The memory of that tricycle, abandoned on a grassy hill. For days on end, it lay in a red blanketed tumble. A perfect heap, its wheels fluttering in a lonesome song whose lyrics dreamed of painting the ground in a million years worth of someone’s childhood. Pristine in its sculpted image, nestled in between the living and the dead.
And then one day I passed that grassy hill and found the tricycle bent and broken. Its entrails spewed across the earth, its melody stolen. And I remember thinking it a tragedy of the highest order, and blaming the whole world and Jesus Christ.
I might have approached it, before it became too late. I could have turned it on its wheels and taken it home to my little sister. But then the lesson, and that image I carry to this very day would not have come along with me. Because when I remember back to that broken tricycle, I remember everything else.
They said it was a bad thing. To remember. To tuck myself into those horrible bed time stories. But I do not believe they were right. It is a gift wrapped inside a curse; A talisman whose resonance speaks to me from shallow graves and long lost stars. It helps me to understand the horrors and the beauty of this world are interwoven scriptures. I will neither concede nor abide to its testimony, but I must respect it.
The memories become a hum in the fading moonlight, a flicker in the stained glass sun. Reminding me of the yesterdays that sleep as if sunken vessels in the deep blue sea. Provoking me to close my eyes and heed the torturous lessons risen from the proverbs of Francisco Goya while Canaan sends me postcards, wishing I was there. I embrace the darkness and the light because to run from either one is to succumb to the villainy of both.
That tricycle was an angel, fallen into a new born snow. The memories are a bleeding horizon of lost and found places, whispering in the breeze from all the way back to that twisted wreck up on the grassy hill.
Promising forever, until the wolves came home.