Gentle rain storms heighten the scent of lilac bushes lining the fence anticipating perennials lively from the dampness and the sun when days stay dry carrying a bucket of water in one hand walking barefoot to hydrate them meanwhile sunshine fruits are being morphed into juice behind the silk curtains I see the wrinkled hands firmly holding fruit peels covered in shiny liquid rays focus on her hands just right this view dripping in citrine shades.
Bawling like clementine’s dripping citrus, Pulp dribbling out our mouths; our first attempt to peel words From our tongues an ache, perhaps trying to articulate a longing For the Sunshine Hands that plucked us from that great tree And peered at us with Celestial eyes.
“The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born. Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back.” - C.S. Lewis
This poem was inspired by this quote by C.S. Lewis. It has always resonated with me a lot. Whenever I read a beautiful poem, or scripture or see a beautiful painting or have a meaningful conversation, I have these moments of longing. I think it’s because beautiful things help me to feel closer to God, and I start to get an inkling of what I’ve been missing my whole life.
The smell of bleach is overwhelming, but my mother always liked the smell. She would mix bleach with a splash of lemon and the smell of sickly citrus would drift through the house. She would spend hours on the floor, scrubbing each baseboard and kitchen tile. Each swish of the mop would bring my mother closer to God. But for me, the fumes seemed to shake my mind and cause each ridge in my brain to sweat. My head succumbing to the pressure of finding my home sterilized, like some hospital.
Bleach burns. Once I let my hand slip into that lemon-scented pail, feeling the itch rise up my wrist. It felt similar to the Holy Spirit rising through my chest during each Sunday service. An antiseptic, a decontaminate, something that desensitized and purified. So, I began to rub my hands, with a spiritual fever, letting my skin flake from each coat of lemon-scented cleanliness. But somehow, I never felt clean enough.