I’ve been lost in pictures too long lately,
Envying frozen faces and captured smiles,
Forgetting the prints they left on soul-marked pages,
Moments melted into goldened glue.
I cannot leave the cover closed.
Dusty echoes calling through shut time folds.
I return often, liking the happiness encased there,
Framed perfectly in hazy-hued memory.
I leave today pictureless. Frozen moments
not possible in thawing Spring. I find today
trivial. Fall will wish for April snapshots,
but I wish only for wrinkled dust.
2.
I sit on April’s rebirth, longing to join Chaucer
in past pilgrimage. He taught me life
and air full of feathered, contenting spices.
Something appears in traveled miles,
More than worn shoes and souvenirs
The soul’s skin forms signs of age,
Lines of living are created.
I miss wrinkled living,
Finding new faces in the mirror
Of fresh-breathed days.
April departs and I remain
Hoping for future paths--
Their worn promise of story.
3.
Time is the marathon runner of Olympia.
Pulling me in persistent journey,
Willing my mind to follow the frame,
To live the speed of life present treads.
The past grows older daily, months ago
become years. My reach grows long; yet,
grip loosens, outlines fade. Moments
once embossed tatter to threads,
used as laces for running game shoes.
Bow-tied memories on my feet,
Racing forward becomes easy.
4.
I cannot look back, refusing to be a pillar
of savorless salt. I plow my future furrow deep,
closing my eyes in ink-spilled finish instead.
Signed off is nail-gripped past,
Tiny seeds drop from today’s toil—
Deep blue is the thunder-iced horizon.
The promise of future fruit sweet.
Some till their path with salt. I,
with mustard, remove mountains
onto my heart’s fleshy table.
Stand on the plain, like a laden tree.
Whittle The Word into weathered trunk:
Carved is Remember not Regret.
-DaLe 06.05.10
I started spring cleaning today
And found you among the clutter—
Whiter version of me, clearer soul lines
to read. Face washed and makeup-less,
your natural skin feels the breeze better,
knows how to breathe better.
I’m tired of living in shells.
Their mask from reality is the hard,
but breakable truth of selfish youth.
- DaLe 05.03.10
NPR did a series for many years entitled "This I Believe". People from All over the United States could send in their memoirs, and if chosen, they would read them on the air. The series is over now, but I decided to write one nonetheless.
I didn’t always believe in angels. Not the kind that came to ordinary girls like me. Sure I believed in the ones that appeared to the prophets in the scriptures, to the really important people, but I didn’t believe in the ones that talked to little girls in inaudible tones in those quiet moments before sleep.
My grandmother died before I ever reached my first birthday. Her cancer infiltrating her bones until they broke while my grandfather was carrying her from her bed to her sitting chair. I learned to hear her speak from listening to my dad periodically pull out her personal history, and bring her southern sass and deep-fried faith to life. A special feeling would come over me while he read, and I found myself longing for other moments that would bring that spirit back, her spirit.
I didn’t realize it was her that I long for until I was talking to a friend in college, and he brought up the idea that those that comfort and speak to us in those crucial times in our lives are those loved ones that have passed on. When he said it, it just made sense. I thought back to all those times I had needed heavenly assistance, and the feelings seemed to match the ones I felt when lost somewhere in shared memories of Grandma.
There were the big times: when my older sister got in a car accident, and no one was sure if she would make it through the night. I had argued with her that same night and I blamed myself. I lay on my side and cried for hours, willing my repeated words of “I’m sorry; I’m sorry” to reach the heavens. Somewhere in those sobs, I found overwhelming peace, so personal and loving it felt like the arms of heaven folded around my adolescent torso. It must have been her accepting the mission to comfort a granddaughter in the depths of despair.
There were the smaller times of heartbreak, and fear: when the paths of life scared me so much I fell on knees in hopelessness. There that feeling would come, filled with the same love that made personal plates of chocolate chip cookies, and laughed until tears ran down her cheeks.
One day I came walking into the house from the garage, talking to my dad as I came, and then I turned the corner. He stopped mid sentence. “You look just like my mom right now” he said. I like to think that’s because the older I get, and the harder life seems to treat me, the more she is with me—even showing in my face, eyes, and smile.
For people of faith, the promise of Jesus Christ from John 14: 18 to not leave us comfortless, is a promise of reality. For me, that comfort comes in the calming presence of my grandmother. So, I believe in angels, because even though I can’t see them, I think they bridge the gap of heaven and soil to remind us that there’s more than just dust and earth, and that family ties go deeper than time.
