Bye Bye Bicycle

At a 7-o’clock meeting this morning, a word popped into my train-wreck of thoughts: bicycle. The bane of my existence. My uttermost shame. But what a beautifully narrative word. The way these three syllables harmonize softly can only be achieved by sounding out the entirety of bicycle. Unlike bike, where the staccato takes away from this entire experience.

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Kathy Comments
Some days

When the wind whispers

Quietly, I listen to uncover your voice

Hoping for something, anything

While treading behind this veil of guarded poise


When the sun laughs

I feel I’m seeing the crinkles once more

Those that crept up the corners of your eyes

Each time you beamed the smile I'd so adore


When the rain dances I know you are tapping away your feet

As you had always done

To lighten the spirit when it became downbeat


But when the fog weeps

Making all loveliness pause and then the silence begins

I recall holding your hands that one last time, not knowing

It would be the last time, but wishing you would remember me again

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Where have my neighbors gone?

I’ll admit that I never knew the couple that lives next door to me very well, or even at all. When we first moved in, I grew suspicious of the broken blinds and the shattered flowerpot that remained unfixed in front of this seemingly vacant condo. There never was any light source. During some nights even, when I was returning home, I could have sworn I saw a pair of inhuman eyes fixated on my every move. It wasn’t until several months later when I bumped into my neighbors as we concurrently walked out of our opposing doorways that I realized they did exist. They were two attractive newlyweds and were both, to my surprise, quite normal. Since then, I have run into them a few more times while they walked their dog, a Yorkshire Terrier which finally explained the looming eyes at the window sill. 

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Kathy Comment
How to lose someone twice

Hidden in the back of my thoughts, there is a scattered memory when I went cotton-picking. I remember my cousins and I fighting over the baskets. I remember pinching the fluffy cotton out from its stalk, giggling and flinging my basket around as I danced around the cotton trees while my grandfather shouted after me to be careful. I remember running to the house and bringing back a pot of freshly brewed tea for him. Then I would plop down next to him, on the top of a dirt mound, with my legs crisscrossed and the teapot by my side. And I would watch his face as he drank the tea, resting my own face against my palms and letting the glee soak in.

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