Exceptional Prose and poetry jamboree A Mentally Ill Mother and No Father by michaelcahill

Walking in my shoes will not give you any perspective on me. It will only reveal to you the similarities or differences in our feet. The rolling stone is a myth. Why is it believed in? The loser's credo: A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. I speak from the authority of never having told a young person to get off my lawn.   I have found it easy to remember the past. The memories come flooding back with surprising clarity. Even recollections of grammar school crystallize, as it is said, "like it was yesterday".    I remember facts with certainty. I know when, who, where and often even why.   acorns fall there is no luck only unlucky   I find it difficult to recall, however, what it felt like. It isn't that I don't know what love or anger or frustration feel like. I do know and I know very well. What I am having difficulty with is recalling what it felt like at a particular age and with the mindset that came with that age.   she found a seed he was clever she was receptive   I know I loved a girl when I was in the ninth grade. I know I loved a girl more in the tenth grade. I thought that I would never love a girl more                                 than the one, I met in the eleventh grade. I found out otherwise in the twelfth grade.   I walk barefoot shoes hiding shamefully under my bed   …that little boy grew to be the father that would seek for your daughter what he would not allow for his own.   the little Dutch boy put his finger in the hole and kept the dam from bursting.   It is just human nature. we try to deny it and justify and even alcoholically stupefy… but, the words and our perception don't lie.   was it a young man's heroics? or the moisture on his fingertip?   The question is, why do we try to contain the water in the first place? why don't we just see where it goes? and settle down there?   The stream that ran through the mountain came out the other side. We often would make little sailboats out of paper and place them on the slow moving waters. We would watch, as they would gently enter the small opening that the stream flowed through. The top of the sail would brush gently across the top of the small cave and we would pretend that the mountain would get goose bumps. As soon as the little vessels where completely inside the cave we would frantically rush around the mountain to see if the delicate boats would make it out the other side. They never did.   Many years later as a full-grown adult the nightly news caught my eye. The very mountain that contained all of those little paper vessels had erupted shooting sprays of volcanic ash into the sky. Tons of molten lava flowed over the lips of the mountaintop. I still wondered, in the strangest way, if those little vessels might still be huddled in a little corner somewhere safe and secure. I decided that they were and went on with my life.   we are a part of nature our denial dooms us   sapiens-sapiens if a double negative equals a positive…   Something is not missing if it doesn't exist.   Recognized Author Notes Yes, I do know what it means. Hahaha. If we didn't push the boundaries we would all be singing Gregorian Chants and living in caves!

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