It Must Have Been Real

I remember the way you swung the tree branches as heavy as Grandma Sand.  I remember the way you launched the spears into the woods when the leaves shook and only you could hear their trembling.  I remember the way you hoisted me over the railing when my tunic got stuck on the wire fence.  I remember the way you looked into my forehead as though you found the answer to an old riddle.  You chuckled, patted my head, and buried your spears.

I saw the way you built the cabins, each one stronger than the one preceding it.  I saw the way you planted seeds and tilled the land when the integrated clan members fled in the night.  I saw the way you saved a litter of puppies from the fire, one minute later and they’d have been turned to ash.  I saw the way you cleaned my boots because I couldn’t reach the bottoms of my soles.  I saw the way you peered into my forehead as though you found the answer to a long-forgotten question.  You crumpled up your notes, grafted new skin onto the puppies, and hurried to finish planting all of the seeds.

I heard the way you explained the difference between a square and a rectangle to future math scholars of America.  I heard the way you hummed a bluegrass dirge when you interred the bones of your birds.  I heard the way you groaned at the weight of your neighbors’ shortsightedness.  I heard the way you rejoiced at the bountiful harvest, piled high like a launchpad to the heavens.  I heard the way you besought the guardians of the sky to grant you one more day with the god of wine.  I heard the way you dove into my forehead as though you heard the answer to an unconscious prayer.  You buckled up your shoes, crafted a new chorus to that bluegrass song, and curried nuts for your other birds.

It must have been real,  I saw you.  I smelled you.  I carried your blankets and pocket watches.  It must have been real, this life you lived.  I see it even now.  It follows me around like a story left behind pretending to be a hidden track on a CD that will play after waiting twelve minutes of silence after the last song on an LP.

It must have been real, the overlap, time and space fractured long enough for me to be real to you too.  You lifted me up, cleaned up my shoes, you looked, you laughed, you plunged into my cerebral receptors and sang a happy tune.  Happier than most totally requested live chart-toppers.  My forehead is in full bloom.

This entry is somewhat inspired by reality.  My creative writing comes from an inner muse, but this piece came from somewhere new, somewhere different.  Less mind, more heart.

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