Immerse me in the cool morning air,
where nothing seems impossible,
and my feet feel light and cool against the carpet.
I too have plenty to say,
and feel fine having slept a good six hours.
The silence of those early hours follows me.
And stays with me,
into the next day,
where anything is possible,
and my coffee sits on the table,
and my pen and notepad.
Power Outage, 2015
I light two candles,
and sit in a room,
with nothing but a pen and notepad in hand.
In the dark,
there is the raw creativity that comes in waves,
returning to its free form,
creating endless ripples,
and then stillness.
A forgotten passion pours through me,
and I let its pulse take over my mind.
I let the walls that bound my thoughts fall,
and I remember how much I love this,
listening to nothing,
embracing the forgotten voice I found within,
writing until I can't.
I welcome the silence that graces this house,
as if it needed to reset its own balance.
In one night,
there is a lot to be thankful for.
In this night,
I remember what I lost.
EXCERPT FROM MY FICTION:
What She Became
I remember watching people move in herds, when the bombing ended and Germany turned its attention to the East. Some of us who were left on Delancey Street cried, while others fell to the ground in relief, that the bombs had spared them. I wanted to fade out of existence. Filomena, my family's beloved collie, clung close to me, and burrowed her head in my knee, reminding me that I was very much still alive.
Faces that I should have recognized were covered in ash. No one called out my name. A soft light beyond the smoke appeared at the end of our street. My neighbors, one by one, walked toward the light, thinking it was the British Army. Filomena turned to me, and it was then that I remembered the explosion, sitting on the swing in our backyard, with Filomena by my side, somehow unscathed by the flames.