Glenda Flew

Glenda flew from sun-soaked

California to Oklahoma.

 

California was idle for a few precious

moments;

Its usual bustle resumed as the plane

took to air.

 

Three DUI’s, two families.

Split  seconds, spit lanes,

a median.

Ed crossed the threshold of

the Yellow Brick Road

joyless.

 

From yellow bricks to

dark concrete,

tangerine shimmer

the only life on the highway.

 

One leg over, then the other,

two ends with one impact.

Ed was struck dead, the man driving

struck dumb.

He held my uncle as emergency services rolled in.

Glenda arrived in Oklahoma,

greeted on unfamiliar soil by

faces the color of memory and

whimsy. She felt comfort despite

the journeys purpose.

 

Drinks were poured, film strip

like reminiscences shared,

tears shed and stayed.

 

Night dropped heavy its curtain

while rain warped the backyard view.

Nephew and mother sat beside one another,

speaking between wet cracks of charged

air.

 

Glenda had never seen intense lighting,

never felt a thunder storm.

Sitting Indian style youth and wisdom,

holding hands, little in big,

waited as wonder washed from the

now empty space that Ed once inhabited.

 

Thunder, ephemeral, growling,

with rain crosshatching imperceptibly

the rippling sound, somehow

sealed a moment in a perfect pocket.

Those flashes and rumbles living still

as strong as before their birth.

 

Two bodies, each a vessel for shocked sky,

tributaries meeting at a shared end-body,

leave the storm and take shelter in bed.

 

Wet butterfly wings rest, knowing sun

will forgive, that forgiveness is not a loss,

and that flight is still reality.

 

Copyright 2015

Logan Mikal White-Mulcare

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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