melissaahowells
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this is a multi-layered
multi-dimensional place this is a house no longer my house someone else has moved in these are my memories not my memories someone else is making memories here they say when someone dies that the soul sticks around and lives in the dimension which was once familiar to it for eleven entire months did my Mother return here do the people who live here now see her wandering the hall at night or working in the garden near dawn I don't know where people go when they die we are told certain things there are no facts or certainties I have not yet gone to that place beyond I visited once-- what you call a near death experience and came back I think I was relieved but I'm not quite sure I really was.... While I was dead: I dreamed a dream that wasn't a dream of where I used to live and that house was drowning in flames and being sucked down into the afterlife below in that place that Dante might have called The Inferno or Purgatorio why was I dreaming of Inferno's and purgatory while I was supposedly dead-- who knows, maybe the Great Spirit does? I haven't asked yet... but now... this house (of my dreams) is no longer my house and the memories float around me like dust trying to settle over and into me I thought I escaped this dust as soon as I was able to by leaving as quickly as I could but yesterday when I was thinking too hard I think I found a small dust-mote of it an old fading memory settling on top of my curly head like a thought I wanted to avoid but didn't have the good sense to duck away from... I want to know now: Mother do you think of me... am I contained within your archaeological memories do your memories exist like some ghosts still wandering about... like floating dust circling the earth waiting to land I CONTINUE to dream of you and of our old house on tenth street do you require more than the usual time of eleven months the allotable time that is said that the soul lingers around to take an overall accounting of things before it moves on-- you must have accounted several times over now today a man from another country told me I am my own worst problem as I think way too much\ people do pass around advice like dust motes settling at times... I can choose to either clear it away or accept it will come with the territory called life sometimes my thoughts stay too long and settle where they ought not stay and are also like dust settling too long in one place maybe I am made of different stuff maybe all the dust motes of memory have gathered in my head even those memories which are not my own and I have, overtime, become collective memory for now I shall put you Mother and our old house that was sinking into the ground into the dark envelope of another night it is daylight plenty enough time theRe is for me to be haunted one more night. ***************************************** legal copyright for this poem 8/24/2022 8pm PST time and date stamped and also for this author/writer Melissa A. Howells and also for this legally copyrighted and registered site title Meloo Straight From Her Tilt-a-World, Vote for this poem |
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