I can’t believe I’m here
to talk about memories again!
I avoided this lane last time
and yet, the ink of fate
navigates me here.
Do you want to smell my burning carcass?
Would that suit you?
Do you want to feel my scars and trace a line where they don’t end?
How do I draw the monstrous image of my fears and expect to break a dawn?
How do I mold my pains from the sands of time,
so you’re not totally
consumed by the awe of it?
Pain is when Mama closed her eyes
and you know she’ll never open them
to laugh, frown or smile at you again.
Pain is when after the deaths of years, you can still recall that the last meal you prepared for her was unripe plantain porridge.
Pain is that the last time you saw her
she was ridden with bed sores;
smiling at you to allay the little fears that come creeping at night.
Pain is how you still realize that her pain is oozing like a pus
and you can smell it, still you feign smiles.
Pain is realizing truly what Celine Dion
meant when she said “Goodbye’s the saddest
word I’ll ever say.”
Pain is never getting to say your goodbyes
and yet that’s the only thing you wished
you had said.
Life plays puns on us all; we bleed yet we’re not permitted to mourn.
Life wears the hood of irony;
jumping on the roofs of happy homes
and depositing seven horrific bags and a bag of hope; torn by the sides,
contents spilling on the floor.
What do you save?
Which is easier to save?
The bags containing illness, fear, death, grief, extreme denial, depression and regression;
all perfectly packed; yet the easy way out.
Or the leaking bag of hope; with content escaping every which way?
See, life has a way of making us
save the bags not useful to us.
We just can’t help but be tethered to these emotional roughages; never letting go.
We let our hope run out of us; like sand in an hourglass.
But no more!!
I’m saving that one bag of hope;
perhaps I can peer hopefully into
tomorrow and not be afraid of what truly lies ahead of this gloom I found myself in.
There you have it…
I just unfolded a memory.