purplepandemic7
She has one of those bicycle; the shiny ones with the obnoxious bell and woven basket. Everyday without fail she cycled to the village square with her bounty of eggs and milk. She was very careful to take the longer route just so she wouldn't have to go over the ditch. She did so once and broke two of the eggs. Mother wasn't very pleased that time.
Each time she reached the square, Elias would be waiting for her.
It used to be a place of grandeur. A palace of the imaginative and the haven of those lost in the world. Now it is left an empty shell, a mere shadow of its glory.
He climbed up the stair, one foot and the other. Hands steady. Holding tight. He knew how to do this. He reached for the next and the next and the next. He climbed up and down twenty-six times, just so he could show me. He could do it, by himself. For the first time since the stroke, my father could walk up and down the stairs, himself.
I will rise above my circumstances. I will rise above the darkness I'm shrouded in. I will rise above the construct they want me to align to. I will rise. And if I fall at least I'd know, that I will rise again.
The past is like a cloud that drifts in and out of my consciousness. Sometimes it's a harmless white cloud that shapes into happy memories. Other times, it's a storm cloud that never ceases to torment me. But it always lingers, always hangs over me. A shadow that has seamlessly stitched itself onto the trappings of my soul.