The sound of garlic cloves

It’s dinner time.

Darkness surrounds the house, though small pockets of light tremble softly from a candle or two.

The cold is everywhere. Unexpectedly so, considering I am surrounded by walls. It slips through windows, settles into blankets, follows us from room to room.

I live in a moment in time, in another world really, one I did not choose but learned to love because it answered something simple and human in me: the need to feel safe, wanted, held.

And then, a sound.

I know it instantly.

A garlic clove rubbed against hot, hardened toast. Then lard. Then salt.

It’s dinner time.

The sound lingers in the quiet.

The smell of garlic stays on my fingers.

I can sleep now.

The things I learned to save

In the Romania of my childhood, nothing was thrown away too quickly, especially hope.

We kept dried bread because it could be softened in tea or, on better days, milk, and turned into a meal. We kept wrapping paper because it could be folded carefully and used again several more times. Why throw it away, really? Perfectly good paper.

We kept old clothes too. Clothes did not become old; children simply grew. A waistband could be let out. Sleeves adjusted. A dress worn one more winter.

We kept letters, notebooks, books, ribbons, buttons in old tins, jars that once held something else. We kept things because things had value, and because replacing them was never guaranteed.

We kept our families close because you never quite knew how long people would remain beside you. Also, despite everything, we genuinely liked each other. Most of the time.

And quietly, stubbornly, we kept dreams alive.

We kept hope present.

We kept wishes.

I still do...

Why?

 I have a chest of drawers in my head. 

The other day, I opened a few that I haven't touched in years. 

Why, you ask? 

I missed the smell of old. Old books, old walls, old streets, and old leaves. 

I opened them, and now my hands are coated with the dust of time past. I don't want to wash my hands. I want to sleep through the night with my memories of old paths I traveled. 

Today, I woke up and went to the drawers in my head. I knew exactly which drawer I need to open. 

It's stuck. That drawer, out of all of them, is stuck. 

Why? Why that one? Why now? 

Is it because of the dust on my hands? 

Is it because of the dreams I had? 

Is it because of forgetting the other drawers? 

I need some WD-40, please. 

The choice

 Watching a drop of rain on my window

Rainbows form and float away

With life

and smiles and song.

Will they come back? Regrow in the next drop? Or the next? 

I don't seem to know the world outside the rain drop on my window.

I move my head and the drop looks larger

I lose the rainbows but I gain space.

And some of the smiles come back

And a melody. Quiet.

Rainbows or space? That one drop or another? Rain or sunshine?

The choice is mine. 

Someone

Once upon a time, there was a flutter. A beating of wings, a soft touch, a full heart. 

Then, there was flight. Full of hope and love, determination and kindness, power, and above all, fearlessness. 

After that came rain. Sometimes warm and light, with the sunshine peaking through leaves. Most of the time, hard, heavy rain, with big, cold drops and angry sky. Thunderous. At times, a rainbow came. 

The days of anger were many. Too wet, too cold, too hungry, too scared. So angry. 

Then, came sleep. Restless sleep, full of darkness and again, fear. 

What's next? 

Oblivion. 

Discomfort

The world has let me down.

Or maybe it's revenge, or payback for the abuse it receives from me and everyone else. 

But can we just talk? A worldly conversation? 

I miss the talks we used to have: me in a forest, the world on the edge... 

It's been awhile. 

I am not who I used to be. 

The world isn't either.

Except we don't know who we are anymore. Or where we belong. 

I am on the edge of the forest, scared to go out. 

Out is the world and I don't know it. 

The world doesn't know me. The world is thin. I am not. 

I go back in the forest. 

The world does not follow and I am ok. For now. 

Tomorrow is another "on the edge" day. 

Words for my daughter

Happy Sweet 16, my love! I can’t believe you are 16. I want to stop the time, to keep you little, but then I would miss all the beauty you bring to the new days. So, I won’t. I will just say this...
You are my world
The life itself.
You hold love in your hands and
it becomes the air I breathe.
You grow and with you my heart rejoices.
You are my friend, my angel, my gift.
You are 16 today.
I wish for you to be true to yourself,
Courageous,
Fair and just.
I wish for you to always learn,
To challenge yourself,
To search.
I wish for you love,
Beauty,
Strength and generosity.
I wish for you to know my love.
Always.

Ready, Set, Go!

I want an award, a ribbon, a medal

Or maybe a statue, a fountain, a bench

What for? No reason, really. Although… 

My walls are blank and I am afraid of the white space. There, I said it.

So, give me something to put on my wall, or else, I will have to paint something

And what I am really afraid of is the colors

It’s better if I just get a medal. Then, we can keep talking about accomplishments not about fear

So, I will train to run a 5k

Then, I will get a medal.

Red

The perfect cure for sadness, said someone.
Red is the word, the emotion, the light, flowing from yellow to blue;
I feel it touching my back...
I feel it in my hair...
I feel it with my thoughts...
because it's not black or orange.

If red is not orange, but white is also not black,
is red also white?

I say it is the perfect cure for colorless emotions,
for words floating without purpose.
Red captures the letters,
the words,
the phrases,
and makes them feelings.
Not black.

The roar of the lions in the hot desert of the world,
the beauty of the deepest ocean on a winter,
white day.
Not blue.

The overwhelming desire of strong arms around my soul,
the permanence of rocks,
and the softness of skin.
Not white.

Lists

Fields of wheat. I miss them.
Fields of sunflowers. I miss those too.

Yesterday, I made a checklist of my soul. Today I have to update it.
Which one should I publish? You know, as a private victory of my constant personal inquiry...

We measure. We strive. We improve.
We change.
And then, we do it all over again.

When should I schedule my living?
I'll put it on the list.

Blame

Is it a hole I see inside my heart?
Looking in, it seems deep and cold... but the hole has a beat.
Is it my heart that beats?

The rain will wash the blood off the pavement.
Till next time... Next time it rains or next time there's a hole in a heart?
Someone's else's heart. Mine beats.

These are children, butterflies and flowers.
The blood streaks them all, they are looking for the holes...
In the hearts, in the sky, in the leaves.

Not enough people... not enough guns... not enough God...
Not enough rain.
But enough holes?

Mama

Such a full word, such a joy to be.
Is it me? Or you? How about you?
A collection of souls,
The sound of heartbeats
is deafening, but beautiful.

I hear her whisper further and further.
Through the years, my eyes are filled with those
blue tears
The soft touch of her hand flows through me
like the memory of beloved shadows.

Embrace her.