Category Archives: Prose

The aroma of a newly lit incense, the sound of blues music playing in the background, and the rays from the sun bounced off freshly cleaned wine glasses always brought bliss to my life. Everyday at six o’clock after such tiring days, that scene would ease my aching bones. But, the only reason I could feel that way was because of Her.

The purr of Her voice as she hummed along with the blues music playing softly in the background, the sound of her book’s pages turning, and that beauty that shone off of her… that view was what I was always grateful to see.

“I’m home,” a phrase I would have repeated everyday after taking those few minutes to appreciate her radiance.

I would watch as she looked up from her book and turned my way. Her smile was light yet calming. She would always reply with, “Welcome home. How was your day?”

She always knew my answer, because every time I saw her it would become better than it was before.

“It is fine.” 

She would place her bookmark in her book and close it. I would watch her as I took off my shoes. Everyday she was wearing what could have been confused as a white dress that reached her knee caps, in actuality it was one of my white t-shirts. As she stood up from her spot the sun always seemed to fall perfectly on her like it was a spotlight. Her black hair was always wrapped up with clips but it still glistened in the light. She would step out of her spotlight and make her way over to me.

“Let me help you,” she would say, taking my coat from me. I never refused her request and I had always let her do as she pleased. She took my coat from me and hung it up on the rack. Her short stature made it seem like she would not be able to place the coat on the rack, but she was strong willed and always placed it high enough for me to reach the next day.

She turned around and I stepped up closer to her, smiling down. She smiled back up at me and I could see the shine in her eyes even though we were in the light of the sun. Her beautiful light brown eyes would bring a warmth to the cold heart I bore throughout the day. Their warmth would melt the icy shell I placed around my heart to protect it. She melted the defenses I had for each day in an instant. The song in the background would change and I would place my hand out to Her. 

“May I?”

 I watched as her smile would grow bigger as if she were waiting on that question the whole time. She would take my hand and I would walk Her over back to her spotlight. We would slowly sway back and forth to the beat of the song playing. Our breathing slowed and at some point we would be inhaling and exhaling at the same pace. The warmth of Her in my arms always made me feel whole. Or rather the way she held me made me realize that she meant everything to me and I meant everything to her.

We would dance until the sun had set leaving us in total darkness. I would feel her slip slowly away from my arms, and each time she did that my heart would drop. In the darkness the sound of a match being lit could be heard and the glow from it showed Her hovering over a candle that was ready to be lit. She always looked beautiful. From the sunlight that had faded away awhile ago to the dim light of a candle, she was always beautiful.

Those were the days when I was in true bliss. Those were the days I was grateful for. If only I could have one more chance to cherish it all again. Now, when I come home I no longer hear the sounds of Blues playing in the background, I no longer smell on newly lit incense, and no longer see freshly clean wine glasses. Instead I am greeted by silence, I smell nothing appealing, and I see wine glasses have moved from the night before. Everyday at six o’clock I am tired and my bones ache. The reason I feel like this is because she’s no longer here.

I no longer hear her hum along with the blues music that once played or hear the sound of a book’s pages turning. And most of all I no longer can witness her beauty.

“I’m home,” I would say every day, a phrase I wouldn’t say that usually got her to look my way, no longer held any weight for me now.  I would no longer see her look my way with the soft smile that she held for me, I would no longer hear the reply I loved, I could no longer say my day was fine.

I missed watching her get up from her spot in my white t-shirt every day, how the setting sun shone on her. I would take off my coat by myself and place it where she used to hang it for me only reminding me that I could no longer watch as she hung it up for me. I would step into the spotlight and stand alone no longer able to sway to the blues music. I missed her. The sound of her voice, the ones she brought to my cold heart, the beauty she held… I missed all of it.

She left me without a single warning, and there is nothing more than I want to have her back.

It wasn’t a pretty birth. Mother struggled to stay alive, Father was absent for the entire “miracle”, and I didn’t ask to be born. By the time I was five, I realized I was by myself. Mother worked, Father was still absent, and my only source of comfort was my one stuff bear that I declared to be my best friend. One day, Mother came home with new people, a small person and a big person like her, he told me to call him Father but he wasn’t my Father. For the next ten years I raised that small person, who bore the title as my sibling, making my world expand to just the two of us and my stuffed bear. When CPS arrived, frankly I couldn’t tell you why, all I know is that I left my sibling with my bear. After that each year became a blur. Those years I spent forced into new homes with strangers. Each place revealed new body parts and a slight sense of ownership. Every night and new enjoyments where created every week. My body began to barely functioning, and later, I had to learn the meaning of sobriety. At twenty-two, I learned my sibling was given away to strangers as well, I learned he was living a happier life, so I relapsed without knowing if he still had my bear. At twenty-five years old, I managed to get my own place, a job, and my first living friend. A fish named Jean. Twenty-six, Jean died, but I met a person who said they ‘loved’ me. A newfound will to exist emerged within my chest. Thirty, my sibling contacted me, showed up at my doorstep with two kids, my niece and my nephew. The person who said they ‘loved’ me stood next to me welcoming them in. My sibling told me about his life, how our mother passed away, O.D, and how he is glad I lived. I cried a little. My nephew came up to me and showed me his bear, whom he called best friend. Our best friend. Fifty-five years old, my lover passed away, stage four pancreatic cancer, we caught it too late. The grief in my heart caused a relapse of pain I hadn’t felt in years. Seventy years old, I passed away from fifteen years of heartache, but I at least learned to live for something.