The Path

The little boy stood at the crossroads, his face scrunched up in deep thought. On one hand the path that cut through the park and into the forest was a shorter route to his home. Even though Mama had warned him over a million times to never use it. On the other hand, he had been so busy playing soccer that the bus left him. He was in trouble already anyway, Mama couldn’t get mad at him twice. She may actually be a little less mad if he got faster.

He shrugged his shoulders, decision made, hoisted his school bag higher up on his shoulders and started walking slowly across the park. The park was a huge sea of green with wild flowers in blue and pink and red bursting out like falling confetti. He saw an orange flower once , but Mama did not believe him, saying he was too young to know what orange is. But he did know. What dummy did not know red and yellow make orange?. Miss lily always praised his drawings, especially those he did with his fingers. But Mama did not like when he played with paint. He had tried to draw a flower on her bedroom wall once, big beautiful flowers in orange. But Mama had gotten so mad she had banished him to bed without supper.
He dearly loved the color orange.
He cleared the sea of green and started up the hill. Up past the broken monkey bars and rusted swings that no one played on anymore. The climbing wall leaned dangerously towards the slides, its multi-colored brick wall covered in climbing ivy. The spinning wheel squeaked loudly as it turned around slowly the white haired child sitting on it waved bashfully at him. He waved back smiling brightly. The park was a grave of disused metal and bricks, rusted metal bars poked dangerously from the ground at an angle that could take someone’s toe if they were not careful. But he was always careful. He went on a treasure hunt once, him and the white haired boy and found over fifty rusted nails. Mama wasn’t happy about that either, that and the white haired boy she couldn’t see. She had pinched his ears and called him a fibber.

Ark was no fibber. He knew that .He never understood why no one saw the white haired boy. But he was his best friend in the world. The white haired boy wasn’t mean to him like Liam and his gaggle of friends. He did not pull his hair or steal his lunch, or call his paintings stupid. White haired boy never even spoke, he just smiled at Ark and let him do all the talking. Ark turned around, chest heaving, waved goodbye at white haired boy, still sitting at the spinner.
The sun was setting below the clouds, making. His shadow long behind him. Ark giggled and jumped. His shadow jumped with him. He raised his hands above his head and waved the around. His shadow did it too.

“Race you to the forest!” he said to his shadow and took off down the hill. His yellow raincoat like a flag behind him, his tiny feet in black shoes, the lace on the left shoe undone, slapping the ground hard as he raced. The forest loomed ahead of him, the narrow footpath, worn by the stomping of a thousand feet, rising up to greet him. He stepped on his undone lace, tripped on his feet and skidded on his hands and knees to a stop.

“Ooww!!” he screamed, holding his tiny hands up to his face,

They were scraped raw and bleeding slightly,

“Tssssssss” he sucked in air through his teeth and tongue.

He stood up gingerly, hands held out in front of him, inspecting his equally bruised knees. Mud coated his shorts,shoes and legs. Pain stabbed his knee repeatedly with the same rhythm as his fast beating heart. Tears mingled with the mud on his clothes, and he gritted his teeth, determined not to cry.

The shadows from the tree creeped eerily at his feet. Like monks bowed down in worship. The muddy path into the forest loomed ahead of him,like a nightmare, he looked behind him,confused. But the hill that he had climbed so happily a while back now looked like a mountain threatening to fall and bury him. His bones trembled inside him. His arms and knees were in excruciating fire. He wanted to scream, he wanted his Mama.

Ark whimpered, cold sipping through his raincoat and school sweater into his bones. He coughed, and wiped the snot from his tears with the back of his hands. He exhaled, slowly, his voice breaking, threading to release the tears he was working so hard to hold back.
He turned around, and started to walk into the forest.

The white haired boy stood in front of him, angrily shooing him away

“I want t-o t-o go home..” he whimpered

The white haired boy waved at him angrily pointing back up the hill. Ark Turned around but there was no one behind him. He turned back to the boy.

“Home is that way…”

The boy looked behind him, but shook his head, as if to say no and pointed back up the hill.

Ark shook his head at him. His stomach rubbed. He was cold, hurt and angry, and just wanted to go home. He decided to ignore the white haired boy. Even when the boy grabbed at him to stop him, his pale hands going through Ark’s wrist. He walked slowly into the now almost dark forest,limping and grimacing with every step.

The sound of a thousand wings flapping as the birds roosted was the only sound accompanying his painful steps. It got darker the further he walked into the forest. So Ark Counted his steps to distract himself, he knew he need seven hundred and ten steps to get home and he was at one hundred and three,

“One and one and, one and one and five , one and one and six…”

Mama must be so angry by now, he knew he was never allowed to be outside when it was dark. He will gladly give up supper now if only Mama would come find him. He missed his bed, and the bath, and his teddy and the kitchen door that never closed right. He missed his three legged cat, and the smell of Mama’s special drink. Even though it made her mean. He missed sitting outside their trailer and hearing the neighbors argue.

A tree trunk was lying across his path. He stopped counting and looked around him, someone had covered the trunk in dark clothing and a hat. He leaned down, squinting in the semi-darkness, trying to find a way around, he thought the hat was cute so he pulled it back, wondering why someone would dress up a tree.

A dark terrified face stared up at him, mouth stuck in an O , a dark liquid pouring out of his throat making a small pool under around his head. The tree trunk’s hands were holding their neck, as if trying to keep the liquid in.

Ark jumped back, tripping on his feet and landing on his butt. He screamed, the terrified sound bursting out of him like a tsunami. Fear held him in its tight clasp. He clawed at the ground trying to free himself. His limbs turned to water and he could not stand. The tree trunk extended one dark had towards him, a plea streaming out of its neck.

What was Liam doing here, why was he lying across his path? Was this another one of his toments. Why was Liam crying? Ark looked around him, his eyes, two wide saucers on his face. He half expected Liam’s friends to jump out from the trees and pelt him with mud.

A dark hulking figure walked slowly towards him, head wrapped in a metal mask of sorts, its artistry terrifying and beautiful at the same time. Ark crab walked away from the approaching person, the idea of standing up and running completely lost to him. The figure approached still, like a predator stalking prey. It finally caught up with Ark and leaned down towards him,using the spade it was holding on his right hand as support. It twisted its head to the left, and quietly stared at Ark’s heaving form.

“What’s wrong?Ark? “ it whispered

Death and her first born Grief

Four years ago today, Death paid us a visit. She came dressed in a black evening gown with a midnight blue cape billowing in a phantom wind of her own creation. She held her silver scythe with its sharp, gleaming edge on her left hand. And clasping tightly to her right-tattooed hand was her firstborn Grief.

She gave us no warning she gave us no choice. Death came in beautiful, terrible, and inevitable and she cut down that which, in our mortal hubris had never thought to lose.

On February 14th 2018, we lost our Dad.

Grief is your heat sinking into itself, crumbling like disused paper. Grief is anxiety and insomnia. Grief is anger—wild, burning, raging, explosive anger. Grief is not acceptance; it never is. Grief is being fine for weeks, maybe even months, playing pretend at living until you fool yourself into thinking you are actually living. Then you overhear someone say, “Hi Dad..” and it hits you all over again, the would have, should haves, will never be, and now you are sobbing like the child you are, uncaring in the middle of the street, and everyone is looking at you helplessly. But you don’t care, you don’t care, because the one person you want to be here, isn’t, and you hate the world for it.

Grief is alienating, you cant understand someone elses’ unless you have lost someone, but still, your loss can never be the same as my loss. Grief is acknowledging that telling someone “my condolences” is the most impersonal way you can mourn with a friend. Grief is learning, painfully, that the only true way to help is to be there. You will remember every single person who did the same for you, and every single way that they helped. You will remember that they understood and gave sage advice to help you pick up your pieces and go back to work, go back to a semblance of life.

Time does not heal old wounds; time just makes it easy to forget. How do you forget, though? A soul mate, how do you forget that a huge chunk of your heart is missing and every waking moment is a reminder of that?. Having to pretend that you are fine, hiding away in bathrooms and dark rooms when the weight of grief becomes too much on your heart. Living in constant agony and fear of that next call—that next call that will inform you of the next death.

Here is to catharsis. Here is to everyone who has ever lost someone. Here is to those with whom we share this anniversary.

May all our loved ones find peace in death. May we be reunited with them in the Afterlife
May we, those who were left behind, find acceptance, peace, and happiness in their memory.

In Memorium.