Four wheels of sorrow

 The gift we know as life is as precious as the word itself. We come silently into the world until we no longer feel the warmth and comfort of our mother's womb then we scream our disappointment for the world to hear. Then as if we never left, we find ourselves against her skin., taking nourishment and feeling loved. Time takes us away from those early days and her when all she ever wanted was a kiss on her cheek and a few minutes of your time. Looking back, I wonder what was so important when I skipped down the stairs and into four wheels of trouble, never turning around to see her face in the window waving goodbye. How could I have known her broken heart was my fault and I did nothing? How could I have known that only a mother's love can be overtaken by an emptiness only she can react to? How couldn't I know?

MO

The clock

 What once was a home filled with children's laughter and the smell of Sunday dinner cooking is now silent except for the old clock still keeping time. The walls leading upstairs are lined with pictures of times past and memories made throughout the years. She used to walk past them, but now she stops and studies each face making sure the names still came to her. In her bedroom, she sits in front of the looking glass and smiles the same smile she was told would break many hearts, but only one meant anything, and he was somewhere waiting. She brushed her long white hair, one hundred strokes humming a song she would sing to her children long ago. Time is a cruel thing, she thought out loud. One minute it's laughter and playful moments surrounding you with joy; the next is unwelcome silence. You gave your love completely and received it because that's what one does in a happy life. Then as if time left you behind to mind the store, you remember the clock needs winding, or does it?

MO

Pop cycle Bombs

        POPCYCLE STICKS

In the summer of 1961, I was a normal kid from a normal family living in a normal neighborhood in a normal town. Life as I knew it was just that, normal. Until it wasn't, I remember I was outside playing baseball with my buddies when I saw my uncle Larry walking towards the park. His tall figure was almost scary as he looked down at the ground and stood by the dugout, speaking with the coach, who signaled me to come off the field. Come on, slugger, let's have us a walk, he said. You were looking good out there he said as his arm draped my shoulders in a way I knew he was offering me comfort, but why? We were out of the park when he told me my dad had died in a car accident. The words went through me like a knife through butter as my mind tried to understand everything. Then the tears fell. The following days were a blur of people in black clothing and endless amounts of food. My mom didn't seem to move off the couch as family and friends tried to comfort her, but her heart was forever broken. I sat next to her, and she touched my hand, trying to smile, but it wasn't a smile, just her lips moving from side to side for a brief moment, and she was back looking like I'd never seen her look before and didn't want to ever again. We buried my dad next to his brother and sister, who lost their lives in the war, and his mother, who left us two years ago from a fall at her house that left her brain dead.

I remember seeing my dad cry for the first time in my life the day he had to decide to pull the plug and let her go. Now he rests beside her and his siblings at peace and waiting for us to join him one day a long time from now. Living in a small town, traditions are looked upon as sacred. Things passed down from generation to generation, like the funeral wagon. It was made in the city decades ago by a craftsman who created a mix of grandeur and class like his ancestors before him. It had glass windows on both sides, large enough to see the casket inside. It was ornate with carved angels and cherubs entwined within the wooden pillars in front and the back of the stately wagon. I had always wondered how they made the paint shine a deep black that almost looked wet but wasn't. In later years, someone explained to me it was a varnish that created the look. Two beautiful horses pulled the wagon, and the funeral director's son sat on top and steered the horses. He wore a black suit and a stovetop hat with white gloves. Not everybody asked for a procession with the black wagon except the families that had settled here over one hundred years ago.

Nevertheless, it was a time-honored tradition my family insisted on. The two horses belonged to Mr. Oshay, who took good care of them at his farm just outside of town. They were popular with the kids who brought them carrots and apples they fed through the fence. On my dad's funeral day, the procession left the church with six pallbearers carefully putting his casket into the shiny wagon. Then everyone walked behind it to the cemetery, where the service continued. As the shiny wagon returned to the city, everyone gathered at our house, where a few of my aunts and cousins had prepared lunch with food from all over town. I stayed behind a little while to say goodbye; as it turned out, it wasn't easy. I had held back my tears until then when it hit me. I'd never see my dad again. So I took some pop cycle sticks I had in my jacket pocket and began to put them together to make a stick bomb my dad had taught me to make a while ago. Most kids know what they do but let me explain for those who don't. You need five sticks that you intertwine, creating a web. You have to be very gentle as you get the middle stick over the top of the other sticks and gently join the top and bottom together, like a spring trap. If you can run fast, throw it at someone and watch as it explodes in harmless fun. I put one last pop cycle bomb together and placed it on my dad's grave. He would have liked that. So, I said to myself as I took the long walk home to more black clothes and endless dishes of food.