Muffit
March 19th, 2004, 04:36 PM
What is a human heart? Pink flesh and red, red blood. Home of love, and home of hate. Warm as a hearth or cold as the grave. Filled in life by Time’s fickle clouds, till it spills, overflowing, its sweet or bitter well of emotion, to all who briefly stop to draw and sip. The only softness in this adamantine world, that breaks instead of tears; and bids artesian eyes become a fount, the crimson clear as saline showers.
Youth spawns dreams like oceans, life, but Chance takes most to waste and wait beneath a tree, beside Van Winkle’s missing years. And when our childhood hopes are naught but public phones that ring unanswered, our elder eyes secret those hopes away, even yet beyond the assiduous ears of our most intimate offspring bedtime revelations.
My Mom was this and more. Inside her heart she kept the innocent dream of touching, holding a lion or its cub. I should have known, the day she begged my Dad to take us to a neighborhood drive-in, a single dollar for 3 lengthy shows: Born Free, Stay Free, Live Free. Her eyes did what her hands could not; a life not lived, a child deep inside.
And then one day when I was grown, we all excursioned to a park of animals, all of us the stoic apathy of age. When suddenly a young female trainer brought in her arms a tiny lion cub along our path, to feel and pet and hold just like a child. I cannot tell you how a parent becomes a child, but in my Mother’s eyes sparkled youth as brilliant and warm as any I’d ever seen, and watched her giggle like a Christmas toddler. Her hesitant steps and timid reaches were every bit the soul of a tiny girl, and I ached to see the trainer match her longing. But cold eyes regarded her and simply walked away, and I felt the walls of Hope itself tumble inside my Mother’s eyes.
Why do hearts grow cold like mountain streams, yet foul as idle ponds? Does it take so much to gently hug a heart that’s aching, without squeezing its dreams away? I do not share my Mother’s dream of lions, as many of you do not share my dream for BSG. But in my heart is ample room, to hold another’s desperate wish, and hope with hope ally.
I cannot hide the pain I feel, at seeing my show come so close and then just walk away, as I cannot find my mind’s delete key, for that moment my Mom’s dream slipped from her life. But if I hope for her, perhaps you too can hope for me, that ere this life writes ‘exit’ for my small part, I will somehow touch the cub that beckons me; an hour or two beyond The Hand of God, for BSG.
Affectionately and respectfully,
Muffit
:muffit:
Please support http://www.colonialfanforce.org
Youth spawns dreams like oceans, life, but Chance takes most to waste and wait beneath a tree, beside Van Winkle’s missing years. And when our childhood hopes are naught but public phones that ring unanswered, our elder eyes secret those hopes away, even yet beyond the assiduous ears of our most intimate offspring bedtime revelations.
My Mom was this and more. Inside her heart she kept the innocent dream of touching, holding a lion or its cub. I should have known, the day she begged my Dad to take us to a neighborhood drive-in, a single dollar for 3 lengthy shows: Born Free, Stay Free, Live Free. Her eyes did what her hands could not; a life not lived, a child deep inside.
And then one day when I was grown, we all excursioned to a park of animals, all of us the stoic apathy of age. When suddenly a young female trainer brought in her arms a tiny lion cub along our path, to feel and pet and hold just like a child. I cannot tell you how a parent becomes a child, but in my Mother’s eyes sparkled youth as brilliant and warm as any I’d ever seen, and watched her giggle like a Christmas toddler. Her hesitant steps and timid reaches were every bit the soul of a tiny girl, and I ached to see the trainer match her longing. But cold eyes regarded her and simply walked away, and I felt the walls of Hope itself tumble inside my Mother’s eyes.
Why do hearts grow cold like mountain streams, yet foul as idle ponds? Does it take so much to gently hug a heart that’s aching, without squeezing its dreams away? I do not share my Mother’s dream of lions, as many of you do not share my dream for BSG. But in my heart is ample room, to hold another’s desperate wish, and hope with hope ally.
I cannot hide the pain I feel, at seeing my show come so close and then just walk away, as I cannot find my mind’s delete key, for that moment my Mom’s dream slipped from her life. But if I hope for her, perhaps you too can hope for me, that ere this life writes ‘exit’ for my small part, I will somehow touch the cub that beckons me; an hour or two beyond The Hand of God, for BSG.
Affectionately and respectfully,
Muffit
:muffit:
Please support http://www.colonialfanforce.org