Neat with soda

She is so happy
That she speaks more
Sometimes so
That all those words
Lilt
Like a prepossessing tune
All over the place
On an island, on a beach
With her bubbling bottles
A cloudy conversationalist

You think routine and work will make the pain go away. I think everyone who has lost people, or has ever even been close to people who have suffered knows that it is something that gets inside you and stays forever. It peeks out into the open from time to time..tears flow without notice, a sudden feeling of shallowness, guilt..or just being numb.
And just like that you crack jokes, you drink, you have a good time, and it is gone. But then morbid thoughts also find their way. After all, all the forms of disposal we have burning, burying or a bird's lunch..are not easy on the heart. Worms creeping on the hands you once held, eyes that looked at you in love getting disintegrated. Maybe the body is just a vessel..but it is what you remember the most. Hurts you to think of it as gone.
You get down to meeting up friends for coffee or thinking about a smart headline for a story or grumble about how it is difficult to get people to talk. And it is gone.
And then again you smile, maybe it was an old joke you shared..you want to smile again..but you can't. I miss you.

slices (deja vu)

Sitting in a closet, looking through the tiny slits, the world is cut in neat slices of flooring, closets, beds.
Sam was a tiny quiet boy his hobbies would include hiding and listening. It would help him when he grew up but then that would be after decades. Now he just sat there watching his mother undress, his father walk up to his mother and kiss her. Then the lights would dim and there would be noises.
Then he would feel something deep down inside him that would make him want to hide from himself. He saw his sister reach out for her makeup and then also for a picture of a boy, she kissed it hard and then started crying. She would sit in the bathroom and weep.
There was pleasure in knowing and not letting anyone know where he was, invisible, visible.

Tiny boxes, bathroom closets, upturned buckets anyplace where a scrawny five year old could fit in. He just learned how to curve his letters. Tiny dots of a’s and s’s on the dotted lines would help his pencil trace words. Here through the gaps, he traced a pattern with people. Small bits helps one see the bigger picture. Tiny frames.

Reading under the blankets, imagination helps. Igloo lifestyle. Then he did hide again.
This time he waited. Listening as his sister walked in through the door, she would go to sleep soon now, he knew the routines, she walked into the bathroom. He knew she would take a long bath. But she came out soon enough, looked through the drawers strewing her stuff on the floor. It would take ages for her to clean up the mess she continued to make.

Then clutching something she went into the bathroom. Water gushed, the clock ticked…it was over an hour now. Cramped Sam could not take it any longer. What if he stepped out at the same time as she did. Being caught is not allowed.
He sat, again contemplating, sleepy now..he decided to crawl out.
The water gushed..but the door was ajar.
See but remain invisble.
He crouched and headed to the bathroom door. And looked inside.
He looked, turned around and tried to walk out of the room. Her things all over the carpet floor, tiny ribbons, rings, bangles, books, all tiny dots that connect to a big word.
Tiny dots that trace out into something.
He did not know where to hide.
For the first time, he felt caught. Everyone was watching.