He called in for a shower after being alone on the streets for a week.
Is that time enough to get ***** for a shower as a man nearly twenty-six in years. She could turn him away like her father’s sister might have and did. From time to time.
It all depended on how many times in a week, month, or year he would show up without a call. Without knowing he still existed.
Somehow, his presence and absence were a mixed blessing. His presence was like a merry-go-round that goes against the earth’s pull. Like a brazen thorn stuck into your shoe. Unpredictable. Vacuum-like. ******* all the ***** things in. Taking everything in its sight and power and making everything contort to his reality. Where he and only he resided. Would she open the door for him?
What she does know is that she might risk speaking in a bright happy voice of a mother so gladsome to see her son. Welcoming him in. Rather than turning him away because of his inconvenience. Grief is inconvenient. That is one thing she knows.
Notes on helping a mentally ill adult child. Copyright 2023 @ Highwireart
a dusky walk through the middle of the park clear of the shadows of branch and leaf at its edges the only light stretched out but struggling from distant lamp posts or the yet more distant halo of moon breaching cloud it is enough to plot a route by but not with confidence
a leather flapping overhead tells tale of bats in their erratic yet assured flight abhorred by many perhaps for that very reason; unpredictable unflinching not flying the expected path
It’s been raining for 4 days straight. It’s hard for me to get up in the morning. Day and night, It’s still gloomy outside. The sound of the rain is seemingly alike with your voice. Actually, the tears of the rain is your own tears. The sadness that you don’t quite understand yet. You said you like how the clouds clear after the rain. Ironic, you like to solve problems, numbers. But you can’t even face yours. The rainbow brings you hope. I think you just hope for people to love you endearingly. But they have to undergo heavy storm. You hated the sun but you’re the sun. You’re just coward of the heat. Your own heat. Just like the weather, you’re pretty unsure. We don’t need to cross our paths again. But I am wondering what makes you remember me?
He likes to write just like me but he write stories not poetry. We were seeing each other for 3 months. But have to be apart as he will live far away. This poetry is for him. I hope he is well and happy.
If the pattern's unpredictable What can I depend on What does it mean to need someone As far as I can tell I don't even need myself My heart doesn't beat because I say so It beats for its creator It beats because that's what it was made for I tried to follow reason It only took me so long To see that all creation Begins with the uncreated one After the hypothesis and details It was pretty simple Our sin broke the system And still your love persisted That I never could have predicted
It's a bitter dance with fate. He twirls me and I reply by stepping on his toes, because I can't dance to such a foreign beat. And fate is whisking me away, moves unreliable and messy, barely better at dancing than I am.
This can't last forever. Eventually, we'll grow tired of the confusion and unpredictable moves each other will make. And we'll break away to take our own steps, off the dance floor and towards the buffet where we gorge ourselves on the future we choose for us. The things we know will be what we want. Fate cannot control us here, He cannot lead us away on a mystical journey going off into the misty evening. At least, not until we open our eyes and realize:
We always come back to the dancefloor. and Fate comes in many forms.