The lies we tell our children.

we solemnly believe.

knowing the intention

the wound still bleeds.

The lies we tell our children.

that the abandonment

won't always sting.

that dancing in the living room

is a profound thing.

Wonderous minds

we refuse to kill.

with the lies we tell our children

daddy still belongs to hell.

The truth we don't tell our children

is not bringing the tears.

all it does is silence the fears.

the truth we don't tell our children.

doesn't exist.

The lies we tell our children.

that we solemnly believe

knowing the intention

the wound still bleeds.

The names used are all imaginary and do not intend any significance with real people.

And fell the leaf. One more. Once more.

“The autumn leaves, aren’t they beautiful?”,

said the old man Ghosh* to his little son Titir*, as he dressed Titir’s knee wound. Sitting on the ground with Titir on his lap, inside a home of bare tin sheets, they both gazed out through a gap in the sheets, something one would call a window, at a herd of cattle as the dimmed sunlight fell upon their skins. “But they fall.” replied Titir in low and calm voice. Covered in sweat and dust, Mr. Ghosh, glowed yellow golden with the sunlight, he tapped his son’s head and said, “A falling leaf ensures the growth of the tree. It is the leaf’s way to love the only part of it, the tree”. Titir replied with a hmph. Mr. Ghosh continued, “See that bird, the little green one, it’s called a bee-eater, it surely flies higgledy-piggledy. But it looks like it is chasing after something” the boy interrupted him and said, “Chases after bees, of-course”. “But why?" asked Mr. Ghosh briskly. The boy kept quiet. The old man now said, “Look up at that nest. It hunts bees for its children. It chases love.” He continued, “Bees are like the problems we face, they come, go. Sometimes we hunt them sometimes we don’t. but you should always remember my son, that the only thing we chase is love. Become the bird that chases love. For it stays with you forever, in your heart, neither does it vanish nor does it fade.” The boy stood up all of a sudden, said, “Then was my mother a mere bee or did you simply not love her?” asked the boy in a harsh tone and stormed out saying, “lie. It’s all you can do”.

Mr. Ghosh’s heart melted down into tears while his body froze to death, he couldn’t utter a single word. Years flew by just like the bee-eater.

“You can go in.,” said the nurse. A little girl ran inside the room where

Mr. Ghosh lied on a white bed with a few medical instruments connected to him in the way the little vines would try to cover a huge tree bark. The girl shouted grandpa and ran into his arms as a man in a well ironed cornflower blue shirt and a grey pant watched them while standing at the doorstep. The girl settled down in his arms. “Do you see that bird, the little green one…”, said Mr. Ghosh and the story repeated itself and staring at his shoes, the man in shirt stood there muted. “Its all a lie, you’re bluffing grandpa”, said the little girl and ran out of the room towards a beautiful lady.

“I stand here today only because of you father.” Said the man in shirt while still staring at his shoes. He stood there in silence for a while when finally, Mr. Ghosh spoke in his low, calm husky voice, “Sorry, son. Sorry for I, my lies, are the reason for you being here. Sorry for lying to you about love, about life. Sorry for all I could offer you was nothing more than lie”. Titir still had his face down towards ground,

“A lie. Again.” He murmured. Mr. Ghosh slowly looked out of the window, at the afternoon sky, towards the road where school children were wandering, tickling each other, fighting and bursting into laughter. His eyes squinted and the edges of his mouth shifted upwards.

“She was an autumn leaf…”,

said Mr. Ghosh. The man burst into tears and could no longer hold his stance.

Titir came home, his wife opened the door, “It must have been tough for you today, sit, ill make us some tea.” Titir sat on a cushioned sofa beside the window, opened the tinted glass panel, sat his daughter on his lap, held her tight within his arms. His palms trembled, his vision blurred with the teardrops he had been putting hold on within his eyes. He sat there, doing nothing. Nothing could he do!

His wife caressed his shoulder, gave him the tea. He dared open his eyes, looked at the beautiful lady that stood beside him. “Papa! Grandpa. He is coming home now, right?” asked his daughter. He slowly nodded yes. “A lie. It’s all I can give you now”, he murmured to himself. Looked out of the window, his mind blanked out. The mid evening sunlight, in which he watched his daughter’s hair glaze golden like a river of gold. A river of endless love. With his heart filled with something that an old man once aforsaid would never vanish, neither would it fade. The words which he finally understood and believed in. He squinted his eyes, calmed down, with a serene, opened them again and said to his daughter,

“The autumn leaves, aren’t they beautiful?”

*Ghosh: A Bengali surname that means Cowherd (A person who tends grazing cattle)

*Titir: A bird

It's a lie

we tell to

Ourselves,

to our family

'n to friends,

And we

state it soft

over 'n over

several x's

a day

a bump

a scrape

a slight

a wrong

a fib

but, it's okay

{Truly now...}

In the Know

we're hurt

and hurt

we are,

later on,

disrespected

and prodded

to disrespect,

the innermost

of self-ethic,

that triggers

Beware...!

We gape at

crass, vulgar

obscenities,

photo docs,

and fantasy

in the Third

of the World

that's right

next door,

but, it's okay

{What's reality anyway..?}

The Real has

past and left

its callous,

growing like

a lil tumor

up in the

vestibule

of the soul,

that says No,

but, it's okay

{Mama said...!}

And it must

be so cause

that's what's

She's told

herself...

on repeat,

despite the

doubt, the

agony, we do

firmly believe

like a sound

Whooping it

serves me,

and my

progeny!

Lies We Tell Our Children... Challenge @BJLeCrae

I always keep my distance. We don't call. We don't text. We don't invite. I tell them we are busy. This is at least partially true, with so many jobs and so little time, and with limited resources, we are always running. While we live close, it would be unfair to do more than a check-in every once in a while. Here are some lovely photos. Here are my kids interests. It's true that we keep our distance. Its true that you would hardly know who we are if you saw us on the street. Even if you know what we look like, the little vagueries that we share on social media, it would be impossible for you to know us. I lie when you ask me to. I tell you I'm too busy for a drive, for a call. Too busy for a visit. I lie to my kids and say that you, too, are busy. Those lies are small. They are punishing only for me. You don't care about the lies, because you don't really care about the calls and the visits. Because I've seen what those visits have done. I've seen the looks passed around when you think I can't see them: the assesed measurements, the quiet inspections. I've heard the calls. Heard the quiet whispers, picking, and poking, and peeling back layers, like a skinned thing that you couldn't help but devour whole. I lie because I can't imagine doing it to them, taking that from them, breaking them to bits, as you have done to me. I lie because the lies you tell are large, so hard to swallow that I've choked on them all of my life. They too, are punishing, only for me. I lie because all anyone believes are the lies that we've told. I would rather have them hear my lies than to hear how small you really think they are, or how unworthy. I lie so that they will rise greater than all of us. I lie so that they will not know that terrible voice beating them down.

For the kids,

Our sweet chirping baby birds,

That life would be empty without

We tell them that we are strong,

Holding back tears as we do so,

That magic exists in the world

But it's actually just kindness

The lies we tell them,

We also tell ourselves,

Because who wouldn't want to live in a world

Where the Easter bunny and these mythical creatures

are real

A place where good always wins,

And love always prevails,

Bills don't exist and food just appears,

A place where fear is a myth,

We try to give them that illusion,

To keep them happy and innocent,

And so that when they grow up,

They can cope and deal with the reality around them.

Potent little white lies becomes words of love

to shelter,

discipline,

form.

Creative ways to protect

break the silence of wonder

puncturing the massive balloon that is occupied with fear and dilution.

We build our personal caves

gather sticks and meat,

hunt for wisdom,

and learn what to take away,

what you wish you knew sooner.

Share your wisdom

sprinkle them out in waves

sometimes perceived

and at times altered

sparingly seasoned.

For the kindest thing one can do

is sometimes to blind you from the truth.

And with your lessons you will sow,

for the next generation to grow.

"Mommy! Mommy! There's a scary monster in my closet!" She sobs.

"Shh. It's okay, baby. There is no such thing as monsters."

Sure, there may not be monsters with fangs or horns or claws, but we know the truth. We see them every day. While she plays in the living room the news channel reminds us. More children missing. More bodies found in the river. More people killed in cold blood.

But we lie, for as long as we can.

"Monsters aren't real."

So that our babies can sleep soundly at night and play on the playground. Oblivious. While we pray for their lives.

Parents lie. Adults Lie.

They do it for many reasons that we only understand when we get older and begin to lie as well.

They lie to shelter us from a world that could tear us apart without even knowing the way sounds assemble themselves into our name.

They lie to shelter our feelings from a world that kills people with a breath of ice.

They lie to shelter our thoughts from a world that would make us overthink the simplest thing by shoving condescending fire into our eyes.

They lie so in ten years they can still find you instead of only finding a stone slab with your name withering away.

I present a fun world as true,

Select places to play without cares.

This is the lie I dream for you.

Others will care when you are blue,

This may catch you unawares,

But I present a caring world as true.

Evil people are few,

Friends won’t greet with glares,

This is the lie I dream for you.

I could never crush your spirit too,

So, every day I put on airs,

And present a better world as true.

The world out there you can make brand new,

These words are the fares,

To the lie I dream for you.

You will succeed the world through,

All the bad are nightmares.

I present all evil as passing and goodness true,

Because this is the lie, I dream for you.

You lie to them by giving them all your love. When they ask for a toy and you say no, they beg. You comply knowing you need the money for your med's and you let them have the toy. When they ask for a beautiful dress to feel like a princess and you can't say no even though you need the money for the bills. When you give them the last dollar you have to make them happy. You lie to them by showing them that you have no problems. Even though you might not have wanted them in the first place you give them love.

I'm not a parent. But I know this because my grandmother would always give me anything that made me happy even though we were poor and lived in hotels. She died four years ago and I dedicate the fact that I can say I had someone when I was young when my siblings did not. Later in my life, after she died I found out that she was spending every last dollar she had to get me fries from McDonald's. I love her even more then I did, and she was my favorite person in my life.