I seek the sadness in the crowd of seven faces
I’m surprised by so many.
I stand inside this dead house honouring my father.
As a child I prayed every night
I asked God for forgiveness that only I could give
– but how do you forgive fear?
I stand inside this dead house sheltering my heart
colder than the frigid limbs hidden in the coffin
Maybe one day I will forgive
but not today. The dead body will not change it.
Then I remember.
You are still alive.
Firstly, I have to leave a note to my sister – I am perfectly fine, I am happy, this little scribble is just something I have been working on for a while and is absolutely not a reflection of my current mood or state of mind.
Ok that’s it, sorry – last time I published something similar I think I got her little worried 🙂
Secondly, I have to say – I’m having so much fun attending this writing class – I’m looking forward to the weekend just to read some of the other poems and meet new people. I have only managed a fraction so far and I am impressed by the talent that is here. Well done you folks!
Writing 201: Fog
because that is what I have been doing repeatedly while attempting to write today’s penultimate post. I am tired and sleepy and it doesn’t help that I am getting comfortable in my bed. I am also aching. I hit the gym, and the gym mercilessly hit back.
Tomorrow is the last day of this wonderful alphabetical experience and it makes me little sad. So I have decided that there will be a surprise with my Z post! Me excited – not only about the surprise but also because my sister is coming over for a visit.
Well, I’m going to sleep now.
Y in the A to Z challenge.
Marika made sure the flat stayed in pristine state, food she cooked was worth a Michelin star, and Joe’s shirts were ironed and crispy white. Day by day. It filled her with pride that her man was so perfect. Her days were spent doing chores or shopping for necessities. She rarely bought anythings for herself, and if only sensible things; she didn’t want to take advantage of Joe’s money. It was December and she was living with him for four months now.
December was different though. Festive. This time she allowed herself to look for something special, a dress. The office Christmas party was in two weeks and she was going to be Joe’s plus one. She needed to look presentable, worthy of him. The dress was long, strapless and blood red. She felt beautiful and sexy, excited to see Joe’s reaction. She prepared his favourite dinner, lit candles and waited at the door wrapped in silk.
She returned the dress the next day and exchanged it for a black gown with full sleeves. Joe was right, the red dress was too provocative, it was after all still a business occasion. The party was success. It was the first time she experienced the exclusivity of City life, the elegant people, classy hotel reception, gourmet meals, expensive champagne. She even made a new friend. Mrs Goodman, Greta, the wife of the department director. They had two sons and Greta had never returned back to work from her maternity leave. They agreed to meet once a week for a coffee or a walk in a park. Marika thought she would like to have a child too.
Christmas was knocking on the door and she was thrilled as her parents were spending the holiday with them. It was the first time she would see them since she left home. Joe was uneasy and worried about their visit. His mother died and he had a difficult relationship with his father. Marika felt sorry for him.
Her family was to become his.
O in the A to Z challenge.
Janka is my sister. She is the younger one so she has not suffered the ‘naming after the parent’, unlike me. In my family, a tradition has been born (with me) where the first child is named after a parent. My mother did that and both of her younger sisters too. The tradition has started with them and will stop with us. By us, who are exposed to the confusion, loss of privacy as our letters were constantly opened by our parents, and endless explaining – no, the person you are looking for is actually my mom. Our traditions don’t last very long. With each year we add to our age, more alterations are being made. Not even Christmas traditions are safe. Easter was banned years ago.
Marasca is not my real name. But I feel it is my true name. I was given the surname printed in my passport after my father. I am not my father. I am a half of my mother too (btw it’s her 60th birthday today). So I have taken half of her maiden name and half of my father’s name and mashed them together. Mara-sca. I think it sounds great. It compliments my first name (which I actually don’t mind that much). Plus it is also a type of sour cherry. And I love cherries.
J in the A to Z challenge.