The Tomb

The old Dodge melded with the ferns and undergrowth, the rusty metal molted with green moss. Determined underbrush tied it to the ground, and it stared at me with long dead eyes. Faded glass eyes that told me everything. The breath stuck in my throat as I fought my way to my daddy’s tomb. 

Briars, like tiny claws scratched and tried to block my way, but my bloodied hands felt no pain. Tears finally swelled as I remembered the last day I’d seen him. That sunny morning sixty-six years ago. He’d tousled my hair, and told me; “Son, moss don’t grow on no rolling stone.” I hadn’t realized he was shut of life. I just knew he was never coming back. 

Something Lost

He walked the beach every day, alone, contemplating his plight, and wondered just what it was he had been born to do. There were no people in his life left to care for. No one left to love. Marriage had failed him … failed both he, and the one he’d loved with all his heart.  Now, the emptiness consumed his very soul, and gnawed away at his will to live. He scuffed the sand and bent to scrape a form from just beneath it’s surface. A tiny shell emerged, the soft amethyst color the same shade as his wife’s secret place, and a new wave of sadness overtook him. What had happened? Why had she gone away? He’d tried so hard to be a good husband. A good partner in all aspects of their lives together.

A seagull squawked right over his head, jerking him from his reverie. There was no use crying over spilt milk. Done is done. There was no going back now. Loneliness as black as the deepest part of the ocean engulfed him and he found himself standing in the welcoming waves. Something beckoned him. Something told him it was time to go … time to let another have his space.

A small dog yipped a warning to it’s mistress and she shaded her eyes against the glare of the waves, but there was nothing there. Just a floating jacket someone had lost. She tugged firmly on the Yorkie’s leash and they turned and walked away.

By The Light Of The Silvery Moon

The silver light shines brilliantly–brighter than ever before. So intense as to almost blind earthly eyes, and it pulls, lures. Entices. And the clock strikes twelve.

The old woman peers from her window, her rheumy eyes wide with awe and wonder. Her mind awakens, as if from a dream as she slips into her old robe. Shuffling into worn out slippers, she walks stiff and sore to the stable, where her mare stands, swaybacked and tired … longing for respite.

Weak, but determined, the woman glances upward toward the night skies. Upward at the light that pulls her soul along. The dim light filters in the stable door and with quaking hands, she grasps the stiff, moldy leather bridle from the hook where it has hung for years.

“Come, Beauty. It’s time to go. It’s time to come with me.”

She almost falls–the stall gate is stubborn, like her body. But she remembers well, and carefully bridles the little horse and leads her through the barn out into the light of the silvery moon.

The wooden mounting ramp still remains. The mare remembers … and stands quiet and still as the woman eases onto her soft, warm back. Tears of joy silently flowing, she strokes the silken neck.

“Take me from this place, my beauty. Please take me to the moon.

And Luna winked at sleeping Sun, while she let the girl and filly play.