved out of my parents’ house. I shake my head and start a third stack.

I glance up to see my brother happily ensconced in playing with something inside another box of goodies. I shake my head and resist the urge to ask questions. He glances up at me and grins.

“Need something, sis?”

“Nope.” I quickly grab the nearest box and pull it toward me.

The bright pink tub holds the outfits of my childhood that I couldn’t part with even when I had outgrown them. As I pull out each item and carefully fold it to place it on the lid, I am amazed at how my style changed over the years. The top layers are dark-colored, loose fitting tops and tight jeans. Below that a myriad of pinks unfolds itself. Nestled amongst all the pink is one brown item. I bite my lip to keep from squealing in delight as I pull it out of the tub.

I rest my cheek on the soft velour. I close my eyes. Startled by a feeling of dizziness that overcomes me, I clutch the fabric in my fist and breath deeply.

The dry dusty scent of the attic fades away. The fertile scents of spring rush over me. The dew on the green grass feels fabulous on my feet, warmed by racing around the backyard in my new brown velour dress with delicate blue flowers along the square collar. 

The minute I saw the dress, I wanted it. I didn’t care that I found it draped across a table at one of my mother’s boring yard sales. I could tell it would fit me beautifully. My mother was so excited that I finally took an interest in a bargain that she bought it for me on the spot and even threw it in the wash as soon as we got home.

As soon as I put it on, I transformed into Princess Moonbeam of the Midnight tribe. Forgive me. I was about nine years old. I didn’t know much about Native Americans. I knew that they were wild and fierce and beautiful and free and that is what I wanted to be. And I was all that and more in that dress—free and barefoot. I stalked an imaginary deer that morning and I caught it, too. I only came inside when my mother called me for dinner.

Many more days passed that way throughout that spring and into the summer. I had a growth spurt in the fall so when it warmed up enough to become and Indian princess again, my dress no longer fit. I sigh as I think of it, longing to really be back in that time when my imagination could take me anywhere.

I still feel the warm spring breeze on my face. The scents of wildflowers rise up to tickle my nose. I open my eyes and all of that fades away as the harsh light of the bulb above my head pulls me our of my reverie.The brightness reminds me of the temporary feeling of faintness and I stumble.

“You okay?” Robert looks at me with uncharacteristic concern.

“Yeah. Fine. I think I need a break.” 

I gently set the dress in my keep pile and take tentative steps toward the ladder. I feel Robert place a steadying hand on my elbow as he steps in front of me to guide me down the stairs. Neither of us mentions his kindness, but as I take that last step to the firm floor of the hallway, I give him a grateful smile. He nods his understanding.

By the time we enter the kitchen with the overwhelming smell of roasted pecans, toffee, and warm chocolate, we have resumed our normal dynamic. He teases me and I ignore him. Our mother smiles at us as we enter the kitchen.

“Have you finished?”

“Just taking a break.” Robert looks at me out of the corner of his eye as he continues. “I needed a glass of water.”

“That sounds like I good idea.” I eye a steaming tray of Christmas crack as I grab two glasses and fill them.

“Don’t even think about it, Tara. You both know the rules. Clean your stuff out of my attic or no treats for you. Besides, it needs to set.”

We nod out agreement and sit at the table to drink our water and rest our feet. Soon we are back at it, digging for treasures. I find a few more that I have forgotten but none affects me quite like that dress. 

When I return home, I wash and dry it on a gentle cycle before carrying it upstairs to my bedroom. Once there, I fold the dress carefully, wrap it in tissue paper and hide it under the blankets in the blanket chest at the foot of my bed. Perhaps, I will have a daughter someday. And maybe that daughter will wear this dress and be transported as I was.

~~I think every mom has something they want to pass down to their child. Of course, the most important gifts are love and wisdom won from experiences we’d never want our loved ones to repeat but sometimes it is a memory. It is never too early to jot some of the best ones down to share with posterity.~~

Mother’s Magic [FICTION]

We all want to be magical and, in our mothers’ eyes, we are. They hold the same magic for us with kisses that heal booboos and a knack for preparing the perfect meal or surprise to cheer us up. They know our secrets before we do and care for us unconditionally. At some point, those roles reverse and we show our gratitude by caring for them with that same tenderness and love that brightened our childhood.

My mother and I transitioned to that stage after she had a fall last year. My whole life she was the personification of energy. She ran marathons on the weekend, took on part time jobs to supplement our family’s income, and kept our house so immaculate that people often asked which maid service she employed. Now she can barely hobble from her bed to the recliner she likes to hold court from.

As I assisted her in making that short trek one morning, she burst into tears as she thanked me for being so kind to her. I hugged her and gently lowered her into her chair while assuring her that of my gratitude for having the chance to care for her as she always cared for me.

She grabbed my hand as I finished, clutching it to her heart.  “Oh, darling, there is so much I need to tell you. There are things you need to know to truly know who you are.”

“I’m your daughter.” I smiled and patted her hand with my free one, trying to gently disengage the one she held so I could get her water.

She gripped my hand tighter. “Darling, you have to listen. You have to know what a blessing you have always been to me. When I am gone, someone might tell you otherwise, so I need you to hear me out.”

I stopped trying to release my hand and knelt beside her, so I could look into her face. “What do you mean?”

“You know that you are your father and I’s only child?” When I nodded, she continued. “We tried for years to have a child. We couldn’t even get pregnant. The doctors all told us that we were young and fertile and healthy and a child would come in due time. As we got older, they changed their advice. They suggested we enjoy the freedom of not having children or that we consider adopting or fostering a child.”

“I know, mother.” She had told me all of this many times before, that I was her miracle.

“What I never told you,” she continued, “is that I decided to seek alternative therapies.”

“IVF?” I nodded understandingly.

“That wasn’t really an option for us, dear. I turned to something much more alternative than that.” She curled her fingers into a fist and slowly raised it to her lips as if she would begin to weep. “I had a friend who had started a coven. I thought it was silliness until I had longed for you so long and still had empty arms.”

I gasped. “You’re joking.”

“Shh. Just listen, please. I am too embarrassed to say this as it is. So my friend and her coven performed a fertility ritual. And nine months later, I was blessed with you. But my friend warned me that some of my life force would be taken away and given to you. According to her, I wouldn’t live to see the age I am now. In fact, I shouldn’t have seen your graduation…” Her words trailed off as she scanned my face carefully.

“Mom, if this is your way of encouraging me to get married and make grandchildren for you to spoil, I don’t have any good prospects.” I laughed nervously.

“Darling, I am not joking. I really am grateful for you. I honestly think it is your love that has kept me alive.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Your love brought me to life, so I suppose it is only fair.”

“You really are a miracle. I love you, my daughter.”

“And I love you. When I do get the chance to be a mother, I hope I am as good at it as you.”

She wept. I wept with her.

~This is the weekend when many celebrate mothers, particularly those from a small town in West Virginia called Grafton, where Anna Jarvis advocated celebrating mothers because she loved and honored her mother Anna Reeves Jarvis. I think is is important to also celebrate those who act as mothers even when they aren’t blessed with children of their own. I have seen so many wonderful women struggle with infertility and the stigma that sometimes accompanies being childless in a church that emphasizes the importance of families. For all those women who are mothers and grandmothers, those who would be mothers if they could, and those who aren’t mothers but are loving and supportive aunts and friends, Happy Mothers Day to each and every one of you.~

National Poetry Month Poems

 At last, your love has come around…

Er…

I finally got a chance to post my poetic promises from National Poetry Month. Without further ado, I present to you:

DAY 12

One, two

I fell for you

Three, four

That was before

Five, six

You got your kicks

Seven, eight

I stayed too late

Nine, ten

We can’t begin

Eight, seven

The trip to heaven

Six, five

Finally, I’m alive

Four, three

And proud of me

Two, one

For I have won

DAY 13

Where does one begin

To describe how to win

The right to taste delicious pie

Can one learn from such as I

Who savors crust and filling, too,

But how do I teach this to you?

DAY 14

What scares you, child?

Not a voice, meek and mild

Yet not a scream

That pierces your dream

Instead you fear being you
And not being enough when true

To stirrings of heart and soul

But do not fear, accept your role

To speak the truth, be you

And don’t fear showing what is true

DAY 15

Wait without complaining

Hope without abstaining

From enjoying each moment

That has been heaven sent

Reach for this virtue

It will not come to you

On your time, prepare to wait

And accept your own fate

And patience can bring

You closer to anything

DAY 16

How soft is silken hair

Falling across my face

As we snuggle and share

This familiar space

Warm breath on my cheek

As I hold her near

And find what I seek

In the love I find right here

With a gentle touch

And snuggles so warm

That there is not much

To compete with this form

Of love and peace

Innocent touch, true release

DAY 17

Falling down into an abyss

What is this? One last kiss?

From demons of darkest night

Will I ever find the light?

I find it and feel those flames

Calling out all of my names

And burning me deep to my core

Until I can’t feel anymore

In this moment, they call me mad

But I still remember what I had

Before this moth found the fire

And gave into crazed desire

DAY 18

We Know

We know everything we need to know

Deep inside our souls, we know

That we are family, we are love

We are what Heavenly parents dreamed of

As they created a world to give us all

But do we remember to heed the call

Of wisdom that calls us back

Offering to make up for what we lack

If I take each step back toward our home

Without being distracted by gems or chrome

DAY 19

Is it there or is it not

Is it cold or is it hot

Is it this or is it that

Is it sock or is it hat

Is it me or is it you

Is it lie or is it true

Is it yours or is it mine

Is it wrong or is it fine

Is it gone or is it seen

Is it kind or is it mean

Is it there or is it not

Is it few or is it lot

DAY 20

Are you content to escape from trouble

By making someone’s pain double

And if you choose evil as your guide

Who will you meet when you hide

And if they pump you for information

A lawyer in a suit may be your salvation

DAY 21

Boom, boom, boom

Filling an empty room

Drumbeats, each a heartbeat

Sending signals to my feet

Boom, boom, boom

Every mummy in the tomb

Dances to the beat of a drum

Finally free of Pharoah’s thumb

Boom, boom, boom

Music of ancient loom

Filling hearts with tapestry

Bring those drums back to me

DAY 22

Butterly

Two wings in two parts

Flutter, filling our hearts

With hope to see once more

Loves we knew once before

Antennae tasting the air

To see what is found there

And yet we see inside you

Loves we always knew

And with soft flaps you disappear

And we look to see if you are near

Calling out to hearts we love

As you flutter away, up above

DAY 23

You knew, didn’t you

Every one of you knew

And yet still you lied

And no matter who tried

To break your bond

And so you abscond

In darkness to conspire

Once more to set fire

To dreams not yours

So close those doors

Tell those hidden lies

And avoid knowing eyes

DAY 24

She rises early, waffles appear like magic

The piles of laundry, she makes them less tragic

Those sore noses, she kisses them better

She dries anything that gets wetter

She is a hero even if she can’t see it

Whatever you need, she can be it

Because her heart is full of love for you

A mother’s heart always remains true

DAY 25

I know they told my faults to you, 

They named them two by two

And then you laughed to hear their tales

Because you are the one who knew

And so such an attempt always fails

When we make one heart of two

~~If this one feels like and echo, it is because the prompt for this one was to respond to another poem, and this one popped into my head.

~~

DAY 26

In and out, always falling in and out

First you flutter, then you shout

This is the way of love these days

First we bask in such warm rays

That we think we’ll never freeze again

But just when we think we’ll win

Love crashes down and we find

That love has made us lose our mind

DAY 27

There was a time I was wanted here

But now I am not wanted here or there

And no one notices that I am near

And yet sometimes I think I hear

My name called out on the wind

The calm assurance of an old friend

That the trees and forests don’t forget

The feel of feet, bare and wet

And then I know where I belong

Lost in this ancient song

A nymph in hiding among the trees

And I live for lives like these

DAY 28

Open your eyes, what do you see

Can you see the clouds in the sky

Can you see mists on a green sea

Can you see truth you can’t deny

Can you show gratitude for eyes

That show every beauty under the skies

By appreciating each color, each sight

Even those punctuated in black and white

So open those eyes, take it all in

You’ll never see this moment again

DAY 29

The Last Time

The last time I saw you, you were still on my mind

But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find

Where it is that I hid that very last kiss

The one you promised would make me miss

Every moment that I am not in your arms

But those are the thoughts that set alarms

Clanging over and over again because the last time

Shall remain always the very last crime

Of love perpetuated without loyalty

From your straying heart to me

DAY 30

The end has come and we must go

Don’t tell me where, I can’t know

Or I will find you when night comes

And wipe your tears with gentle thumbs

I know you need me, I need you too

Yet somehow it feels this love won’t do

All it promises, all that it should

Though I know we wish it could

So you go your way, I’ll go mine

And maybe someday, again, we’ll find

Ourselves together, side by side

With no more need to run or hide