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In fragments …

Writing in fragments is beautiful. Love it when halves make a whole. It allows me to follow a pattern of self-induced breaks from reality. It intrigues me to take flights into self-generated euphoria to mindless brooding–memories scraped out from childhood tales-to rejections and acceptances and a final oneness with the central mystery of life. I have been collecting fragments since forever. Fragments and wonderments. You can’t walk away from your own shadow. Yet sometimes I see my fleeting shadow deliver me from myself. I feel the breath of the Periwinkle and then I laugh and think I am daft. I leap to the summer breeze rocking with blossoms and my warm hands suddenly feel cold -I realize it’s winter still.

I think of my Mom’s cold hands as she is lain on the white floating bed, while the Doctors try to put her together again. I am standing at the doorway against a grazed september sky. Is it Autumn? Maybe the seasons are crawling backwards. I see pieces of  the blue sky taped over the red harbor. Would it quench my thirst to drink the silence of those colors? 

I have to run back home. That old coal voice sounds familiar. Possibly my great aunt. She is always calling out for me. I am hungry. It is morning already and I am expecting hot eggs, burnt toast and oatmeal with dripping caramel. Instead I find myself swallowing Blackberries. Don’t like them much. Though Blackberries are better than Peaches.

My granny had a complexion that looked and smelled like Peaches. She ate fruits all the time and insisted that I eat Apples. She talked to me about the Apple Orchards they had in Kashmir. I miss her, the forced Apples and her Apple-sy nail polish. She was lovely. Her chubby arms around me made the world feel sleepy. I hardly sleep now. And then those ghosts of children at their nonsensical games-make a lot of noise.

At the water’s edge, I stand, waiting for my father to return. Lilies lie still on his stable, smiling face- he is at peace in some other world. But I am waiting for him, for I know he remembers the way back. He has a amazing memory.

I wish you were here with me Daddy to walk towards the dusk, where the bay rolls with liquid fire. You had so much to share with me.

A wind passes over my mind and I am dissolving in scuds of clouds, like a stranger on Earth. Once I used to live on a hill and old music scores would fill the hallway. No one lives there now. Earthlings, Must I learn again to breathe?

I am tired of wanting more out of life. Wish I could be rocked between the layers. A postcard arrives from Niagara Falls. I’ll give it to the Angels.

 

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