Possessions

Oh the beautiful perilous pursuit of the one who made me and wants me with burning passion. How could I withhold any part of myself from his consuming flame? In his hands he holds both sides of my face, commanding my attention, not letting anything else fill my gaze. Oh the pain of his grasp. How I long to look to the right or left, but his glory remains too ghastly to stray. How ugly my pale, colorless, shocked gape must appear in the luminescent rainbow of such wonder. How wretched I feel, unworthy of his undivided attention; yet still tempted to not return the same exclusive interest. What more could I long for but this brilliant man, this figure, blinding before me. 

I shall not look away, for the “beauty” I find beyond his face appears drastically drab and colorless now. In the dim light surrounding all apart from Him, what “beauty” can be found? I struggle to gather up belongings, plow through possessions; hoard in the storehouses of my heart the gold idols cast in frantic pursuit. The impossibility of stolen beauty; a fake tin barren wasteland. His warm, fleshy spirited body before me, and I yearn for the emptiness. 

What glory have I not yet tasted that causes me to yearn for anything apart from his ability to satisfy and quench the very thirst in my bones for beauty? What brilliance am I unaware, that love apart from his supernatural omniscience appears more suitable? 

Dismantle the shelves within my heart where I have stored up sticks, bricks and rags; the measly accumulation of dirt ashamedly weighs my spirit down. I sag and stagger behind, when pure nothingness is all you call me to possess. You hold my face and command my attention. Me, you say, I am what you long for.

Make You, your untainted beauty my sole desire.

Violent Monster

 

What gruesome appetite

Eludes in this present darkness

Consumes a vile plot of flesh

Sends breath plumes down my stomach

I listen, linger

Longer

Refuse to wander

For fear of falling behind

Clawing riddles my chest

Cradles my breast

Perfumes me in sweat

In this present darkness

Frantically gnaw the monsters neck

I scratch, bite

Match

His aggression

Blade braving shield

And wits undying

Passions battle; violence won

Winter, Summer, Spring

Naked chest

Sweatered in hair

Dressed by the scarf of my arm

 

Blankets cocoon

Baking our bodies

Drink my humid salty kiss

Despite the homely orchard

My chosen tree

Harvests incomparably plump apples

Hide and Seek

For a child, there exists an unmatchable thrill in the game of hide and seek. The importance of counting instills a noble feeling of leadership, as one child is assigned to find the rest. The suspense of waiting to be found causes stomach pangs and weak bladders. As a child waits behind couches, in closets, under beds and in bath tubs, something very interesting occurs in their mind. As if time stops completely there is a suspension of conversation, eating and interacting all together with the outside world.

In the closet, the child lingers in a hovering cloud of eagerness; a still non-ticking stop watch. Some children wait in utter silence, in hopes theirs is the final discovery. Others can’t control the peeping and laughing tones that lead the seeker to their spot first.  Upon being found, some children keep their allies where-bout's top secret, while others run swiftly to rat out their enemies.

Each seeker, likewise, has a distinct method of searching. There lurks the stealthy tip-toeing cynic who wants to be equally as secretive as those choosing to hide. There beams the loud, obvious presence who announces exactly where their eyes have been and what they found, or didn’t find. There flinches the nervous jumpy cricket who begs the others to reveal themselves, feeling at a disadvantage being the only one out in the open.

Both parties remain essential, and all styles of participation allow for a different experience each time played. But what, in this distinct thrill of invisibility and revelation, shoots every hand upward when asked the question “who wants to play hide and seek?”

In truth, the simple mind of a child understands the charm of waiting and the electrifying bliss of being found. The splendor of those five eternal minutes where no other thought exists but the delight of what’s to come. The child experiences what it feels like to be a gift; to be wrapped up, hidden, undisclosed, and awaiting the lid to be removed from their individualized jar; a feeling of unparalleled importance and intrinsic beauty combined.

In truth, the simple mind of a child understands their identity in the eyes of their creator. Unmatched remains the exuberant joy upon the unveiling of our shaded souls, when His stealthy omniscient hands draw back the curtains of self secrecy to disclose the window of light behind. The moment if unearthing, where afore hidden eyes light with tickling excitement standing face to face with their seeker. 

Oh glorious pursuit, what flawless simplicity evinces when concealment's veil falls downward at the hands of barefaced truth. May we wait with the wonder of a child, and gratefully gaze upon our merciful discoverer.

Chapter 2: The Remedy

Chapter 2: The Remedy

Grandma hears the hard pound of footsteps from her place behind the sink. Scraping the last of the potato skins in to the garbage, she wipes her hands on her apron and turned around to meet Lily’s frazzled body. Lily buries her face in Grandma’s floral apron, her arms clinging around her waist as far as she can reach.

“Sweetie, what’s the matter? What happened?” she asks, prying her tiny shoulders away from her hips in a gentle firm manner. Grandma’s hands search her face, wiping the wet strands of blond away from each cheek.

“My…my…” sobbing between each word, Lily struggles to tell grandma the terrible thing that happened to her.

“Take a deep breath, honey. Relax.” Lily tries very hard to stop crying but every time she thinks about her poor piggy lying on the ground, she starts crying all over again. “Sit down, I’ll get you a glass of water.” Grandma helps her up on the seat and moves to the cabinet. She fills her favorite bunny shaped cup with water from the sink and Lily’s tears came less and less with each sip.

“Now tell me what happened,” Grandma says, with her solid concerned face. This look is familiar to Lily. She sees it each time Grandma finds Lily’s younger brother, Collin crying. Like last month when Grandma babysat both of them and Collin stole Lily’s pillow pet. She took it right back, scolding him for taking HER things. Collin was a baby, and always cried, but Grandma didn’t understand that. She always ordered Lily to apologize to Collin, with her solid eyes and stern mouth. Lily naturally did what her Grandma told her to. This was no different,

“A mean boy came by and knocked over my lemonade” she lets out in one long breath. Grandma rises from her seat at the kitchen table and takes off her apron. Slipping off her slippers and lacing on her sandals, she listens as Lily adds, “And piggy broke.” Lily forces herself to control her sniffles under Grandma’s stare. Grandma remains silent and exits the room for about two minutes. Returning with a change of clothes and shoes for Lily, her soundless action causes Lily to forget the terror momentarily. Once the lemonade stained outfit finds respite in the washing machine, Lily finds her hand in Grandma’s being led out the front door. Grandma’s words remain out of sight, like the pavement on the road while driving in the car.

Where is Grandma going? Lily wonders. Her short torso allows her view of the afternoon sky, yet conceals the direction of their trip. Grandma’s silence breaks only after she stops the car.

“This one’s on me,” she says with a wink. Unbuckling Lily’s seatbelt, Grandma steals her hand to help her out of the white Subaru. Looking up, Lily finds three glass windows teeming bright with lollipops, gumballs, streamers and chocolates. The sign says something about candy, she’s sure, and she can’t hold in her excitement. Eyes smiling, she breaks her gaze to look up at Grandma whose knowing face understood her granddaughter so simply.  

With a deliberate step forward, Grandma excitedly whispers, “Shall we?”

Chapter 1: Lemonade Stand

Chapter 1: Lemonade Stand

“Sugar: Check. Water: Check. Lemons: Check.” Holding her hand held notepad, Lilly crosses off the tiny square box next to each crayoned word.

“The recipe is on the counter, hun,” Grandma calls from the living room. Lilly stands on the whicker chair, hugging close enough to the counter to let her lean over. Humming one of her favorite non-tunes, the kind that springs up as naturally as dandelions in spring, she begins scooping sugar in to the orb-like glass pitcher. Grandma told her last month that during her next visit, she could have a lemonade stand. She always wanted to have a lemonade stand. For the whole month, Lilly kept adding tasks to her list to prepare for her next visit: buy cups, make sure Grandma has a pitcher, lemons, sugar, water, make sign, table, chair, bring piggy bank. After stirring in the sugar, she holds the pre-sliced lemon over the gaping mouth of the pitcher. Her hum comes to a sudden halt and is replaced by a tight mouthed grimace. Squeezing harder than she holds Mr. Teddy when she’s scared, Lilly’s tiny hands only juice three measly drops into the sugar filled pool below. She asks Grandma to help her squeeze the lemons.

“One dollar for lemonade?” Grandma asks, looking at the carefully printed sign. She helps Lilly carry the items to the corner where her table sits waiting like a throne for her noble arrival.

“It’s the best lemonade,” Lilly replies, in her matter-of-fact way, causing Grandma to laugh under her breath, “It said so on the box.”

In the humid July sun, Lilly’s blond pig tails shine like the reflection of a flashlight in a mirror. She hums the fifth movement of her invented concerto and waves to each car that drives by. Lilly picked out her favorite candy last week with mom at Mr. Benson’s store downtown. Bubble gum, Swedish Fish and the little dots that you can pick off the paper. Mom said that she could buy five whole dollars worth of candy after she had her lemonade stand. Patting her piggy bank in the middle of his pointy ceramic ears,

“We will be rich!” She exclaims.

The glimmer of pink ceramic shows a moving reflection, causing Lilly to look up. Expecting a car, her soft little hand rises automatically to greet the prospective passerby. A whiz of bike spokes threads by, so close to her table the flimsy legs shake. Nailed to her seat in fear, Lilly tries to take in the quick mischief, unsuccessfully. The short haired illusion kicks his sandaled foot straight in to the fragile glass pitcher, sending it straight in to the lap of the defenseless vendor. Standing up suddenly Lilly fumbles to save the golden liquid, but in her hast knocks over her pale pig friend. His silver and gold insides roll embarrassingly in to the middle of the road. Wet and sticky with sugar, Lilly’s drenched skirt clings to her skinny legs and her tears hug her reddened cheeks. Running inside, Lilly leaves her ruined throne and seeks the comfort of her Grandma’s embrace.