You can see the stars hundreds of millions of miles away, the light of years past flashing each day, yet you can’t see the bomb blasts on the other side of this earth.
Thunder may take the time to memorize the sound, and we will hear it as spring rain changes from gentle to worse, but will we know the pain it has caused?
The dead bodies, civilians, knew the sounds at close range, even by surprise. For many, it was the last noise they heard. Others heard the cries, perhaps their own voice.
Mass media images and scenes tell the heartbreaking atrocities of the invasion of Ukraine. Far enough that you don’t hear it, close enough that you feel the pain.
If you think of the breathless bodies as human beings, as people; mothers or children, even soldiers, it hurts a little more – today, tomorrow and for years to come.
I am old, he said, not in regret but as fact. Tea splashed on the table as he tried to offer hospitality. All he could afford. Too many days between pension cheques, not enough time to enjoy them. His smile was genuine, teeth brown or broken. I have no milk. His head shook. His hands shook. I take it clear, I replied. A smile again, not as long but very real. Conversation revolved around a story he heard on talk radio, or memory. More tea? He spoke about dust, as if it meant something; where it travelled, why it settled. Everything begins in the wind, he paused to catch his breath or to let the words find a more profound meaning. It never lets up. He was old. His small room smelled of cheap aftershave, stale cigarettes, and loneliness. He welcomed me, regularly, as he would anyone with time to spend. It was all he could offer. Tea and dust.
On the other side of the window, trees rustle, ripples cross over the pool. I feel each movement, short stroke or long. All in remembrance of a morning’s crisp dawn. This planet revolves; gravity holds us close. A clock’s second hand sweeps through our time. Together. Simple breakfast: eggs, toast and coffee. I raise my cup, gently blow across the brim, as your lips whisper direct intentions. Words connote action. Imperative moments last longer in a memory. Water bubbles surround four-minute eggs; all the time it took for you to say goodbye.
If I had known that, I would also be alone; alone inside my head, where thoughts would circulate like the blood inside my body between my ribs. Also between my lips. where words would no longer flow.
There were now only my eyes with nowhere to look, no more beauty to absorb because inside my head, so many things crowd the memories I had attempted to build. And I think; I think that I am still here.
Anger sits between my ribs I am still here. Watching my blood switching from red to blue, as if it is a habit. Automatically I scream from the outside. Hopeless on the inside. Help me. I want to get out from here desperate on the outside.
Those who surround me, strangers, do not see. They turn a deaf ear, since it is but my loneliness following me everywhere. Maybe a year, maybe even longer. I am still here. My anger, I keep it, there is no exit from the outside. Here is not near.
A smile had, once, looked at me, believed in me. Happiness cut through me, finally. A hand offered support, and this option I loved, as only I could. Whoever can say, who was aware, that so much could be built upon a smile and so much could be taken away.
April is Poetry Month. April is a month of celebration, as well as a month of commitment. Each day of this month I will share my words and poetic observations here: www.mythosandmarginalia.com
