The Snowflake Chronicles

Mosaic

12 Masa’il 163 B.E. - December 23, 2006

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Memories flow and merge
random thought bites from yesterday,
still photos,
splashes of color,
only the soul’s video
can catch the nuances
of shadows cast across the sun.

Light and darkness swirl,
tornados,
yen and yang,
seasons pass in review,
Christmas an ever present reality
of joy and sadness.

Is the last memory of my father
a Christmas memory?
Or is that an illusion of wishful thinking?

What is the last memory of my father?

My last memory of Grandfather
is one of illness,
an old man in a hospital bed,
waiting to die of lung cancer;
the nuns come in
send me out of the room so that …
so that what …
so that they could baptize him
a Southern Baptist
dying in a Catholic hospital
(or was that just a rumor
spread by the prejudice of hate monger
who would …)

I remember the stories,
the rumors that “didn’t have a leg to stand on
but got around some other way”.

I remember other things as well,
Grandfather sitting on the hood of a car
on the night July 4
holding a roman candle in his hand while it discharged
it’s rainbow.

I remember the garden,
and the lake,
and Grandpa killing a chicken:
he held the bird in his hand,
with one flick of the wrist separated it head from it’s body
and then the body
(not realizing that the head was gone
and it was dead)
flopped around on the ground
bloodying the spring green grass.

I remember the Victrolia
records playing
Christmas music,
country music …

I remember the cottonwood tree,
the septic tank grass growing tall and lush;
the sound of the neighbors parrot
cursing like a sailor,
the neighbors cat
that stole the baby skunks,
the “neighbor lady” who got pissed
because we hung cloths on the line
on her day of rest.

I remember the neighbors border collie,
he would curl up and sleep next to Grandma’s Siamese cat,
he would wake up play with the cat,
he would leave our yard go down the ally
and kill another neighbor’s cats
(I never did find out what the woman did
to get on the dog’s “cat killing list”).

I remember …
I remember …
I am beginning to remember
things I never wanted to remember!

Memory is a mosaic,
splashes of color,
bits of tile and glass
composing
my past.