August 7, 2012
By Sparrow GOLD, Englewood, Tennessee
Sparrow GOLD, Englewood, Tennessee
16 articles 5 photos 6 comments

Favorite Quote:
Painting is poetry that is seen rather than felt, and poetry is painting that is felt rather than seen.
- Leonardo da Vinci

No calls for days. It seems like I don’t even exist anymore. Any communication with the outside world has vanished. All alone in this dark house I’ve waited for some sort of word with anyone, anyone at all! No family or friends have sent me wishes on my birthday, work never called to ask for my assistance, and my fiancé hasn’t sent one letter from over seas at his base. It’s time I leave this lonely home and find out for myself what has made people neglect me.

Outside is busy with noisy pedestrians. Some bustle by too kept up in their own mind to realize where they’re going or whom they run into. A few stand at the side calling out into the street where an ugly yellow taxi would eventually make it through the lines of traffic to them. Others loiter on the sidewalk offering food and entertainment to those rushing past, and just like these people, I, too, seek out to be noticed.

There at the far end of the street in a little neighborhood several blocks from my own home stands a house I’ve been longing to see again. Memories of childhood flash past as walk closer and look upon the red brick walls and black, shingled roof. A tall tree stands tall on the right side of the house. I know that tree well from nights of sneaking out my window that reveals the tree of which I climbed down to the earth below. My best friend would patiently wait until I put both feet on the ground before taking my hand and running to the graveyard near by to tell ghost stories.

As I walk towards the back, I notice the backyard has never changed from when I was as little as five, being pushed in the swing by dad, to my becoming of a fifteen year old, mom helping out with drinks and dad grilling burgers while my friends and I laughed and talked. I have such loving memories here at my childhood home.

The glass door that is the only barrier between the outside and the inside is open, so I enter. After all, this used to be my home. “Mom? Dad?” I call out into the sunroom. No answer. Instead, I hear a soft sob, and run toward it. “Mom?” I call out again. Still no answer, but I continue to run, up the stairs and down the hall, until I reach my parents’ bedroom.

My mom sits on the bed with my dad planted right beside her holding her tight. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I can’t bare it anymore,” mom tells dad. “I know, love. I know,” dad says reassuringly.
“It’s like she’s not even gone sometimes. I feel like she’s still around.”
“I feel it too.”
“I miss her so much!” Mom weeps even more. “Mom!” I cry out to her, “Mom, what’s wrong?” And again no answer. Neither one looks up. No sign to show that they even heard a sound. “Why can’t you hear me?” I run to my mother’s side and take the hand that rests on her lap. “It’s me! Your daughter! Listen to me!” Mom gasps and looks down at her hand. “My hand. . . It’s so cold.”
“What? No, it’s me! Why can’t you see me?”
“My baby. My darling angel, is that you?”
“Yes. It is me. Mom?”
“Dear, she’s in a much better place. Remember that,” my father says as he turns mom’s head so that her eyes meet his now tearful eyes. Mom sighs, “I suppose you’re right.” More tears run down her face.

“No!” I run back through the hall, down the stairs, out the door, and run even harder toward the graveyard a couple of blocks away from where my parents sit crying. “It can’t be true! It just can’t!”
Rows and rows of tombstones pass by in a blur as I continue on to my destination. Where I stop, I face what I wished, no begged, not to be true. I stand in front of the granite tombstone in despair. Engraved on the sides of the tombstone are many roses shedding hundreds pedals, and in the middle is a name I know so very well. A name I’ve known my whole life.

Kara Lee Collin
September 1989 – July 2012

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