Fractured Soul- A short, short story

Rain ran down and bubbled against the sleek curved surface, transformed it. Like sitting inside a bowfront china cabinet faced with the beaded glass from an earlier century, Cecily thought. Appropriate, since she felt as fragile as a fine porcelain cup encased in a body, wooden and stiff with age, with skin, transparent as glass, drawn taught across brittle bones.

She stood up, moved closer to the window. How had she ended up in this New York highrise, far from the mountains she called home? Her son insisted she move near family, she resisted and then acquiesced, because it made him happy. It's what a mother did.

Cecily peered out and down forty stories at the stream of people and cars. Her son said it was like sitting on top of a mountain looking down at a river in a gorge. He said she'd feel right at home. Not so, thought Cecily, though she hadn't told him that. It was like looking into yourself and watching the blood pour from a wound in your heart. She ran her hand across the glass, traced a fine flaw in its surface. Did her son know it was fractured, was in danger of shattering? She would not tell him because if she did he would feel he had to move her again and the thought made her weary.

Still... If there was a chance he'd move her back to her mountains she might say something. She felt a slight quickening inside, then whatever had stirred, curled back into itself. Deep down she knew going home belonged in the past with beaded glass.
Cecily stepped back and stared at her reflection in the flawed window and watched, no expression on her face, as the crack widened across her soul.

Writing

Is it right to write if you don't feel like writing, but you might, if you write right along in the right way, with the right words, will you come up with something called good writing?

Friday In June

Cool as the cheek of an old person the day begins. I listen to the breakfast conversation of the bluebirds and watch the horses groom each other. I wish I could capture the peace of this June morning and send it to those I love so that they too could feel the wonder of being alive at this moment in this place. The world is good.

When Mothers Move

I've spent the last week moving my Mother from Kentucky to NC. I know this move has to be hard for her. She is down-sizing, moving to a new community and leaving most of what has defined her for many years behind. Or at least before the actual move I thought she was leaving those things behind.

Things went fairly well considering she is in her 80's, has a cat who is half wild, and enough stuff, that couldn't be moved until the last minute, to keep me busy with questions of why do you need this? As I packed her treasures I wondered about the things an octogenarian deems important. Bags upon bags of plastic bags, a small orange plastic measuring cup, tiny scraps of paper filled with shaky handwriting, and toys for a calico cat. I began to puzzle over her choices. Is it the small everyday things that are important? Are we all wasting energy and precious time acquiring all the symbols of modern success? I thought of the boxes of dishes, sports equipment, and who knows what else, I moved when we changed locations. It all seemed so vital.

The items that connect us to our basic needs are what my Mom's treasures tell me are valuable. Perhaps the items she wouldn't allow to go in the moving van say the most? The calico cat, of course, and a small box filled with her living will, social security information and pictures of those she loves. "If I make it to my new home with these, everything will be ok," she said. Wisdom comes with age, they say. For once I feel they might be right.

Poem-maybe? The Real World

Rain dots the surface
circle against broken circle
in a blue oval pool
leaves tremble at the touch of water
gray sky hovers like a tarnished tray
turned upside down
over a ruined picnic
inside the television reports
the war
dust covered soldiers
half a world away
thirst for home
drip sweat
circle against broken circle
in the ochre sand

Rain

Why is it that I always feel like curling up with a good book when it rains? Plants don't do that, they perk to attention and virtually leap into leaf production at the first drops of moisture from the air. Me, I feel bogged down, water logged, my hair droops where it doesn't frizz and bones groan with the effort of moving, forget all about leaping. The 3rd day of June is masquerading as October and I wouldn't be surprised to see the pumpkin vines sprouting jack-o-lanterns. Perhaps,I will go for a walk in the downpour and drown my sorrows as I wait for the summer sun to come to my rescue. Or, I can wind my way through a book on deserts and get lost in its' pages. What would you do?