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Heaven Takes Away

 
Back then...  

Granny had said that I was a particular child.  
How I spent too much time questioning all  
of the unreasonable things.  
That I was tiresome to her,  
when she'd take me to church, and  
I wouldn't sit still while listening  
to the nonsense of some mortal man  
on a stage.  
   
Because I could talk to God anytime,  
without that interpreter giving me  
his own version.  
I'd tell granny, God doesn't see it that way.  
She'd just shush me, sometimes handing me  
a half-stick of gum to occupy my time.  
   
I'd chew silently then, and stare  
up at the crucifix behind the preacher.  
I knew, that wasn't exactly how  
or why it all happened.  
God had no direct descendants, and  
Jesus was too much of a loud mouth,  
without a grandmother to silence him with gum.  
   
As a child, I also didn't understand  
why the church called my family "dirt poor".  
We had plenty of it.  
My brother and I wore it like a cloak,  
and we'd blend with the creatures at dusk.  
Confusing any wild animals  
that may have lurked along the trails  
that cut through the woodlines  
that we'd venture through.  
-Safer than streets, or sidewalks.  
(We heard stories of missing kids, from town).  
   
But we never worried; No one wanted us.  
Not even our mother.  
-My dad had told me that I was a difficult birth  
and mom never recovered.  
I figured ten years would've been enough,  
but no. I'd check on her and she'd still overlook me,  
even as I flicked lit matches onto her bed.  
   
Not really, it was just a thought.  
Like the other ideas, that tried  
to rip themselves out of my head.  
I suppose it was God, who'd tell me no,  
that's not the way she will be leaving.  
   
But dad went first. Surrounded by his demon friends.  
As invisible as they were loud.  
He was too tired to fight them, by then.  
He had insisted that we burn him.  
Leave nothing, he had begged.  
But I took a few things.  
His knife; I'd fight back, like  
the little terror mom claimed that I was.  
   
My friend, Pelki, a Jewish kid,  
(but I didn't care what team  
he was assigned to), he died.  
We were all playing by the tower  
and lightning struck the roof.  
-I felt my bones vibrate, I felt  
my fingers extend into blue branches.  
   
Pelki was now sleeping on the ground.  
As perfect as he was seconds ago.  
   
Losing a friend like that  
wasn't the same as moving away,  
when we could always hope  
that they'd have a good life further on.  
But not like this.  
Like this, hope is buried with them.  
And their book is closed.  
Any stories of them, good or bad,  
will stay that way.  
   
Like my dad's story...  
Mom always called him a bastard,  
but I had read him differently.  
He was a broken crow,  
always wishing to fly away,  
but his directions were just circles.  
I was glad for that,  
even if I could see his eyes  
always focusing on a yonder sky.  
It wasn't so selfish, to want my dad to stay?  
   
Pelki's mom was a quiet neighbor.  
No music, no TV, no barking dog.  
No children.  
I'd cut her grass, bringing a roar  
to her days, for five dollars.  
But I think I would have done it for free by then.  
Just to sit with her, in the vast silence  
of her kitchen. While she baked bread and pies,  
just to give them to the truly needy-hungry.  
   
I'd pretend that she adopted me.  
And even though we looked nothing alike,  
I'd tell everyone that she was my mom.  
-That I wasn't dark-skinned  
because lightning had bleached me.  
   
That she accepted me, still, as is.  
   
Sometimes, she'd pull my head back  
by my sweaty hair, just to kiss  
my forehead.  She'd tell me that  
I was a good kid, that I'd be  
a good man someday.  
And to stay away from the tower.  
   
I wanted to tell her,  
I climbed to the top of it, every day.  
Where I'd wait;  
God owed me, so many explanations.  
   
All I ever saw, though, were birds.  
Some leaving, some circling.  
   
One, a crow. Always around,  
watching me, protesting,  
not letting me  
look down.  
   
   
~~~  
Written by Styxian
Published | Edited 18th Feb 2024
Author's Note
Live life.
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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