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Welcome to A Writer's Landscape!

You have entered the realm of my mind where words play with the fabric of our existence. This is the map of my imagination: the very foundations of inspiration, musing, and thought splayed for your wandering eyes. Dive deep into the tides of these forces and experience my reality, my fantasy, my world; and if you should be so inclined, share your words with this land.

Peace and Love!

J Hart F

Thursday, February 11, 2010

In Memory

The subtle sound of falling water echoes through the trees, softly singing a charm of remembrance like a ghostly whisper. Eyes burning with held-back tears, I step wearily down the trodden path with trees as my only guide. Clear air filling my nostrils seems to poison my thoughts: How beautiful today is. Everything feels so ali-

But even that isn't true. Slowing the clop of my sandals brings ill wanted thoughts, seeping over the whole of my senses. Suddenly, my shirt feels small, chest constricting breath comes in short shallow gasps. A thump between my lungs beats harder, faster, violently reaching for a pain long sundered far bellow all memories. Rushing, like tsunami on a mountain island, ripping off the trees, tears flood down my face; so hot, a contrast to the cool autumn air.

Don't think about it!

Looking up into the canopy, the colored leaves at zenith shuffle carelessly. Greens, reds, death. Life must follow that track. The march, like this walk, to a painful, screaming, convulsing sleep.


The forest stopped moving a while ago. The clop no longer sounding the directionless path. Staccato patter striking the brush causes the tormenting flashback. I walk again, picking a pace much faster than before; a breeze rushes through the audience of trees, rustling the leaves which shed their rain.

The sermon, a sob.

I turn left.

My family across the aisle. A widow, drenched in sorrow. The mother in disarray, weeping to a lost soul. The brothers whose tears I've never seen.

I turn right. The vision won't leave.

Why? Why? "WHY?" The trees don't respond.

I'm not sitting with that family, comforting each other with their hugs and tears. The pieces of me are forced together with marvelous composure, sitting silent, scorning the tears that cross my face.

The forest offers little stability, each trunk bending away as my hand attempts to grab a hold of some solidity. Heat touches my cheeks again, distracting the thoughts for mere seconds. All mobility is lost in that moment, strength gives way to the sadness depressed farther than I could imagine.

A sandal is ripped from my foot, the pain of such action reaping to my brain.

Apart again, standing as bearer to that form we've cherished; the family taking their turns at goodbye. A Daughter, so young, knows not the man she's lost. Another, not sure of herself, contains the strange emotions. The second Daughter falls like me, limp over the casket, healing tears falling hopelessly to the ground. The First in shock, detached fear: lost in darkness, stepping into some form of comfort. Last, the Wife, the Widow; the one who saw it all, who faced fear and shock and death. The tears never stopped, even while she talked to him, saying a goodbye heard only by her and her husband.

The myriad of trees watched in silence. I was one of them, standing and crying, shedding my leaves while erect in fortitude against the sorrow overwhelming the time. Autumn in summer, the goodbye which shouldn't have happened. All I got was observation: the family; my family, the body, the casket, the ground and the hundreds of people he touched.

An already wet hand draws its cold touch across my face, waking me from myself. Attempting to return to my walk sends shivers everywhere. My sandal was lost somewhere behind me, yet I still searched for its protecting comfort. The clean air warms amongst the forest, the rain trickling away. I stumble back the way which feels easy, searching endlessly for the path.

Hours had past within moments. The path was where I left though: stepped aside beyond my sight. The wet asphalt, darkened by the rain, welcomes me onto its surface; clad in a slimy sandal, muddy pants, sticky shirt. The world about is beyond my sight now...all that remains are my limping strides, the known way home; and one sandal.

A weak smile graces my face.

At least I have one.

A speck of light glints to the right, weaving between the trees. Turning to watch it, examine the source closer, it disappears down the path. Beams of light fall from the canopy, casting greens and yellows across each other. The light flashed down the trail, drawing my desire, inspiring hope. Air fills my lungs, forcing the feeling of life beneath my flesh.

Why not? It is beautiful today. It wouldn't be fair to him to not...

Placing a bare foot forward, my life continues. The remaining drops fall idly to the ground, reviving the noise so naturla to a wood like these. A breeze, warm to the touch, guides me down the path, calmly whispering of love.

"I love you too..."


  1. I think sometimes to desire for comfort can blind us to our ability to adapt to an uncomfortable change.

    Moral of the story - don't wear sandals in the woods. (There's pokey things there!!)

  2. Isn't wonderful how a story, any story, can touch some of the people who read it in deep and meaningful ways? Yours reminds me of feelings as my own father passed. I treasure my memories of him as I play with my own kids. Wondering about his perspective, and his prejudices, and wondering if I can fulfill my vision of 'his' potential, and at what cost to my own?
    But I also revel in my own writing, amazed that I can bring myself to tears in ten pages or less reading 'my own' stuff over again? Hoping that anyone else connects with it at all. LOL
    And then I have to wonder which kinds of pokey things Chad finds in the forest? Maybe the 8-legged kind! :)


    Keep puking! :)

  3. This could extend beyond the feelings one experiences at the death of a loved one. Any loss could be applicable - divorce comes to mind.
    lovely work