If your hand could reach my heart, what would you do with it?
How would you hold it? What might you do? If my heart, its fate were left just to you
Would it be gentle the touch that you give Might you, could you help me to live
If your hand could reach my heart Would it, could it, be something to start
Would you pull your hand back if I did the same Not the same reasons but others I’d name
Would you keep your grasp light and give with each beat Or tighten your grip until I’m down in defeat
I ask you this now before any more And more to my heart that’s been broken before
So long have I kept my heart under guard It’s time to let go it should not be this hard
If I let your hand reach my heart on this day Might you show me the same but in your own way
If at all we could try oh so slow and together And see what becomes on the road to forever
We are gathered here today in homage I’m told For a man who most recent passed on while I just ventured in to escape from the cold On my walk that had started at dawn
With that I confess from that to this other That the week should begin on such a tilt Even more and yet still, this man that was kilt Is no stranger in fact he’s my brother
Now before you look on, to me all aghast Estranged we have been damn Near twenty Put aside your surprise, my brother was an ass Wish him dead let’s just say there was plenty
Throughout the years, the ties that bind Never formed between us two you see Nor with others he’d manage, not one he could find To that point here we are two plus me
I would not expect you sad, nor a tear to be shed Forsake pity to when I am gone If not by chance I would’ve gone by instead None the wiser on a walk after dawn
The submission of Mount Rushmore is a worthy candidate for consideration.
Some would disagree, yes. However those that would discent should at least concede that Mount rushmore stands as a truly memarkable achievement worthy of consideration.
In the modern world with technology and modern equipment, it seems as though incredible feats of engineering, to include any medium for which the idea was born, have been relegated to judgement by the enormity of the undertaking and, of course, the outcome. Works of art in their own right, current considerations seem to be the quivalent of “Here’s my size sixty seven shoe. Try not to gawk” In other words, how much concrete can you pour. Not meant to be an insult, the oversimplification gets the point across.
Mount rushmore, in size and scope, touches on multiple facets of audacity, intrigue, controversy and interpretation enjoined to history. It should at least spark an impassioned discussion; a debate on the merritt’s of being classified as a wonder of the world. With thought inspiring topics such as the sculptors affiliation with the Ku Klux Klan and that organizations monetary contribution to the project, to the land that was taken from the sioux indian tribe that included the mountain that would become Mount Rushmore. Should these topics disqualify Rushmore or should it be judged by how it fits into the category? After all, each of the current named wonders undoubtedly have their detractors.
As they span thousands of years, not one stands with impunity. These debates are settled not on whether the debate is settled at all but rather how large the debate can become and who or how many are needed to sway public opinion over the long haul.
Perhaps, anything to be considered for a wonder of the world should be left with the individual and the wonder it inspires in the self. To the emotion it elicits and to which ever place it shall occupy in that individuals own list of what’s wonderous. That seems to be the fairest of approaches and the least likely path to an argument.
“Hey Ma, this looks like a really cool place! Did grandma take this picture?” Timmy asks
“What’s that honey?” she lobs back. He doesn’t respond. “Is that grandpa on the bike?”
Sarah, a/k/a Mom, is in the kitchen wrapping dishes and silverware in newspaper. There are several boxes on the kitchen counter and the spots where appliances would go lay empty revealing a different shade of color than the rest of the room
Timmy is sitting on an oversized recliner that was clearly a throne to someone important in the house.
Positioned directly by its side, a fixed, conservative patterned approach to living room sitting.
Theres a basket with two long knitting needles surrounded by a few different colored balls of yarn perched right by this chair
“What’s that you said honey? Sarah says entering the room.
She walks over to Timmy and looks over his shoulder.
“This picture is so cool.” he says excitedly. “Who took it Mom?” he asks.
When Sarah looks down, she lets out an innocently soft
“Oh my!” as tears well up in her eyes. One of them makes its way down her rounded cheek falling off and landing next to the photograph.
Starteled, Timmy sadly looks up at his mother.
“Mom, what’s the matter?” he asks. “Why are you crying?” he asks
“Oh, its not what you think. Yes, I’m crying but these tears aren’t just sad Timmy. I think grama mixed em with the happy ones. The ones that remind us how much they loved us. All the memories we made together”
“Even love makes you cry? That sucks!” says Timmy “Sometimes honey”, she says “Memories make you cry?”, he prods “Well, yeah, they can do it too.” She says wi “I don’t get it” he says with a puzzled look on his face
Sarah sits down in her mothers chair, easing herself down slowly making sure to feel the fabric as her hands glide over the arms. She smiles as the chair seems to have a soothing nature for her. She inhales deeply through her nose looking for that particular scent her mother used to wear.
When she hits the right spot, her eyes close behind a sweet barely perceptible smile. She knows that the day will come when she wont find it so she breathes it in.
“I really wish I would have known them” “Me too honeyt, but you were still in my belly when they passed. Your Dad and I got a late start. Oh boy they would have loved to meet you. Your just like your grandfather”
“Is the picture one of those memories for you?” he says searching for anything. “What does it mean?” “Did grandma or grandpa take it?”
Sarah starts to tear up again as she answers her son
“Yeah. Pop took the photo. He always loved to do things for gram so when she said it looked amazing, he snuck off to buy an instant camera so he could take a picture and show her later. He was a hopeless romantic”
“I remember when I first saw it. It was probably, what you said, just really cool to everyone else but for me, it just grabbed me. So I painted over a weekend and what your looking at is a picture of that painting.”
Timmy hesitates briefly then explodes in excitement.
“You painted it! Wow!. Where is it? Where’s the place? Is it at the end of the street or behind billy’s house? “No, its not there.” she says with a chuckle “Where is it then?”. Timmy suddenly takes on a confused look and tone. “Wait just a minute Mom!”. “If you took a picture, after you painted it; then where is the painting?”
“Well, we can’t get anything past you, can we?” she asks “No sir ree” he says proudly
“Well, its with them. We all figured it was so special that they should have it; forever. “ “So we had a special box made and we placed it between them when we buried them. This way the special moment would always be with them” she says through swollen eyes.
“I don’t get it.” he says
Sarah takes a moment to dab her eyes then drifts off staring at nothing.
“Mom?” he says for attention
Sarah breaks from the stare, cracks a slight grin.
“ Well let me just explain it you curious little man you.” she says while tickling his belly.
“When two people are really close, when they spend that much time together, what does that tell you?” “Ummm, they love. Each. Other? Like a lot.” he says stumbling through the response.
“Yes. You got it!” she says proudly
“They had a special unbreakable bond honey. You can say from the moment they met, they were best friends and all they wanted to do was be with each other. To spend every minute of every day together. Doing something. Anything. As long as it was with each other”
“Oh.” Timmy says “Like me and my best friend Todd Sullivan?” he innocently blurts out
Sarah burst into laughter.
“Not quite dear. You’ll see some day. When you find that special person.”
She reaches out and cradles his face in her hands.
“Who could resist this sooo cute face.”
“Its a bond so strong that they happily gave themselves to each other for all of their lives. Of course they had friends, but they had each other and that was the most important thing for both of them.”
“That young man, is the gift they left fort us. How to live and how to love another, and hopefully we might get to do the same thing.” she says proudly.
“That’s kinda, sorta sweet Mom. They sound like really nice people and I know I wont get to meet them but can you tell me more; about them.”
“Let’s start with, WHERE was it take? The picture? what time of day…”. Timmy is besides himself
Sarah leans back in her mothers chair, puts her hands on her legs
“Ok, then. Grandma loved the early morning.”
“Especially the early morning mist…..”
**Someone’s been watching over Tom for some time. Just ask anyone who’s crossed his path since he started walking. They’ll tell you the same. **
It’s 3 AM, and he’s a fucking mess. He’s behind the wheel, careening directly toward the house at the center of the cul-de-sac.
He’s full tilt high with a Johnny Walker bookend, and the car is picking up speed. With a cigarette hanging from his lips, he nods off for a second as the cigarette falls into his lap.
**“Oh shit!” he says, lifting his ass from the seat, searching for the cigarette. **
Tom is looking everywhere but the road, but the car stays surprisingly straight as if it had autopilot.
Then, only 50 yards from impact, he snaps to like a soldier responding to a drill sergeant. Somehow, he manages—Except for a momentary screech of rubber against the road, like a stagecoach driver easy his horse team to an abrupt but gentle stop. He shifts to park, douses the lights, and slumps over the wheel, releasing a big breath of relief.
The outside of his car is adorned with the beginnings and ends of numerous open-ended stories—events that would be damn near impossible to figure out without his help. Most of it doesn’t make sense until it does.
**It’s a typical middle-class neighborhood. Repleat with white picket fences, immaculate lawns, two car garages. Someone's utopia **
Tom fumbles for the door handle. The windows are laden with dirt and humidity. As the door opens, he braces himself and falls out onto the driveway. He pulls himself away from the driver’s seat on two hands, doing a hand over hand crawl. Once clear, he’s face-down in the driveway. He takes a deep breath and pulls himself to his feet, swaying back and forth like a tree in the wind.
He stumbles over to the garage door keypad, making a half-dozen futile attempts to punch in the right numbers with no success.
“Shit,” he mumbles.
Defeated, Tom makes his way to the front door. Fumbling for his keys, he tries to insert his best guess into the lock, but it doesn’t work.
**With a heavy sigh, he leans his head against his forearm resting on the doorframe. He starts a slow, meek knock. The next attempt starts the same and gradually builds into a more aggressive, consistent pace. **
Lifting his head while still knocking, he looks around for any signs of activity. The knocking turns into pounding with his palm, the force noticeably increasing.
“Open the fucking door!” he yells.
Lights come on in the adjacent houses. Shadowy figures peek out from behind curtains, silhouettes of those who don’t want to get involved.
Tom is still banging on the door when a light flicks on inside the house. A woman’s voice calls to him through the door.
“Tom, stop it. I told you it’s over. You’re not welcome here anymore. If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”
This isn’t the first time he’s done this. But it may be the last.
“Come on!” he grunts.
“It’s over,” she pleads. “It’s too much. Too many times, too many promises. Please, get help. Do it for yourself, but you’re just not welcome here.”
In a moment of frustration and anger, Tom bangs feverishly on the door, rapid-fire palm strikes. One of the neighbors, now standing on his front stoop, yells out.
“For fuck’s sake, Tom! It’s 3 AM! This can’t be a surprise to you. We’ve all been putting up with this shit for years. Just go, would ya? The only one who can help you is you. Can’t ya see that?”
“Fuck off, Frank. Get back in your house or I’ll come over there and punch you right in the mouth, you nosy prick!” Tom yells. “In fact, I’ll do even better if I have to say it again!”
Tom reaches behind his back and pulls out a pistol, using it to scratch his temple as he sways, catching his footing. He looks back at the neighbor, who is now retreating inside.
“That’s right! Get back in there!” Tom screams. “You don’t know! You’re no expert! You just don’t know!” he says sadly, as the neighbor slams the door.
Tom, breathing rapidly, takes a deep breath as he bends over, clenching his fists, and lets out a deep, bellowing scream.
“If only they’d let me back in the house, we wouldn’t have this problem!” he yells again at Frank’s house.
**Tom reaches for the handle one more time. Same result. He starts to cry, then sob. It’s pitiful. **
“I love you! I hope you know that. No matter what you see. No matter what I’ve done. I’ve tried! I just can’t. It’s too much. You just don’t know what happened! What they did. I tried but how the hell is a man supposed to talk about that kind of thing?” he moans.
**Sirens in the distance catch Tom’s ear. He scoffs. ** “why not. Come join the party.” he says sarcastically. Forms a slight Grin just before tears pour down his face.
“Honey, I think I have a solution. A solution everyone will be happy with. You, the baby, and even Frank next door. Just open the door, please. Let me tell you what it is. Let me show you. It’ll be quick. I’m not gonna stay long. Just open the—”
The light inside the house goes out.
As the sirens grow louder, Tom looks over his shoulder and sees the red and blue lights cresting the road a couple of blocks away.
He turns back to the house and looks up.
“I love you,” he says quietly. “I just never learned how to love myself. It's not your fault. I just can’t be who wanted me to be. Who I should wanna be.”
He rears back with his foot as if to kick the door in but pauses in mid-stride. He puts the gun to his temple.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers.
He pauses briefly. The night crickets are singing their song, when suddenly, they Full silent giving way to the crack of a gunshot.
**You can barely see the silhouette tom slumped over. Not a single light in the neighborhood breaks the darkness. **
Not the first, he thinks, he’s been here before In the dawn of this new day thats lasted for years Any reasons, anymore, all the times at deaths door The where to the here and the now, all there is, all thats left, are the tears
To be told is one thing, to ask is another Only one is the one that will matter If not from within, hed be hear again As they turn with the same to some other
Might there be some other way he can see The thought grows louder than before Say a thing make a sound, let them know let them see Scream through just this once. Its a matter of death Give me strength before hope shuts the door
“Please…” the refrain through the tears and the pain Nothing more nothing less could he say But for those that were there, what was heard was most clear At the dawn of a this day, he had at last found his way
No other could he see. no path there coul be
On this one, this day In the year
83
Oh, when will it pass, when will I know any meaning to what might have been To wonder, to think, to pause and recall Any change to the same of back then
How strange I think to have ventured so close, in and of all the questions that show Such meaning to grant contrived in the head, was it real? Was it not? I dont know
As we might or we will get lost in our thoughts more than those with one or another A time that must come, in pity or sake when we do decry Farewell, you who was almost my lover
Manny was always the most one of the group. To say he knew the direction his life would go; well that goes without saying.
Manny recalled the words his physics teacher had uttered during the commencement. One thing that didn’t escape him was that he was fascinated with the stars since he was able to start remembering things. No one really knows if a childhood dream has enough legs. So many things through the trevails of a life can derail those intentions. It’s an astonishing fold in the fabric of a life. A desire that becomes the passion that will engulf them and leave nothing to chance. No question to “if” dreams become reality