memories rain upon a tin roof so gentle at first almost soothing but as night hours linger dark clouds begin to gather and the rain pours down harder than when they were not memories somehow returning pain is stronger than its first moments were we not taught that time heals all but apparently not the pain of memories in the night
now i know it’s not fashionable but i’m holding on to my old moth-eaten frayed and ragged dreams i don’t need any fancy fantasies nor do i want to be weighed down by all the depressing shenanigans coming from the white house i want to continue to believe that this is a country that cares not only for its own self-interest but for the human rights of all men and women regardless of race, religion color creed or sexual orientation you see i’m an american with the old true american dream
his timing and vision of the future was always somewhat questionable so last winter when he ordered pineapple lily seeds from south africa based upon physical appearance and its lovely name few of us were surprised when he darted from his home one spring morning gasping for air the pineapple lilies bloomed early in his basement greenhouse resulting in a relationship much like his former marriage
when winter’s fireplace was no longer needed the husband hurried outside to begin the spring planting though the ground was difficult to work he found it less laborious than another of her martyr stories of her youth
even in cold rain
they held hands
warmed
no doubt
by
thoughts
of spring’s passion
and
those sweet promises
made before
each kiss
that
nothing
could ever separate them
as
they reached
the front porch
a light came on
and then
her father
opened
the door
