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Taps plays out. Melancholy calling. A reverberation rattling my skin, most holy. I am flooded with memory, lapping up images like waves of the Mississippi. Fast upon my banks, the brassy tones invoke your every sacrifice, and I am lost again. But only for a moment. The calling lulls... it settles into the night of cricket chirp concertos, and tires rushing, breezy trees, cicadas buzzing. All is hushing Taps to sleep.
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Sometimes,
the hurts run deep. Sometimes, scars are too thick to keep inside the skin. A bubbling cesspool surfacing a grin. She never meant to let the storm boil over. He never meant to harm the four leaf clover with a mower of good intentions. Sometimes, signals get crossed in the breeze… and no amount of reprieve can wipe away the sour taste of a confused first impression. So, we learn our lessons, and apply our lotions, and pray our scars give way to a fluid motion that lets the love seep in. And we begin again. |
AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Categories |
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