Words, Feelings, Stories

“I am always with you. Why don’t you understand that?” The man answered slowly, thinking out loud as he had so often done with his friend. “The memory of you is always with me. But a memory isn’t you.” “Who is it then?” “It’s an it, not a who.” “Whos aren’t its? What are they then?” "Whos are whos. Persons. Its are things.” “Well I like to think I’m some thing. Some kind of a thing.” “I like to think you’re a person. Even when you aren’t anymore.” “Yet here I am.” “Here you are.” They fell silent. They waited, together, in a place that didn’t (shouldn’t) exist, where their presence together was as tangible as the strong friendship (love) between them. Both bodies and spirits seemed made whole out of the fog, by the fog, and they rested as part of the fog. The fog itself swirled and rippled around them, lightening and darkening, and in general deepening and entwining until there was nothing to be seen but the glimmering light and the embracing cloud.

He was back in the fog, back at the rock, back with his friend Mark, who was chipping at the rock with his knife. Who was being a bit unfriendly. “You know you should go back, they still need you.” “I don’t have to hurry, I can be with you a while.” “You are, always.” “You don’t need to sound so happy about it.” “I don’t want you here. I want you there. With them. Alive. Having tomorrows.” He gestured at the fog. “Not this.” “Yeah, I prefer sunshine, myself. But you aren’t there. “ “I am. Always.” “I never see you there.” “Liar. You see me every time you look into my sons’ faces, or watch them walk into or out of a room.” He thought that over for a long moment. “No.” “No?” “I see parts of you in parts of them. But they aren’t you and you aren’t them. I want you.” “I’m telling you, I’m there. As there as I can be.” “Then how come I never see you?” “Because you look with your eyes closed.” “That’s us’ly the best way to see things that don’t exist.” “I exist. I’m here, am I not?” “I don’...

  For a moment, or so it seemed, he was back in the fog, in the thick almost substantial parts of it, but sounds drew him back to the bed. Sounds of footsteps.  Sounds of voices.  Three people, out in the hall. Tall, male. Working men, wearing boots, that they were taking off, from the sounds. Weren't they supposed to do that out on the porch?  A slammed door on a rush of wind and rain hitting the inside floor answered that. Rain coming from that direction, the porch was probably inundated.  Only one of the men came to the door(?) of the room. "Any change?" he asked, but not like he expected an answer.  The hand woman said yes and the doctor woman said no.  The doctor elaborated that there had been no physical change worth mentioning. Irregular breathing irregularities, but that was to be expected. No signs of returning consciousness.  The other woman said, in a warm positive tone, that she felt a difference.  That he WAS coming back from whe...

 He was sweating again, and gasping, and he was in a hot place. He hoped he hadn’t died yet, as that was a bad sign if he was, when suddenly sound was all around him, as overwhelming as the heat.        Maybe not though, as the heat felt and smelled steamy rather than ashy. They probably didn’t have water to make steam in the bad place. Unless somebody was melting a snowball? (What did that mean?)     Voices, and people were moving around. A mix of male and female voices, as well as children’s voices more distant. He knew the voices, and was satisfied they were NOT dead people, so he must not be either. That was a good thing.  Maybe?     He tried to take in a deep breath, but somehow choked on it, and, good lord did it hurt! Breathing wasn’t supposed to hurt living people, although sometimes it did. If they were sick or something. He stopped choking and managed a swallow of air that (still) left him panting.  At th...

   I'm really missing your kids right now, kiddo. Haven't seen or talked to them since Thanksgiving. They didn't even call me or text me to say Happy Birthday. (Christmas was sad, and they hadn't called me then, either, but there's no grudge there. I'm the one who had to cancel at the last minute.)Between the weather, my health, and my car's condition, I just haven't been able to get there. Seems like I'm farther away now than when you were in Georgetown and we were in Winchester.     There's no "we" anywhere now for me, not in Winchester, not in Bethel, not in our 'hub' of Mt. Orab. Tracy's miles away (good for her; I'm proud), and you and your daddy are gone.      I miss you, but this last few months I've finally begun adjusting to that. It's been a long hard pull, almost three years, but maybe I'm finally getting on. I guess I hope so, anyway.      It's those strange weeks between my birthday and yours...

The fog was lightening, he was beginning to see vague shapes swirling just beyond his eyesight. Less thick, he supposed, although he really couldn’t tell for sure. The light was as white, the ‘wall’ was just as white, scents and sounds just as distorted, but there was some change. Maybe it was just that the terrain was becoming more familiar. He couldn’t explain it well, but while he couldn’t say where he was, with each step, he somehow knew. That’s how it was with a home place.  Up ahead was a dark spot, almost shiny, but a kind of shiny dull, like seeing a boulder in the fog. That was it! He was at the Big Rock, up on the Short Ridge. What was he doing there? Ahead, something moved . Something on the Big Rock.  No.  SomeONE. Someone sitting om the Big Rock, waiting. Waiting for him. Oh yes, someone! He felt a little thrill, as the same unconscious that had recognized the countryside responded to the someone. The someone becoming clearer as he closed the distance....

He put out a hand and leaned it against a tree trunk, while he gasped. He had been running, and he was sweaty and breathless. He had run and run, and finally ran into a fog bank, and after that he was finally able to stop to catch his breath. He couldn’t remember why he was running. Was he running to, or running from? He thought it was probably from, because he had run into the White for safety and reprieve.  But who or what was he running from, and why? Was he a child, running from punishment?  Was he a man running from some natural disaster? Was he running from a person or a thing? Or maybe even just a thought, or a fear? Why didn’t he know the answers? And where was he? While he had been running, his feet had known where they were going, so he was on home territory, but oddly enough, he couldn’t remember where home was, other than where he was.  Maybe he was dreaming?  Maybe it was the fog? Fog could do weird things, not just to sight, but also to sound, to ...

I need trees! The pictures just aren't doing it today At @20 degree temps, I can admire the waterfalls from my chair, but it's just not working for trees. I need the shaded hidden green areas where the giants dwell. They needn't be green themselves, which is fairly rare in this place at this time of year, but they need to be somewhere in the verdant hidden spaces that only tree lovers can find and cherish. And touch and smell, and be immersed in. I need to put my hand on the bark, and feel in my mind the stirring of the sap as the year begins again. I want to feel the moss, live and lush from recent snowfalls, or dry and dusty from cold, and feel the incipient life therein. I want life to blossom and winter to end. I want to touch the trees that touch the stars.

This cold winter's morning, as the darkness edges away from the horizon, I find myself wishing that I was--elsewhere. And maybe elsewhen. What would I be doing, and where would I be? Sitting in a rocking chair on a porch, wearing flannels and wool, wrapped in a blanket, a quilt, a comforter. Which or how many of these would depend on the temperature of the air and the prevailing winds. In my hands a hot drink. It doesn't matter what. Tea, coffee, cocoa, a toddy, hot lemonade. The steam from the drink both warms and wets my nose. The warmth of the contents warms the cup and the hands that hold the cup. Or do the hands warm the cup, keeping the fresh warmth from escaping? No matter. It and I am warm and we hold one another in warmth. Before me are treetops. Behind me, behind my home, are trees. Layers of trees. Rows of trees. Rising solemnly in ranks and ledges and lines. They stand silent, or Not-so-silent, in the breaking of day. They rustle, they murmur, reminding me of stretc...

It's an eerie night out here tonight on my porch. The frogs are there, and the crickets, and the locusts, but there's something different. The night sky glowers pink-orange.Not really strange, because there are pink street lights beyond the trees, but this is not the usual color, even when clouds are hanging low. There are strange Shadows flickering throughout the yard. In the flower beds right in front of me. Along the front of the building on the left side of the yard. On the cars in the parking lot to my right. The Shadow's wander ihe alley and appear from behind and alongside the houses. They peek. They scamper. They scurry from here to there. Lights and reflections wink and blink. Things move. Things rock, wiggle, twitch. The wind blows gently but not unusually. It seems a night like many others. And yet. The night choir sings on and on. The pink sky outlines the trees clearly. And Shadows creep across the street and dart through the yard. It may be the wind. It is pro...