So long. So long since I was built here, so long I have stood here, waiting- for what I don't know, but still, I wait. I feel my surroundings, the snow piled on my sides, snug as an icy womb. My breath billows from the chimney, black against the white winter sky; curling endlessly upwards.
She climbs my frail stairs with Her frail legs, using only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her age-softened fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters. Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit effortlessly, flying with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime then was not so different than it is now. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet be -or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped footprint on a hill left.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
WA-2 Draft 2
So long. So long since I was built here, so long I have stood here, waiting- for what I don't know, but still, I wait. I feel my surroundings, the snow piled on my sides, snug as an icy womb. My breath billows from the chimney, black against the white winter sky; curling endlessly upwards.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soothes me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin and flit, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to crave the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my bricks and stones, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already had been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and I am sure She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her small prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent and unloved for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that have lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; I know that when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one left to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone, with just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
WA-2
So long. So long have I stood here, waiting- for what I don't know, but still, I wait. I feel my surroundings, the snow piled on my sides, snug as an icy wombs. My breath billows from the chimney, black against the white winter sky; curling endlessly upwards.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soother me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to need the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my being, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already has been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come for me; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone then, just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
She climbs my frail stairs, with only a sole candle to light Her way: I will not tolerate wires tangled in my veins, strangling me and filling my ears with the constant buzz of electricity. Curling Her fingers around the doorknob, She pulls softly, carefully, and enters Her room.
Vines ambitiously reach their spindly fingers over my body, as through they would keep me here forever, tied to the land beneath my feet. Their slow rustling soother me through the long cold, and I remember times before. Times when my insides were filled with laughter; when I could feel the excitement running over my walls and floors, bubbly as champagne. They would spin, seemingly effortlessly with the music, their coattails and skirts little flapping birds of joy. Not now, now all is quiet and still.
She readies Herself for sleep, pulling a nightgown over Her downy now-white head with hair that is no longer sleek and black in a braid to Her waist. She warms Her hands over the candle for a moment, just a moment, as if She were ashamed to need the extra heat.
Wartime in those before days was not so different. Families huddled around a radio, penguins with bowed heads, waiting, waiting, for news. I could feel the anxiety shudder through my being, not knowing what had passed. Sad Christmases coming with the sorrow over what may yet- or already has been- lost. Mother would rise, joints creaking with artificial old age, and after much beckoning, Children would follow, little soft feet padding through silky soft carpets.
She was a part of those days, as a Child, and She remembers them still, even as She whispers Her prayers to the close and comforting darkness with its Mona Lisa smile. She turns a key in Her hand, to what, even I don't know, a closet or desk, perhaps the one in the study that has remained silent for so many years. A reassuring pat of the pillow, and She lays down on the cold, solitary bed, with its hodgepodge of threadbare patchwork quilts. The blankets wrap around her, outlining and encasing Her form like those coarse plaster casts of the now forgotten people of Pompeii. What were their names?
I am who I am, because of the hands that made me from the earth, because of the people that lived their lives inside of me, because of Her. She who I saw born, raised, from little flour covered hands in the kitchen, to small nimble fingers braiding hair for the first day of school, till now. She is not young and neither am I; when She is gone I will be too. I will have no one to care for me, and the waiting ones with destruction will come for me; and then it will all be done and over. I will be gone then, just a little house shaped space on a hill left.
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