Beneath the Stars

There is a blanket
in a field
under the silver dappled sky,
where we lay side by side.
We speak softly,
between fits of giggles,
sharing our hopes and dreams.
Wherever life takes us,
I like to think,
that we will always have
our blanket
beneath the stars.

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

The Love of a Child

I am lost
in your arms around my neck,
squeezing,
as you giggle with delight.
My nose finds that little spot
between your neck and your ear
and I inhale your smell,
your essence.
Your eyes meet mine
and I fall
head over heels
in love.
Again.
We've met before somewhere,
in another time,
another place.
We've traveled far and wide,
hand in hand.
I'm sure.
Because never have I felt so alive,
so intact, as I do
with your little fingers
on my cheeks
as you gaze at me
full of trust,
adoration,
love,
and call me

Mama.


©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

What Are Bodies For?

Bodies are merely temporary housing
for our transient souls
as they navigate this plane of existence
living,
loving,
learning;
in hopes of coming out in the end
having become
better,
wiser,
stronger,
than they were in the life before.


©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Grasping Words

The words are there within the confines of my bones. They swirl and pulse with an energy all their own. If only I could grab them, make them stop their flighty dance, I could share with the world all of the glorious places I've been, the people I've seen, the things I've done. But it is no easy task, this capturing of words.

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

On a Bridge

“What is he doing?” the woman beside me asks no one in particular. She has joined the rest of us to watch what is sure to be a collision of life and death. At first it was just me, entranced by the man on the edge of the bridge. Soon others joined; a magnetic gathering of morbid curiosity.

My shoulders rise and fall in response. My answer says I’m not sure, but that is a lie. I know what he’s doing. He’s looking for an end to the anguish, the cessation of pain. He’s searching for peace.

A police officer stands a few feet to my right barking into a megaphone. His pleas fill the void between the man and his growing audience but there is no sincerity in the officer’s eyes. He is simply doing his job; keeping order, avoiding chaos.

It is a beautiful evening for the end of this man’s story. His clothes ripple in the wind as he stands against a sky painted in pinks and golds. The clouds hang in tufts, offering his soul a place to rest before it continues onto the next leg of its journey. This moment seems almost frozen in time. The serenity is chilling and I shiver as goose bumps race across my skin.

The officer’s voice continues its monotonous begging. Please step down. You have so much to live for. Think of the people you love. We call those who end their lives cowards. We say they are selfish. But it is we who are those things. We are selfish to want to keep them even though they want out. We are cowards for being unable to say good bye. What right do we have to make decisions for others? We sit upon our pedestals of righteousness and cast our judgments down upon the heads of those around us.

But I offer no judgment. I merely stand, silent, and observe his internal war from the outside. A feeling in the pit of my stomach tells me his decision is solidifying. His mucky crystal ball is finally becoming clear.

He moves his hands to his head and runs his fingers through his hair. The crowd grows still. The sound of the city, which I always considered to be cacophonous, is somehow muffled as we stand here watching, waiting; barely breathing.

A few torturous seconds later he drops his hands. He turns to face us and the officer beside be gives him an atta boy. He tells him he’s making the right decision. Everything will be okay.

His face is a mask of power. He exudes confidence. His posture is proud. He raises his arms with painstaking slowness as his lips spread in a smile. And just like that his body tilts back as he freefalls to the river below.

Gasps and screams escape the mouths of the gathered. All I can manage is a sad smile and a sigh. How wonderful it must feel to be free, to find happiness, no matter the cost. 

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Release

My eyes ache.

They've been scraped raw

By my sandpaper tears.

My eyelids close,

Giving soothing hugs on the inside.

I fall asleep,

Exhausted from it all.

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Fall Is Coming

The sun is getting lazy;
Tired from long days of caressing flowers and kissing cheeks.
It sinks, each night, into its bed behind the horizon
A few minutes earlier than it did the night before.
The moon stretches with a yawn,
Ready for the change in shifts;
Eager for more hours on the clock.
The breeze, just a little cooler than yesterday,
Whispers images of what is to come:
Snugly blankets,
Crunching leaves,
Roaring fires.
A reprieve from the scorching heat
and thirstiness
that summer often brings.
Fall is coming.
I am ready.


©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Transcendence

Two hearts
Cut from the same cloth,
Created by the same mold.

Two souls
Dance together
Through time and space.

Hide and seek,
For them,
Is an eternal game.

Yet without fail
they find each other;

At the bottom of every ocean,
From the top of every mountain,
through the haze of eternity,

Until the end of time.

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Redemption

It’s over. I did it. After years of hiding bruises and lying about the reason behind broken bones, I did it. I did what my mother couldn’t do; what she wouldn’t do. Blinded by a false sense of loyalty, of love. But I don’t suffer from delusions. I see him for what he is; or was, rather. A monster. Maybe if she would have stepped out from behind her shield of denial she would be here now. Liberated. Like me. But no, she wasn’t strong enough. Like me.

I stand at the foot of his bed staring at his lifeless body. Thankfully there’s not much mess. It’s contained to the mattress. The pillow. The headboard. My labored breathing escapes my lips in whispers. The house is silent around me, keeping the secret of what I have just done. These walls are good at that; the keeping of secrets. They have had a lot of practice.

It was a peaceful way out for him. Asleep, he didn’t see it coming. He didn’t even feel it. Which is more than he deserves. It was more than he gave my mother. But, unlike him, I am not cruel. I am not evil. I am humane. I simply put him out of his misery. More importantly, I put him out of mine.

Tears spring to my eyes as flashes of my mother’s funeral rip through my mind. Black dresses. Sniffling noses. Kind words. Hands patting condolences onto my father’s shoulders. Hands shaking I’m so sorry for your loss into his palm. Me, hiding in the corner staring daggers into his back, wishing it was him in that wooden box instead of her. But what those comforting looks and well wishers didn’t realize is that he put her there. He beat her into a corner where her only escape was an orange bottle of little pharmaceutical saviors. Eighty little white angels sang to her a song of salvation and she flew away with them. She flew away from this hell. And left me here.

That night my backside made good friends with my father's belt. Every pore of that leather strap screamed to me tales of his grief. With every sting of contact I cursed my mother. One. How could you leave me? Five. Why didn’t you save me? Eight. Make it stop. Ten. Make it stop. Twelve. Make it stop.

Someone is sobbing. Someone is gurgling in their snot. It’s me. My hands shake so violently that my attempt to wipe my nose with my forearm results in mucus spreading like peanut butter across my cheek. Another sob racks my body, punctuated by the sound of something metal hitting the floor. I dropped the gun. His gun.

I sink to my knees, resting my head against the foot of the bed, and stare at my trembling hands. My hands no longer tethered by the chains of my father. They don’t know what to do now that they no longer have to be clenched in apprehension, in fear. So I watch them shake. They shake like the wings of a butterfly having just emerged from the confines of the chrysalis.

Time passes. Minutes, hours; I’m not sure. My feet tingle as they asphyxiate beneath the weight of my body. I push myself up off the floor and wobble out of the room and down the hall. Feeling has yet to return to my feet and I feel like I am floating down the stairs. I suppose in a way I am floating, on redemption.

Yellow sunlight drifts lazily in through the windows, baking away my tension. Even though I am unsure of what will come next for me I am filled with a sense of purpose. No longer am I living under the weight of oppression. No, I took care of that with nine millimeters of brass and gunpowder.

Cars pass down the street in front of our house. People walk their dogs, check their mail. They are blissfully unaware of what has been transpiring right next door. The world keeps turning, even though to me it feels as though it came to a screeching halt years ago.

In the driveway sits my father’s police cruiser. The paint is shiny and clean. The grass is edged, the shrubs pruned to perfection, and the driveway pressure washed. Nothing is out of place; on the outside. Nobody would suspect that the pillar of the community that was my father was actually a wolf in sheep’s clothing. If only he actually was the man that everyone outside our home believed him to be. Home. That word is a farce. The last thing this house ever was was a home.

The silence is deafening now. Silence, my old friend. Silence means you’re safe. It means a reprieve from cruel and cutting words. It grants amnesty from the fists and belts. I know the peaceful quiet won’t last forever, so I drink it in. I eat it up.

One last look around the house shows me everything that I won’t miss; empty cans and bottles, broken furniture left over from last night’s tornado of rage. Pictures of our family hang crooked on the walls. My mother’s giant fake smile. My naivety. The gleam in my father’s eyes that dared someone, anyone, to ask questions. They never did. They didn’t want to know, blissful in their ignorance.

I could run and hide somewhere, stake out a new identity; a new life. I could, but I won’t. I want people to know who my father really is. What he really was. I want people to know that I took care of myself. I made it so he can’t hurt anyone anymore. Unlike my mother who saved herself and left me to fester in the poison that was her husband.

It’s time to open up all the windows and doors and call forth the fresh air of deliverance. It’s time to hang my family’s dirty laundry out on the line. The carpet makes a hush hush hush sound as the soles of my feet carry me toward the kitchen, but I will not be deterred. The world must know the truth.

The phone sits cradled in the grimy old base on the kitchen island. A red light blinks, indicating there is a new message. I hadn’t even heard it ring. I don’t even bother to check it. I am on a mission.

With iron resolve I remove the phone from its home and thumb three numbers, preparing in my mind my confession. Forgive me father for I have sinned.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“I just shot my father.”

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Goodbye

I leave the busy murmur of noise in the hall as I enter the dimly lit room. My mother lays in her bed asleep. Her body looks so small and fragile under the thin fabric of the sheets. Only the subtle rise and fall of her chest and the constant gentle beeping of the machine next to her bed make any indication that she is, in fact, still in the land of the living.

Her eyelids flutter open at the sound of the door clicking shut and her tired brown eyes fall upon my tall frame. I step out of the shadows and she extends her hand out to me. A kind smile settles upon her lips. “Hello Benjamin.”

“Hi Mama.” I close the distance between us and take her hand in mine as I take a seat in the chair at her bedside. “How are you feeling today?”

“Oh,” she says brushing away my concern, “I’m alive.”

I pat her hand and wonder why she feels like she needs to keep holding on. How much effort must each breath take? What is she waiting for?

“How is Janine?” The skin at the corner of her eyes wrinkle as her smile widens at the mention of my wife.

“She’s doing well. She told me to tell you she says ‘hi’ and she’s sorry she couldn’t make it today. Her doctors have her on bed rest until the baby comes.”

Content with my answer, she nods and closes her eyes. We are silent as I stare at her, committing her to memory; the grey and white strands of hair pulled tightly back into a bun squished between her head and the pillow, her pale skin that lies delicately against her old bones, the peaceful look her face holds as she waits for the inevitable. I want to curl her up in my arms and rock her as she once did to me when I was a small boy. I want to rub my cheek against the top of her head, inhaling the scent of her hair. But I don’t. Instead I gently slide the pad of my thumb against the back of her wrist. “Have you eaten anything today, Mama?”

She shakes her head before opening her eyes and turning her attention to me. “No.” I flash her a look of disapproval.

“What? The breakfast here is terrible. Besides, I don’t feel like eating.” She coughs and the beeping on the monitor stutters which sends a nurse into the room to make sure everything is alright.

“How are you doing Mrs. Mason?” The nurse asks, taking a quick check of my mother’s vitals. She is a petite thing with platinum blonde hair and bright pink scrubs.

“Fine, thank you.”

“Can I get you anything?” the nurse asks, smoothing the sheets against the bed near my mother’s feet.

“A refill of my ice water, if you don’t mind.”

“Sure thing.” She slips out of the room just as quickly as she arrived, leaving my mother and me to sit once more in silence.

I remember, as a boy, my mother chasing me through the orchard in our back yard. Her laugh could be heard amongst my squeals of delight as we weaved through the gnarled fruit trees. She herded me into the waiting arms of my father and the three of us fell into the long grass in a heap of tickling fingers and laughter.

I remember trips to the park, each of us in our own swing, trying to see who could swing the highest. They always let me win. Christmas mornings in our living room; my mother’s feet tucked up under her body, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and a sleepy smile on her face. My father eyeing her adoringly next to her on the couch.

When my father was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s my mother would sit for hours by his bedside, recanting memories and stories from their life together. Even when he didn’t recognize her any longer, she was there, by his side, being whoever he thought she was that day.

After my father died I noticed the light in her eyes begin to dim. And then when her body stopped responding to radiation and chemotherapy I knew it was only a matter of time. I know it’s selfish but I want her to keep fighting. I want her to meet my son. And though I am an adult with a family of my own I still want her guidance.

A knock comes from the door and the nurse slips inside the room. She places the cup of water on the movable table next to my mother’s bed and smiles. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She stands staring at my mother for a moment, her hands fisted on her hips before deciding all is fine with a nod of her head and backing toward the door. “I’ll leave you two. Let me know if you need anything else, Mrs. Mason.”

The door clicks shut and my mother picks up her plastic cup, the ice scraping against the inside as she brings it to her face. Her lips pucker at the straw and she sips thirstily. When she has had her fill she returns the cup to the table and lies back against the bed. She folds her hands on top of her stomach and turns her head toward me. “You don’t need to worry, Ben.”

“What? How can I not?”

“I’m not in any pain.”

I lean forward in my chair, resting my forearms on my knees, clasping my hands together in front of me. I don’t know how to respond, so I don’t.

She reaches out to me, cupping my cheek in her palm. Her hands are cold; ice cold. “So handsome. Just like your father.”

My eyes close and I take a slow, calculated breath. I will the heat from my body to her hand, trying to warm her skin. It is a vain attempt to ignore the stinging in my eyes and the impending tears.

“He loves you, you know.”

My eye lids shoot open when I realize she is speaking of my father in the present tense. I notice she isn’t looking at me. Instead she is staring, glassy eyed, at the corner of the room. “Mama…”

“He is proud of you and what you have accomplished; of the man you have become. So am I.” Her lips curl in a smile as her gaze goes off somewhere distant.

She sees my father. She sees my father. Oh god, she sees my father. “Mama. Look at me.” It is a demand; a plea. But she isn’t listening.  I take her hand from my cheek and hold it between both of mine, pressing my lips against the backs of her knuckles. “Please, Mama. Don’t go. Not yet. I’m not ready.”

Her eyes move as she tracks something from the corner of the room to the end of her bed. I try to follow but see nothing. It is just air. Vacant, like the growing feeling in my gut. She coughs again and the machine goes haywire.

“Ah, Jim. I have missed you so much.”

“Please,” I beg, my words no more than a whisper.

Her chest sinks one final time as her hand goes limp in mine. Her eyes close, leaving a slight smile lingering upon her lips. An eerie tone fills the room from the machine hooked to my mother. Chaos ensues as hospital staff barge through the door, though I’m not sure why. She signed the paper forbidding anyone to do anything more than verify her death.

I don’t move. Instead I sit, clinging to her hand like a child as I drink in her last moment of peace, of happiness. A tear slides down my cheek.

She is gone; off to a better place. She must be happy to be with my father again. I should feel peace with this thought. I should. But I don’t. Instead I can’t help but feel empty; abandoned. With a shuttering sob I release my grip and let her hand fall, lifeless, to the bed. And I let her go. 

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Lover's Dance

Whispered words saturated with want,
with need.
Perspiration beads on skin;
Little dew drops of ecstasy.
Limbs twisted.
Chests heaving.
Two bodies become one.

This is the dance of lovers.



©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Pardon

As I walk through the door of the humane society I am hit with the musty smell of confinement and fear. Cats and dogs cry out for attention from somewhere down a long hallway and my mind is instantly transported back to my own stint behind cold, iron bars. The smell in that hell hole wasn’t much different.

After a couple quick words to the lady behind the desk, I follow her out of the lobby and towards the source of the raucous sounds. Our footsteps echo as we march down the cold grey concrete hall and my stomach knots with anxiety when we reach the heavy metal door.

Once inside the room marked “DOGS” my hands begin to sweat. The row of cells on each wall throws me into a sense of déjà vu and my heart beat stutters.

I know exactly which soul I’m here for. I saw his photo online. He’s been here for a while and is near the end of his welcome. In fact, his clock is ticking. If he isn’t out of here by the end of today he’ll be handing in his ticket to cross the rainbow bridge.

We stop in front of door twenty and I peer inside. A shiny black mass huddles in the far corner. Big brown eyes look up from the floor, begging for salvation.

The employee opens the door and I kneel down on the ground, stretch my hand out in front of me, and grant him pardon.

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

The End

The man stands just before me,

Against the fading light.

I’ve seen his face before,

Heard his voice,

Lived his plight.

In his eyes swim the shadows

Of struggles new and old.

I wonder if he knows

Times almost up,

He’ll soon be cold.

What once was so important

Holds no significance at all.

I can’t rise above it,

Can’t look up,

Can’t stand tall.

Nearby a door is opening,

Footsteps shuffle near.

The voice says don’t be frightened,

I’ll take your hand,

Please have no fear.

Then through the dark and misery

I finally find release.

The shackles that were holding me

Are gone.

I’ve found my peace.

 ©2014 Courtney Ann Howard

Mine

You were barely a thought in my mind;

A figment of my imagination.

A dream.

And I loved you.

You were a fluttery feeling beneath my skin.

Your heart beat with mine;

In time.

And I loved you.

You are almost here and I am breathless,

The room full of anticipation;

Of wonder.

And I loved you.

And then I see your face.

You belong to me;

My heart.

And I love you.

©2014 Courtney Ann Howard