I returned a Monday in September; ten days before the autumn equinox. Dusk had started to stretch its hands through our silent forest.
A few exhausted leaves rolled leisurely across the porch.
The house was resting; waiting; it was staring back at me, windows blank and vacant.
I was numb, lacking answers as my father wasn’t drunk and as my mother’s bruises was uncovered.
My rage subsiding in my war with windmills.
I opened the door to the hurried footsteps from scavenging rodents; shivering, caressed by spiderwebs.
The stagnant air still reeked from my mother’s rancid pork.
I remembered finding my mother dead; my father drunk, asleep, on the floor his axe I later used — on him
I remembered claiming self-defense; I remembered prison-food.
These memories were left here with the trees: the fears I left were now exhumed.
I had come to stay.
Time for prosery at dVerse. 144 word of prose including the phrase “These memories were left here with the trees” from “How to Write a Poem in a Time of War.” by Jo Harjo. Merril hosts.
September 16, 2019