Writer’s Choice

Quiet Reflection on a Trying Year

My first time alone on New Year’s Eve, future uncertain, past unresolved. The desire for time travel escapes me.

We heal and grow big hearts from the shatters of explosive heartaches.

There once was a boy named Max. Not just an ordinary boy, but a boy who could fly.

I buy admission to the tattered big top amidst a hundred or more whose skin is the color of my own.

As your elder’s trunk snapped, you turned and ran, like a terrified child unsure which way the sky was falling.

I mulled over what I could have done differently. A crack in one of the hazy panes caught my eye. A fissure.

I remembered you on stage in Montreal with your guitar. How could you have picked up that gun?

“The sensual wetness of the sand beneath my feet is balm to my seared soul. The siren song of waves beckons.”

My blue ocean sadness. Kept from you, hidden from view. So I keep docking at the same port of hurt.