Screaming at the Sun

    The light, now spring, changing, its ability to root out the darkness, becoming discernable. Branch tips swelling, bark shedding its chameleon dullness, becoming vibrant in the suns warmth; life seemingly once again worth living. The swelling ocean waters crashing onto the wood strewn beach, salt spray caressing the agates blooming colors, exposing them to the hunt. Mushrooms reaching towards the official blue of April, in search of permission to perform. Spring, the season of birth, growth, a reminder of the day I went for a walk, and never returned, metaphorically of course, or was it?

     We are afraid of leaving, we don’t know where we’ll end up, will we be able to remember where we came from? I feel the shards of light coming through the faded sheer curtains, glaucoma filtered arrows of a thousand bows, finding me hiding behind the cereal box, the sugar bowl, a tarnished spoon, they take it out on the fridge. Their intentions falling impotent onto the checkered floor of green and white imitation marble, laughing at the impenetrability of a steely darkness created to extend everything’s, everyone’s life, but mine.

     I force myself from the chair, its spindled back having left its lash marks on my back, I turn the handle and the world falls through the door, no doubt listening for gossip, hearing only the voice on the radio advertising rain and the immediacy of life saving preparation. Good times it implies, cannot be had when wet. 

     I have been lied to routinely by weather people, so I no longer take it personally as the sun blinds me and I miss a step, falling onto the overgrown lawn that has forgotten to ban the dandelions curse from its repertoire. The air is heavy with the scent of lilac and someone illegally burning refuse. It reminds me of a vision I once had of hell, a garbage dump on the edge of the universe where discarded souls were composted for lack of recycling suggestions.

    I find my feet leading me down the path that rims the river. The trees, a blush of green interrupted by petals from the magnolia trees that have awakened to ringing of the alarm clock, whose honking reminds me of impatient main street geese sounding like migrating cars. The streetlights blink in the apathetic cadence of beating wings. A young boy points to the sky, “look,” a plane barely visible more important, more enticing than the honking traffic that has become mundane by repetition. So much like the rest of life, a house of cards balanced on the memory of lost or found. 

    “Tomorrow will be better,” the ghost of Christmas Past emphatically states as she steps in front of the bus headed for the casino, causing an anticipated delay in the foreclosure of so many dreams looking for absolution from reality, and the missing door handle to door number 3. 

    The faces look through the smudged glass seeking someone to blame; all they find is me, alone, looking into their eyes for the understanding of why they have bet on the crippled horse in the 4^th race at Pimlico Downs. A million to one shot, but then there are really no assurances in life, even when you win.

    I follow the mottled sun sketched walk, its dead conformity accented only by the river waters bubbling indifference to walkways and airplanes, although stopping periodically to listen to the rustling leaves and goose call from the graying sky.

    The sky has changed from circus tents and mid-way excitement, to cotton candy whisps, whose fingers rake the tinted blue sky hoping to attract its attention, but it will take more brashness to drive it towards the ocean, as it too is afraid; it never learned to swim despite the warnings. A tsunami is coming and the row boat has been filled with forgetful dirt and pansies.

    I can’t help but wonder where everyone has gone to as the first nickel sized drops fall from the slot machined sky like bombs, and explode like balloons on the needled grass, no longer green, but has turned to black in deference to the sky, now a churning array of purple and green breath that clings like honey dew to everything it caresses. I find its pummeling fists little more than a distraction as the tree beside me explodes, exhales a climax of fate it knew it had to be rid of if it were ever to be itself again. Now, no longer a dream, but the reality of charred strands of unrecoverable faith that has been lost in a hasty game of rock, scissors, paper.

    I can feel the light, see the sparks dancing precariously with the dormant shafts of last year’s hope. They don’t appear to be happy, sad, but only indifferent as though they’d seen it all before for the millionth time, and becoming excited by the predictable was no longer worth rising early for.

    I can see the web of metal ahead crossing the forgotten snow, its shadow emblazoned on the ground with each bomb bursting in air, accompanied by god’s words, “let there be light.” And to everyone’s surprise but mine the street lamps jump to life, and all was as it had been except for the displaced leaves and cremated bodies that now lay as reminders of what a tomorrow has to deliver whether we tip or not, it is a duty that cannot be avoided by laziness, disrespect, or forgetfulness, as there are too many reminders remembering to forget.

    I cross the bridge to and from escape. I find myself once more where I began, at the front door of a person I once knew. I debate trespassing just to say hello-goodbye-aloha, and break the spell that has yet to be spun by the recollection of a day, when the sun fought its way through space and fell exhausted on the table next to the empty butter dish, wondering if there was anything that might quench the thirst of inevitability.

    I invited it to sit down, asked how it was doing, was there anything I could do to help. It looked at me with the face of burnt determination and asked if I knew where I was, what I was doing. 

    I had never thought of it that way, as if there were a choice. I thanked him for his comfort, closed my eyes, and went back to dream of the war created by the lost and found determined to exist, despite the empty milk carton and invisible bowl.