A Heart, Missing

Heart Yael Yehuda

Photo: Yael Yehuda

 

There stands the empty crib

The room that will not hear

The sounds of cries or coos or laughter.

There are the walls,

Fresh paint

Fresh pain

For the awaited,

For a broken chapter.

A heart

Missing

Breast and breath

For an eternity of loss,

Till the hereafter.

 

 

Note: Dedicated with love to all empty-armed mothers (in all their manifestations and realities and outward presentations), on this Mother’s Day.

For Debbie’s One Word Sunday: Missing

 

 

Cake To Go

three line tales, week 170: an unhappy birthday party

Photo via Unsplash

 

She spaced the candles as her grandmother had instructed. Not equally, but with one candle lording over a bigger chunk. “You’ll remember me by it,” Gran had said, “and by the sour faces of the ladies when they see you’d saved me some cake to go.”

 

For Three Line Tales #170

 

 

Never Again

Never Again OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

May never again slogans of harm,

tattoo death on hearts, souls, and arms.

 

 

 

Note: On the eve of Holocaust Remembrance Day, when we mourn so many lost to deliberate ugliness that nurtured systemic cruelty and harm … and when some try to deepen horrors by claiming the suffering hadn’t even happened … May we find a path out of hate and violence, and away from whatever catchy slogans used to justify a pseudo-superiority. For in reality, we are all one, and the terror of racism leaves none of us unharmed.

For Linda’s One Liner Wednesday

 

Will The Baby Cry?

Photo prompt: © Roger Bultot

 

“Be there in a moment, Aaron,” Miriam herded her family toward the synagogue across the street.

“Mom!” Ben protested. She drags him outta’ bed, then stays outside herself?

“It’s urgent,” Miriam apologized, eyes already on her phone.

Seven-year-old Jacob glanced at his dad. “Will the baby cry?”

“You screamed like a stuck pig at your Bris,” Ben offered.

Jacob froze. “I’ll stay with Mom.”

“Ben!” their dad scolded.

Staccato bangs echoed. Loud screams.

“The baby?!” Jacob clung to his father’s hand.

“Down! All of you!” Aaron shoved Jacob behind a car and raced to the synagogue. “Shots fired! Call 911!”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

A Moment Before

three line tales, week 169: San Jose

Photo: Peter Gonzalez via Unsplash

 

There will not be another night so drenched in sorrow, bereft of even the wish for the downpour to turn hope. Yet they held to the moment right before the speeding motorbike intersected their car … and bled their child to no more.

 

 

 

Note: dedicated to those who know this loss, and to the hope that fewer will ever do.

For Three Line Tales #169

 

Out-Wheeled

Out-wheeled NaamaYehuda

Photo: Na’ama Yehuda

 

At the spot

Where one heart stopped

And others pause

To ponder,

It stands

Out-wheeled into pallor

In grief

For what was lost

And what might have been

If there hadn’t the need

To mark this

Post

For a life that can

No longer

Wander.

 

 

 

Click here to find more information about Ghostbikes.

For Cee’s Black & White Photo Challenge: Wheels

 

Have Heart For A Better Humanity

at the end of a day

Photo: Monique Laats on Pexels.com

 

When a place of worship crumbles

Into hell of gore and pain,

And the sorrows of the many

Become what connects us all again,

Know that care can conquer ugly

And that compassion outdoes hate’s disdain,

As long as we eject terror

To heed the better, deeper call,

That anything that harms our kinship

Diminishes the very core of all,

Just as anything that builds it

Can lead humanity to standing tall.

 

 

For Debbie’s Six Word Saturday

 

Five Years Ago

Carol

Carol Hornig: Much loved, deeply missed

 

Five years ago today

You passed on

Into effervescent light,

Boundless love,

And joyful belly laughs.

 

It is no wonder, for

You have lived light, even

Through deep pain.

You have breathed

Unconditional

Love

And nourished all you’d met

Along your path.

You have gifted us all with your

Laughter,

Your glorious heart.

 

You are now

One

With it all,

In the place your soul

Must have always known

As home.

 

 

The Bouquet

Photo prompt © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

 

He’d always forget the flowers.

Birthdays. Anniversaries. Valentine’s Day. Births of children.

It’s not that he didn’t love her. She knew he did. He showed it in how he always cleared ice off her wind-shield. In how he took the garbage out and did dishes she’d left in the sink for the morning. In how he put the toilet paper ‘over’ even though he preferred it ‘under.’

But he always forgot the flowers.

The day of the biopsy results he came home with a gilded bouquet.

“These won’t wilt,” he said. “You’ll see them and not forget me.”

 

 

For Rochelle’s Friday Fictioneers

 

Frozen In Time

Old Poland OfirAsif

Photo: Ofir Asif

 

They stand frozen in time.

Carving long blunted by

Wind and the loss of names

No one is left

To own,

Decode,

Or understand.

 

They stand frozen in time.

The saplings reaching up

To the heavens

The only sign of what

Even death cannot

Disband.

 

 

For the Sunday Stills challenge: Frozen