All We Were Was a Long Way From Home

All we were was a long way from home. Too young to be so far from the loving arms of our fathers and mothers. They would not have wanted us to do these things. They would not have wanted us to think these thoughts. But they could not stop us, for we were out of their reach…this time in space, not simply victims of some generation gap of which we had no conception.

The ones we were told to trust tore the innocence from our psyches, ripped like wishbones, tossed into dustbins, and they had the nerve to laugh about it over tea and crumpets. What did they care? They’d lost theirs many years ago, forgotten, left only to extract sadistic pleasure in ruining our lives.

They told us we were wrong…

…and yet they could not tell us what was right.

So we became afraid to take comfort in red letter pages. Our hope, chiseled and scooped out, glossy oyster slick. Complicated beyond deconstruction. Would we ever laugh again?

Rained down, pain ground into fine powder we took to the brain. Despair the wind that blew back our hair, a hot steam vapor in our face to wipe away the smiles. Smiles we didn’t deserve, they told us, and we listened. It had to be better than what we’d left behind, right?

Where was the joy in an open hand to the face, forced, fast and furious? How long had it been since we gave up on love and sank down so low we dared not look above?

And I thought I had forgotten it all. I thought I had blunted every single memory from my mind of that wretched week. Seven days to erase away from my chalkboard vacant memory banks.

First day: Calliope crashed to the ground. I’ll never forget that Godawful sound.

Second day: Janie Jones all dressed in black. Rude boy’s gone and he ain’t coming back.

Third day: A lecture on the resurrection from a down-and-out agnostic. He had us convinced with his impeccable logic.

Fourth day: I ventured a kiss, you turned away. Must be that demon life that had me in it’s sway.

Fifth day: The sound of cars crashing just outside our door. The rattling rats that scurry underneath our floorboard.

Sixth day: Your father coaled. He said he was sorry for all the things he had done. Could I please give you the message?

Seventh day: No rest for the wicked, you left and stayed away. The sun turned to crimson in a sky shaded grey.

One week in the month of strange coincidences.

One month in the year of the Cat.

One year in the decade of dream-defying dogma.

One decade of six that he was given, and of that six I shared almost four.

Of those I gave you two.

From those two you took your time in tearing me down. And from the rubble, after more time had passed, I recovered this haystack needle recollection. As clear as the first ray of moonlight cutting through the breaking fog. A tattered photograph carried in a worn out wallet.

A picture of me in my Sunday best. My old man to my right and you to my left. An aura of fiery orange shimmer from the overexposed film that shined around our heads, melting halos of flame. Proving somehow that we, all three, were blessed.

Despite or because of all that’s been said, I still search for Truth in the letters in red.


----January 7, 2003