Heap

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.

61 thoughts on “Heap

  1. Ahhhh B,

    I just love when you write like this. Digging deep, sharing your inner thoughts in such beautifully lyrical prose that leaves us, your readers, breathless. And thoughtful. And contemplative. And, in my case, in awe at how you do what you do. Some writer I am, I can’t even come up with the word I wanna say. Except thank you.

    I had to read this twice; the second with Nathalie Merchant singing in the background. Perfect pairing. Why did I never get to know this singer?

    Lotsa love,
    Q

    Liked by 3 people

    • Rochelle,

      Thank you for that. All of it, and then some! And I loved that you and Dale both find the video to be a perfect pairing, because I did as well. You are too kind, and I’ll take every loving spoonful of it. πŸ™‚

      Shalom,

      Marco

      Liked by 1 person

  2. Great stuff. Very Cayman-esque. Fav lines: 1) Pristine in its sculpted image, nestled in between the living and the dead. 2) And I remember thinking it a tragedy of the highest order, and blaming the whole world and Jesus Christ. … but blaming Obama would have worked.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. I read this earlier, but wanted to give it my full attention…the bad boys of the NFL.

    The name that pops for me is Michael Vick. I have a friend who champions a rescue site for abused pits. The stories I truly wish I never heard, about these poor 4-legged souls tossed in a ring for amusement, could easily make me a vigilante. Mr. Prick, should be tossed in a ring with small dogs stolen off the street to tear apart like chicken parts to make him angry, and ornery so he can kill his opponent making some brothers rich.

    I know there are others you wrote about, but for me, he’s the king of crime.

    And to think he was such a lucky man to play pro ball, get paid such vast sums…be exalted and looked up to by young boys, especially those of color, who wanted to be like him.

    SHAME SHAME SHAME

    Liked by 1 person

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