But...I’m not Mom.
She wheeled her father to the top of the hill where they were met with a bench under a tall sycamore tree. When she was younger, her father would throw ball with her whilst catching the sunset. Now, her father sat in a wheelchair, looking frail and thin to the bones, relying on a thick sweater to keep him warm in the middle of summer.
"Dad, do you remember this place?" She asked.
"How can I not," he replied softly, "it was the place I proposed to your mother." He smiled, recalling the fateful day he willingly got on his knees to make his high school sweatheart his forever.
She smiled too, revealing the crinkling in her eyes as she let out a breath of relief. She took a sit at the edge of the bench so that she could be near her father and proceeded to take out a photo album. Dr. Fayward advised jogging father's memory a few times a day to help slow the progression of his deteriorating memory.
"Shall we take a jog down memory lane?" She asked.
"With you, my darling, of course." She watched in fascination as she observed her father taking in her baby pictures and running his fingers over her face. "You were so beautiful even as a baby." As the pictures evolved chronicologically, her father's expression began to change and his eyes began to reveal a tinge of confusion. "Molly, I didn't know you played soccer?"
That's because her mother didn't, but she did. On normal circumstances, she would have been flattered to look like her mom, but in moments like these, her insides desparately pleaded with her father, please don't forget me.
although a little slanted,
shows your dimples,
and lingers on the mirror.
filled with highlights,
takes refuge on the coffee table.
Your coffee mug,
holds the stain of your lips,
lucious and full,
holding my heart captive.
Your lingering shadow,
never seems to fade,
as it follows my every move,
intending to be my unwilling guest.
With every curl of her green tresses, she is able to tumble into a different identity, one that holds a different persona and face. Yesterday, she was a 8th grade teacher in Ireland, smiling as she taught her students math through a video camera.
But, today, she is a baker at her favorite bakery in San Francisco. It baffles her still that she is able to dive into her new character daily and effortlessly; without the struggle of a lack in knowledge of both the technical and practical. Imposter syndrome conquered, she thought to herself quietly. The day is still bright as she opened the windows to allow the scent of freshly baked bread infuse into the city.
Soon, the bakery is filled with customers. Most, she could oddly tell, were regulars as they know where their favorite pastries and bread are located. Some children are itching to sample some blueberry croissonts, only to be gently reprimanded by their parents. A particular young couple, their shared looks of longing clearly reflecting their blossoming love for each other, are picking their breakfast with careful consideration.
Oh, how she wish to have a man look at her as if she were his whole world. If only she could cling on to one body, one persona, and one face. But she would have to give up the freedom she once sought--to be in a different place each day and to be experiencing myriads of emotions. However, one specific feeling does not seem to flatter: the feeling of loneliness and being forgotten by this world with every shut eye. It was an inevitable price she had to pay as she ventures through each curled tresses, discovering the intertwined identities that she hopes she could one day combine.
Love is paradoxical.
It causes one to smile the sweetest of smiles and spit the bitterest bile.
It possess the power for one to burn passionately with a flame of new desires and yet cause another to suffer the mundane of a routine.
It sparks a new beginning and ends another.
It lifts one to cloud nine and drops one in the arms of Hades.
It stirs a laughter and makes one cry a waterfall.
Love is, ultimately, the creator of emotions--a necessary element to ignite the deepest fibers of our souls to allow each of us to be truly alive.
She tells of her marriage with the famous deity, Jesus Christ, and speaks fondly of the child they have, Crystal, whom was five. As her name implies, the child is nowhere to be seen, crystal clear and invisible to the naked eye. Yet, her mother smiles fondly and reaches out to give her a big hug. Although, to me, she was hugging nothing but thin air. The young mother clings to her child for a longer moment, as if she were her entire universe, hope and joy. I cannot help but wonder if her sweet smile reflects the escape she so desparately needs. Perhaps, her present reality may be the normal that I have yet to behold; the side of normal that I am not apart of.
Her blue eyes caused him to envision a future of waking up to her disheveled auburn hair and sharing passionate kisses. It felt perfect. However, it was short-lived as her new fiancee appears. Before he thought twice, he pulled her into a hug and beckoned his entire being to remember this moment for he knew it would be his last.
Hold On to the Wonder
The nurse held the tiny creature,
Admiring its little features,
Covered in translucent and cheeselike moisture.
Although it is a few months premature,
It still is a beauty of nature,
As it evolves to be mature.
The nurse smiles for its adventure,
As she ponders of its upcoming future,
To create its own signature.
Before the nurse’s departure,
She took a mental picture,
And whispered a silent lecture:
“The world may have vultures,
But hold on to the wonder,
The hope that persists in our culture,
Because we always need a little reminder,
That our humanity needs to be recaptured.”
When She is Searching
A mind that would not rest.
A heart beating aimlessly.
An inner being that is screaming.
A deep breath.
A soul that feels detached, lost, and purposeless.
A blink of an eye.
A gut with mixed feelings.
A brain that knows what needs to be done.
A battle between the heart and mind.
A heavy sigh.
Eyelids remain heavy.
She continues her search.