Fun Funereal Memories

I remember a hat (way too big for what was left of your skull). I remember two ladies arguing the depth of your love for them over your coffin (the one in the white vinyl catsuit looked more pissed off than sad). I remember trying so hard not to burst into wild laughter, and thinking, You’re freaking loving this, little brother, aren’t you?

Photo by Andres F. Uran, on Unsplash

- it’s funny, the things that come to mind while we remember loved ones taken by death. Last year, on the 11^th anniversary of my little brother’s last breath, my memories were focused on food: his favorite dishes (carne guisada, coconut rice with pigeon peas, potato salad…), his latest favorite song (“Gasolina” by Daddy Yankee). This year, my brain is over-bubbling with (hysterical) snippets of his funeral. 12 years… and the grief (and the love) burn just as bright. 

I hope your spirit remains the life of the party, little brother--ruffle some angel feathers for your witchy sister.  

– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #166: Letters/Sounds)

Cackles and Endings

You wear wings, I wear wild.

Your soul whispers of endings,

my spirit cackles at the moon.

We dance unlived dreams

real--in them, you

never drive your life away

and I scribble

no tears.

Today is the 11^th anniversary of my little brother’s death. My heart is heavy with memories and music and food and laughter and tears… I’ve heard people say that grief lessens with time, but I think that’s just a well-meant lie. The shock and pain (and the way we deal with them) evolve, but the sorrow remains raw. Say his name with me today: Gregory Guerrero. He loved music (bachata and reggaetón); he loved food (rice and beans and carne guisada); he loved helping people (even when they didn’t deserve it); he got in trouble often; he laughed with his entire heart and his joy was contagious… I miss him.

photo by Tim Mossholder, on Unsplash

 
– for Poets and Storytellers United (Friday Writings #116: Lasting Impressions)

Shared Memories

not-quite Journaling, 59

Happy and strange words are my home.

8/29/2023: I haven’t written new dark fiction in some time. But yesterday, I started working on the profile of a delightfully creepy character--I enjoyed learning about her job, her wants, her friends, her habits, her wonderfully weird ways--and every sentence felt like coming home.

In writing as in reading, I love strange characters: Remedios la Bella from One Hundred Years of Solitude, Tiffany Aching from Discworld, Merricat from We’ve Always Lived in the Castle, Luna Lovegood from Harry Potter… These characters’ actions, feelings, quirks (and quite often their wardrobes) are a treat.

 

9/10/2023: My immune system reacted nastily to… something--maybe food, maybe meds, who knows--the damned thing is always overreacting to seemingly random stuff. So, my inflamed, itchy bits and I have been fighting to get better (and trying not to scratch). The whole thing makes me sleep too much and increases my fatigue. But it hasn’t kept me from harvesting my wee garden, doing some writing, and running (on my trampoline). Take that! crappy immune system.

 

on this equinox,
I’ll let autumn rain cleanse pain
of flesh and spirit

9/23/2023: My favorite way to celebrate the Autumnal Equinox involves cleaning and cleansing my altar, garden, home, body… Since my flesh and bones and I haven’t been feeling exactly grand, only my body and altar received some attention. But when we need, Nature provides. I couldn’t take care of my garden, so she sent rain and words to complete my ritual. See? Life doesn’t suck.

 

nature grows
the best exhibits
for the eyes and heart

9/27/2023: After a few days of gloominess, the sun has blessed New York City with its presence; so, I went for a long walk. I saw bees (okay, a bee) enjoying flowers, mushrooms popping for some light, and a baseball delighting in a reflective swim. Nature is the best hostess.

 

9/29/2023: I lost a friend a couple of weeks ago. I find myself dreaming about her often (in every dream, she’s hosting a glorious tea party in the Summerland). She looks pain-free and happy. Still, I miss her…

- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #96: What, for you, conjures up Home?

Out of the Shadows

Since the hot, sandy winter
of your continuous goodbye
burst with a red pop
that filled my screams with copper,
I’ve been seeing your face
behind oozing scarlet
shadows. 

The calendar lies,
saying that only years have gone by—
my heart, my flesh wounds
have ached for centuries.
Century-long winters
of nightly cold sweats
looking at your ageless face
behind clotting scarlet
shadows.

Then, last night, I spoke
your picture into the mind of another.
He didn’t say,
“It’s okay to hurt”
or
“Have faith on faith”
or
“You must forgive yourself”
or
“It wasn’t your fault”

If it wasn’t my fucking fault,
what is there to forgive!

He only voiced the kind wisdom
of those who have been there.
He stood by me—
holding memory’s hand,
listening to pain,
speaking through deep silences,
reminding my old scars
that his hurt understood
they sought no consolation,
just the chance
to share our yesterdays with another.

Today, at sunrise,
I pulled your face out of my soul pocket,
watched you wave another last goodbye,
felt the sun
wipe copper out of memory
and banish scarlet shadows,
as you hiked (MOLLE pack full of smiles)
towards the Summerland.

 
photo by Aurelie Tack, on Unsplash

- for Poets and Storytellers United - Friday Writings #52: Dialogue.