Memories

“What are you doing here?”

“Do you welcome everyone like that? I come in peace.”

“You don’t mean that. No one who has been through what you have could possibly mean that.”

“Oh, but I do. A person who suffers from grudges is the person who holds them, Mr. Hodge. You don’t agree?”

“Mrs. Tea -- ”

“Please, Mr. Hodge, I have asked you to call me Charlene.”

“Well, Mrs. Charlene Tea, if my daughter’s life was snuffed short because of unspeakable acts, I would hold more than a grudge. And I certainly wouldn’t forgive --”

“Well, maybe this is why you have no children. My husband doesn’t know I am here. He has enough trouble wrestling criminals all day. I figure there is no sense in having him worried just because I have red hair.”

“Please, Mrs. Tea, you need to leave.”

“I wonder if it was the red hair. You know, I always told my daughter that her hair was special. That God squeezed plenty of tomatoes, even threw in a few carrots, just to come up with the golden orange-red hue she had. You could spot her from a mile away with all that hair. Don’t you agree Mr. Hodge?”

“I don’t want to talk about your daughter anymore. Please go.”

“Oh nonsense Mr. Hodge. Didn’t you find the white prom dress she wore that night just stunning? So hard to turn away from her. You know I told her to go with black. We saw the cutest black cocktail dress with sparkles everywhere on sale.”

“Please stop. You talk about her as if she is still alive.”

“But she tells me, 'Mom, no one wears black to a prom. You wear black dresses to funerals.’ I guess she should have worn black after all, huh, Mr. Hodge? Do you miss her any?”

“Lady please.” [Aside: “I’m ready.”]

“You must miss her Mr. Hodge. How could you be friends with her and not miss her? Did she tell you she loved me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you ever think of her? Miss her? She visits me, you know.”

“Look, lady, I have to go. You have to stop coming here.”

“She visits you too, huh? Of course she does! How could she visit her own mother and not visit her murderer?”

“Mrs. Tea stop it. See what you do. Why do you say you forgive and torture me with your presence every month?!”

“Mr. Hodge, you should be ashamed of yourself. I come so we won’t forget. My husband forgot. Or at least acts like he has. Maybe because my daughter was not related to him. But we, Mr. Hodge, we are connected to her. Someone must keep her alive, even if only in conversation. We must not remember how you brutally raped and decapitated her. We must not remember how you choked her and then tossed her life in abandoned field. We must remember as she was that night, before her fiery hair called your name. Before you say you had a conversation with the devil.”

“Please don’t come back.”

“Sorry for upsetting you so Mr. Hodge. Next month I will die my hair black.”

Dead drops

Pictures tell stories. Sometimes they lie.

We wear big smiles as the waitress brings our seafood platters. We dance with strangers. Our ex-boyfriends' mistakes hang on display in our eyes. Cheap makeup in bold colors caught with popular hairstyles and fashion fads. We dance with more strangers.

I pile our happier times into a shoebox.

The hole in the backyard is just big enough. Handfuls of dirt slap the box. Leaves flirt with the wind. Trees wave their limbs. God is rearranging the sky. I must move.

My soul has been asking if this is necessary. My mind reminds me of your cold, resounding "no." You are not mad. But you can't forget. And you won't forgive. Your hurt clings closer than our happier times.

You won't allow me to be human.

You and my hope disappear under the greener grass.

I sigh and run to escape the fury of the clouds.

All dead things must be buried.

© Miss Brandy

The Interrupted Artist Speaks displays EXCERPTS of the poetry, works of art or stories I have written. All of these works are original and inspired by God and the creativity within me. If you see phrases that fade off like this….. this means a part of the poem was deleted. Some people take pride in stealing other peoples works and claiming it as their own. For this reason, I won’t publish the entire work. I have a copyright for all excerpts and poems – so if you are one of those people that steals others words– just know that if you use my work, you will not get away. God has given us all enough creativity so that we don’t have to steal others.