A Brother’s Love

Whenever Samuel came for lunch, Ae-Cha Hanja ducked behind the counter as if looking for that one ingredient not yet displayed. No time for flirts. But he always came back. “Is Ae-Cha here today?” “Today?” “Now?” Never. Not for you. On Tuesday, a customer left his newspaper, open to the obituaries. Dead at 64, Samuel Hanja spent his last days looking for his sister Ae-Cha. 12 years younger than him. Born during the Korean War. At the age of 1, she went to America. He stayed behind. His friend quoted Samuel, “I never loved anyone more than my baby sister.”

Raul’s Dream

As a child, Raul dreamed of climbing into the sky. Becoming an angel. Poor Raul. Momma grew marijuana in the greenhouse. Smoked. Drank. Got too high. Had too many boyfriends. Not one admitted Raul was his son. Raul planted flowers. Momma ripped them out. Seeing their empty cupboard, he planted beans. Momma tore them out. When Momma gave birth, Raul named the baby Angel because Momma was too high to care. Days he watched clouds. Nights he showed Angel constellations and fell in love with her smile. The day Momma traded Angel for a case of bourbon Raul’s dream shattered.

Do Not Take Advantage

Oh, how the mighty do fall. Some with a great deal of angry noise. Others quietly. Either way, roots of the never-ending lies that forced them to their knees are exposed for all to see. Friends and family, entwined in a web of destruction, remain to pick up the pieces.

I’ll not do that, for you are the epitome of corruptness. Base. Vile. Greedy.

Yes. I present the list I’ve kept in my heart for too many years. Perhaps your children will hide the truth. Or one of your many lovers.

The only thing I offer? My silence.

Safety

You are nine, have taken a long way home, and by now, your mother is frantic. The ache in your bruised bones tells you so.

Because it looks like rain, you have two choices, duck into the house beside the trail or arrive home sopping wet. Either option will prove dreadful. Seeking shelter equals increased tardiness; coming home in soggy clothes guarantees a hailstorm of anger. Both promise a beating.

So, you choose shelter. You are two feet away. The door glides open. A wood fire, the scent of rabbit stew, and a waxen-winged woman greet you. She smiles. “Welcome home.”

Blue Light

Momma said, “If you get lost, retrace your footprints.”

But Samuel’s tracks were jumbled among so many others he didn’t know where to run. And it was dark. Cold. And the man with the torch radiating sapphire-blue light was just…over…there.

During the chase, Samuel lost the boots Poppa grudgingly cobbled because Momma asked him to more than twenty times. Leather boots with star-embedded soles.

“You’ll leave impressions that are yours alone.” Momma smiled.

Fearing Poppa’s anger more than the man swinging the torch, Samuel planted his bare feet in the snow and studied the blue light drawing closer.

Sincerely, Damien

Mother,

Foliage has returned. Five years passed before the greasy-black smoke of burning tires dissipated. We lived underground. The land is littered with grenades, bullets, bones. We collect them. Angela builds walls from grenades. Beautiful structures. Felicia fashions windchimes from bullets and vines.

Do not worry, these reminders of war are not dangerous. Frederick makes it so.

I am building homes. We live separately. For safety. Only four people remain but constructing homes from the bones of loved ones takes time.

Do not return. You would not find comfort under my roof, for it is made from Father’s ribs.

Baggage

When my heart shatters like a single mussel shell beneath your angry words and I fall to my knees and cry for mercy, kindness, forgiveness, a gentle hand or a whispered I love you, will you be there, not to shout questions or offer unneeded advice but to gently lift me up and guide me, not to your home or mine but to a place of warmth and softness where our baggage of discordant history has no place and the sound of children’s laughter brings delight instead of angst?

Attitude of Gratitude

Four years ago Dawn Q. Laundau of Tales from the Motherland (Click for more details) presented other bloggers with the challenge to spread gratitude throughout the internet. It’s very simple. Take 10 minutes to list 50 or more things you are thankful for

It’s time to look back on 2019 and list the positive things in our lives. #AttitudeOfGratitude #BloggersUnite. Here’s my list:

1. Good friends
2. A WONDERFUL husband who sticks by me through thick and thin
3. The world’s sweetest cat
4. All the ladies who come to my aerobics classes
5. Rain
6. Moss
7. Childhood memories my sisters don’t recall (maybe they’re adopted?)
8. SISTERS!
9. Sisters-in-law
10. Brothers-in-law
11. Outlaws!
12. Writing – need to do more
13. Making soap
14. Walks in the woods
15. Jazz
16. Dancing Dancing Dancing
17. Reading
18. Travel – Africa here we come, someday
19. All the friends I’ve met through Friday Fictioneers
20. The Stitch-n-Bitch group
21. The variety of birds that visit our suet
22. The fact I have luxuries including a washing machine, a dishwasher, hot water, clean sheets, and a warm bed
23. A good hair day
24. Moths and butterflies
25. Black and white movies
26. Candlelight
27. Craft projects ~ including the Metal Earth dragon that made me crazy last year
28. Lavender
28. Lemons
29. Mashed potatoes, sauerkraut, and a hotdog (Thanks, Mom)
30. Champagne
31. Alone time X 10
32. Snow
33. Museums
34. Great photography
35. A car that runs
36. Train rides!
37. Sushi
38. Barbecues
39. The color green
40. Good health
41. A good night’s sleep!
42. My parents, oh, my parents. Such sweeties they were.
43. A pair of hiking boots that are supportive but feel a bit like slippers
44. Socks!!! I love socks!!!
45. The scent of sage or cedar or a delicate rose
46. Naps
47. Songs that bring back memories of High School or college, a lost love or the found love that makes you happy
48. Childhood friends
49. A meal out
50. A meal in
51. Popcorn
52. Ravens and crows

Lessons

Oh, they call it the Luck o’ the Irish
But they know not what they’re sayin
for it’s the strength of we beansídhe,
our intertwined arms and legs
and songs sung when the boyos
are gone to fields
of war
and testosterone
that keeps our world in balance

Skirts gathered above the muck
we tend our family fields
Plant potatoes while
rearing children
hoping they turn out
far better than their elders

We teach daughters to
tend sheep
card wool
and knit sweaters
that announce our clan
with pride
And show them how to say
No!
That is not for me

The boys?
We do our best to
make them brave
and smarter than their fathers
None of us wants to lose
another
husband, father, son
to war

In the end,
the lot of us
help our boys muster
the strength
to avoid anger
And offer nothing less than peace

 

 

Invasion

In response to today’s photo prompt, kindly posted by our fearless leader, Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, I’ve dipped my toes into the water of Sci-fi. Thanks to one and all who read my attempt! Happy Wednesday/Friday.

PHOTO PROMPT © Roger Bultot

Tiny creatures skittered beneath the dome of Bento’s trap.
Some had eight legs, others too many to count.
The first in the collecton were brilliant red and smelled like newly fallen rain.
This last batch, these puce-colored, two-headed beasts filled the dome with the stench of carrion.
And the screeches! That was the worst.

Still, Bento knew it was up to him to gather each and every one.
Whether it was covered in feathers or scales;
fell from the sky at noon, midnight or three.

The first hoard ate his father, the second his mother and son.