Friday, April 05, 2024

Steadily the rain pours in a rhythm that has me awake at this late hour. The small light beside my bed allows the canvas of stars outside my window to be seen while I read. I do not read now, my eyes skimming the page, absently I glance over the pages, and random words catch my attention while I recall the events that have brought me here. What moments of sorrow are these that keep me from dream and what times are these that make it difficult to look beyond these days? I look at his photo and wonder if our time spent together was no more than a facade. Those days shared now seem more like a dream enclosed within ironic truth. It began on one Friday morning and ended the same, a week later. The clouds drift in small patches across an otherwise blue sky. I sit in this lovely park on such a beautiful day. Some children play nearby, birds singing in the trees around me, and the daily press before me waiting to be read. The rest of the day open to many possibilities I sit

Merry Christmas!

- December 25, 2022

The Future Waits

- May 26, 2017

I stare at the clock hanging above the now abandoned diner counter of the Greyhound station I am waiting inside, ready to leave my past behind for an uncertain future, my mom at my side, and I wonder if I will ever be here again. We do not speak, no words could express these opposing feelings, what we feel when we feel so much about this day and what it means. I'm about to board a bus, to cross the country, to follow after my dreams so often dreamt I feel as though I have already lived them a thousand times. People pass us, they on their own journeys, as though we are not present. Are we ghosts in some memory? A memory of a time so long ago, now fading with each passing year, to one day be lost to time? My bus will be here shortly. I hug my mom once again. I would kiss her on the cheek but feel odd about such a gesture in such a public place. I want to remember this moment. I want to hold on to these minutes. A mental time travel I know so well from reliving the times gone. For a m

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F. Jason Whitaker Writer