Requiem For A Motherless Child
The weeds have sheathed the garden from its care as more nails than wood appear of a house lacking adjectives. A sun liberated from scathing entrapment amongst an overburdened forest whose boughs are heavily laden and are unforgivingly denied rest. Dark exacts night's flit to the gloaming of a lightless day and as such ascribe the wind be of the same measure. The elements seek favor elsewhere. An answerless woman pays it no due.
She heeds instead to a chiming timepiece from within. The instants of the chiming, she stops from rocking on the porch rocking chair. The chiming changed to a tick-tock, and her left hand arched as its fingers were observed tapping to the sounds of the tick-tocking clock as it seemingly counts down. Difficult to gauge its purpose for a woman whose face is not of the present. Be it one of pleasure, no, it does not lean to it, but away, more sinister the sway.
On a simple wooden stand, next to her rocking chair, her face eyed it upon the instant both her fingers stopped tapping and the timepiece within stopped tick-tocking. On the top of that wooden stand, covered in a white-laced tablecloth--one that she could ill afford--sat a pristine leather-covered bible, barely touched other than that of her eyes unwavering stare. She looks away from the stand, to the right front side the house and its window, if one could call it that. Some glass, but mostly cardboard taped, no, that takes second place. Firstly, it's nothing but a window frame, and then there's the wooden frame, crisscrossing with few pieces of glass, then cardboard tape, and then the rest open season.
That bible seemingly sits on top of a news article cut out of a newspaper. Only the year is visible, 1966. The clipping is an obituary for a woman, but the clipping's folded causes the picture of that woman to bent out of shape. She proceeds to stand, and releases a gasp of air. First signs of exhibited life. She looks about, as if for the time she's been there. Yet actually, she's looking at the thicket of weeds surrounding the whole of the house, and on a wider spectrum, it's rather colorful. Wild Madder, Chickweed, Shepherd's Purse, and Dandelions.
On the other side house, where she was gazing, stood two well-tended fruit trees, one apple tree and the other, was an orange tree. What separated the trees was a wooden cross, with the name, Booker Lee Johnson. There was no day or month, just the year, 1923. She placed the flowers she collected and laid them around the cross and went back into the house. She came back out with a small metal case--size of two hands. On top was a saucer plate with two pies and a fork. She gets a folded chair leaned up against the side of the house.
She returns and unfolds the chair facing the cross. She sits down, opened then snaps the case shut, saucered pies on top, she reads, "Happy 43rd birthday, Booker Lee Johnson, my lovely boy." She closed the card and looked at the cross, saying; "I know we celebrated your 43rd birthday already, but today is a special occasion because the woman who made believe that The Word of God said that you were evil, but the church said I was misled and I was lied to by a woman who was ungodly, usurper of The Word of God for her wicked vile purpose. Her obituary clipping, I'm burning it, an appropriate send-off! There it burns, initials M.S., and now to our pies, here is yours son, on top of the grass fronting the cross. Those critters will love the apple pie with orange slices--rest in peace son.
Copyright ©
Hilo Poet
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