| Commentary and Philosophy Non-Fiction posted October 28, 2010 |
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An empty house
Little Glass Hummingbirds
by Realist101
I walk slowly through my small home, soft cloth in hand, gently wiping the wood furniture and picture frames that hold the photos of my life.
I see my family standing together, smiling out from an old image that is black and white; I am only five years old in it. Do I see melancholy in my eyes, even then?
There is our first dog, Sally, the beagle ... she is wearing sunglasses that my brother and I had placed across her nose just before our mother snapped the photograph. I remember how she had known to let them stay there, just long enough, then shook them off, as if to say, "Okay, that's enough of that!"
My mother peeks out from behind the old refrigerator in the basement, as someone else is behind the camera during the party she gave me for my seventh birthday. She looks so happy. I remember being too self-conscious to really have fun. I was not used to being the center of attention.
And there is my beloved brother, Mark. He always has a sort of far away look in his eyes. As if he would rather be anywhere but being made to have his picture taken. My heart swells with love, every time I think of him.
Then, there are the photos from school. Mostly bad memories there, we were the kids who fell through the "cracks", our education put on the back burner while the teachers played favorites.
There is my son too, when he was brand new to the world. A happy, joyfilled baby, just brimming with love of life and possibilities. He has been the only thing keeping me going for the last twenty-two years. I cherish the pictures that document his life.
And I see myself too, always sadness in my eyes. Always. It emits from my heart and soul, a strange longing for something unknown. Like a misty shadow, sadness has been my constant companion all my life. The photos can't hide the melancholy any more than they can hide the gray hair and wrinkles that have appeared out of nowhere in the last few years.
I keep cleaning. Windex for the little glass hummingbird, Pledge for the wooden frames. But what can I use to clean the window to my soul?
I walk slowly through my small home, soft cloth in hand, gently wiping the wood furniture and picture frames that hold the photos of my life.
I see my family standing together, smiling out from an old image that is black and white; I am only five years old in it. Do I see melancholy in my eyes, even then?
There is our first dog, Sally, the beagle ... she is wearing sunglasses that my brother and I had placed across her nose just before our mother snapped the photograph. I remember how she had known to let them stay there, just long enough, then shook them off, as if to say, "Okay, that's enough of that!"
My mother peeks out from behind the old refrigerator in the basement, as someone else is behind the camera during the party she gave me for my seventh birthday. She looks so happy. I remember being too self-conscious to really have fun. I was not used to being the center of attention.
And there is my beloved brother, Mark. He always has a sort of far away look in his eyes. As if he would rather be anywhere but being made to have his picture taken. My heart swells with love, every time I think of him.
Then, there are the photos from school. Mostly bad memories there, we were the kids who fell through the "cracks", our education put on the back burner while the teachers played favorites.
There is my son too, when he was brand new to the world. A happy, joyfilled baby, just brimming with love of life and possibilities. He has been the only thing keeping me going for the last twenty-two years. I cherish the pictures that document his life.
And I see myself too, always sadness in my eyes. Always. It emits from my heart and soul, a strange longing for something unknown. Like a misty shadow, sadness has been my constant companion all my life. The photos can't hide the melancholy any more than they can hide the gray hair and wrinkles that have appeared out of nowhere in the last few years.
I keep cleaning. Windex for the little glass hummingbird, Pledge for the wooden frames. But what can I use to clean the window to my soul?
I see my family standing together, smiling out from an old image that is black and white; I am only five years old in it. Do I see melancholy in my eyes, even then?
There is our first dog, Sally, the beagle ... she is wearing sunglasses that my brother and I had placed across her nose just before our mother snapped the photograph. I remember how she had known to let them stay there, just long enough, then shook them off, as if to say, "Okay, that's enough of that!"
My mother peeks out from behind the old refrigerator in the basement, as someone else is behind the camera during the party she gave me for my seventh birthday. She looks so happy. I remember being too self-conscious to really have fun. I was not used to being the center of attention.
And there is my beloved brother, Mark. He always has a sort of far away look in his eyes. As if he would rather be anywhere but being made to have his picture taken. My heart swells with love, every time I think of him.
Then, there are the photos from school. Mostly bad memories there, we were the kids who fell through the "cracks", our education put on the back burner while the teachers played favorites.
There is my son too, when he was brand new to the world. A happy, joyfilled baby, just brimming with love of life and possibilities. He has been the only thing keeping me going for the last twenty-two years. I cherish the pictures that document his life.
And I see myself too, always sadness in my eyes. Always. It emits from my heart and soul, a strange longing for something unknown. Like a misty shadow, sadness has been my constant companion all my life. The photos can't hide the melancholy any more than they can hide the gray hair and wrinkles that have appeared out of nowhere in the last few years.
I keep cleaning. Windex for the little glass hummingbird, Pledge for the wooden frames. But what can I use to clean the window to my soul?
 Recognized |
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Inspired from a poem by MissCookie called "The Bank of G and J C", thank you for reading and to Printgirl for the loan of this photo!
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