My poem has been published in the summer isuue of The BeZine. It’s inspired by the men and women of Ukraine who leave their families behind. I’m honored it was selected. Thank you to the committee. To read it in BeZine click here
One day, their mother led them to a hill. Beyond the mountain, they could see a shining road edged with trees and golden gates flung wide open.
And mother said, “I have reached the end of my journey.
Now, I know the end is better than the beginning. My children can walk with dignity and pride, and with their heads held high, so can their children after them.
And the children said, “You will always walk with us, Mother, even when you have gone through the gates.”
And they watched her as she went on alone, and the gates closed after her.
And they said: “We cannot see her, but she is with us still. A Mother like ours is more than a memory. She is a living presence.”
It was a cloudy overcast day. A cool breeze blew as Bobby looked down at Jimmy.
“Hi, Jimmy,” he said in a low voice.
“Where didthese huge boulders and rocks come from?”
Silence surrounded the space between them.
“I’m sorry, Jimmy”.
We were two young college kids. It was Spring Break. We all thought it would be fun to drive down to the beach. It was wild when the girls arrived. What a surprise!
**********Spring Break is in full swing here in Florida. The beaches are packed shoulder to shoulder with teens celebrating. The drinking has gotten so bad in South Miami that the bars have a 6:00 pm last call on drinks and a midnight curfew has been issued by the county commissioners.
The morning mist of light rain chills the damp air. The sprinkles fall like fairy dust.
Somber moans of grief echoing in the silence mimic the sound of metal thumps.
Our hearts shattered into aching pieces with memories of her kindly, gentle spirit.
The dark holes of fragmented pieces felt in each of us.
Grandmother would have called this a celebration of her life.
‘No tears, no sorrow for my death, just joyful memories of my days,’ she’d say.
Grandmother’s friends were remembering her vibrant life.
A dark hole of broken hearts forever silences her wise words in the end.
*****The elderly continue to be the biggest victims of this dreaded pandemic that we’re still in the midst of experiencing. My daughter is a counselor at a hospice hospital in Albany, NY. The deaths are staggering. Please get vaccinated and wear masks.
In February, we had another photo prompt from Dale Rogerson. Since this week we’re having an encore of another of her wonderful photos, I thought I would continue my first Flash Fiction story called Dying Love. If you missed reading it click on the title; although, the stories are independant of each other. Thanks for popping by … Isadora
She sat on the chaise lounge, watching the droplets of rain slide down the window.
Her eyes were swollen and red from the tears she’d shed for hours. Time didn’t exist.
A blank space permeated where there used to be laughter between him and her.
Now, he was gone.
Why?
The police were kind but seemed suspicious. The paramour is always suspect.
Yes, they were opposites in many ways, but he was gentle, kind, and conscientious of her likes.
Welcome – make yourself at home. Pick a pretty cup or mug for coffee, hot chocolate, or herbal tea. Sit in a comfy chair so we can chat.
There is no preparation or test assignment nor hint to prepare us for certain things in this world.
We hear stories of tragedies. Usually, it’s someone else’s family.
No one expects it’s going to be theirs. No one prepares for death and, then, it happens.
The dreaded phone call or, as in my case, a letter which brings our carefully crafted house of calm and stability, crashing down with one single statement, ‘I’m sorry’.
Sorry … and, you wonder why they are sorry.
Sorry … about the fact they could not save the person.
Sorry … that they have to be the person to bringbad news to you.
Sorry … for the departure of your loved one from this world.
There is no preparation, no practice.
In that moment, you either walk across the broken shards feeling the loss with every stinging sensation or, you stare unmoving, long and hard at the broken pieces. Nothing can prepare you for that split-second reaction.
Either you grieve, or you don’t.
It’s a sad time for me.
My brother, George Anthony Diaz Maisonet was born December 8, 1957.
He died December 01, 2020. He was born with a brain disability called Hydrocephalus. He lived with my mother until she pass away in 2010.
Lucy was his caretaker/companion until she became ill and could not care for him. Shortly after, the government placed him in a sanatorium. They did not notify the family of his death.
When he died his body was sent to a medical school for students to explore his illness and study his organs. It felt overwhelming when I first read this in the letter. I’ve come to accept that he is helping people from suffering the life he led with their research. It’s a consolation to know he is now with his beloved mother and father.
R.I.P. George 🙏🏻
Reach out and touch someone with LOVE today ... Isadora 😎
“You’re mad, it’s snowing. Plus, we might get snowed in,” she said.
He loved spontaneity.
She didn’t.
Come on! We’ll walk the beach, shiver, then run to the warm flames of the fire left behind in the fireplace. We’ll sip champagne, eat chocolate strawberries as we warm. Besides, you aren’t able to resist my yearn for you.
~~~~~~~~~
She watched icy waves hit the shore from the balcony.
Just moments before, they’d laid close in each others’ arms, relishing the passion of their lovemaking.
The fading red roses near the flames emulated his death.
Inside the Mind of Isadora 