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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Family · #1919048
From womb to tomb we carry our scars. Better to apply ointment and bandage, not pick...
What to tell orphans?

         for Linda

From womb to tomb we carry scars. Better to apply ointment and bandage, not pick at scabs. Best to not even notice. Like wrinkles that greet us in the morning mirror they're only signs of struggle; like breath that fogs the glassy surface, a sign we're still alive, that we've survived this war.

What then to tell orphans who only wish to be of some use? How to say that the path beyond the womb of youth and obligations awaits them all, long before the tomb will take them.

How along the stone hedges of life roses bloom and apples ripen, that between the stone moss grows, that stones know well how short the lives of humans are. Those that pass them by, the ones that stop. Stones are patient waiting an aging orphan's glance, the halt, the opening of ears and eyes. Only then can the fragrances of childhood be recaptured, breathed in once more and the roughness of rocks under fingertips be welcomed along with soft soil and smooth stones. How grooves capture and hold the seeds of new life.

Now scars heal and wrinkles deepen. Now flesh flows free from bones and the essence of once sad orphans seeps with joy between the patient stones.

© Kåre Enga [168.260] #39 November 2011

Note: earlier versions; revised March 7th.

From womb to tomb we carry our scars. Better to apply ointment and bandage, not pick at the scabs. Best to not even notice. Like wrinkles that greet us in the morning mirror they're only signs of struggle; like breath that fogs the surface, a sign we are still alive. We have survived.

What then to tell the orphans who only wish to be of some use? The path beyond the womb of youth and family obligations awaits them, long before the tomb takes them.

Along stone hedges roses bloom and apples ripen. Between the stone moss grows. Stones know how short are the lives of humans that pass them by. They're patient waiting an aging orphan's glance, the halt, the opening of ears and eyes. Only then can the fragrance of childhood be recaptured, breathed in once more and the roughness under the fingertips be welcomed along with the soft and smooth. Their grooves hold the seeds of new life.

Scars heal and wrinkles deepen. Flesh flows free from bones and the essence of the once sad orphan seeps with joy between the stones.
© Copyright 2013 Kåre Enga, P.O. 22, Blogville (enga at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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