Missing Red
I know my father’s name was Red; Red like his hair.
Red like the smell inside his tin of mossy tobacco – Golden-something-or-other.
Red like the edges of a pair of blue inked swallows, frozen on the zephyr in flight.
Red as his raggedy-ass cowboy boots and his rosy guise during mucky-fights,
or the final lilting cadences of a little red harmonica that made butterflies of his hands.
Red, the felt-tip pen that crosses the lines of a stylised heart in a colouring book.
Red like the lone firework that bleeds into a moonless sky and then fades forever;
leaving you with nothing, nothing but the memory of its ardour.
COPYRIGHT ©2011 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: CHEYELLE OMAR
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Such complexity in such simple words. Really well done.
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ReplyDeleteThank you for your kind words, Christopher. I really appreciate them.
((Hugs)) 'n hearts, my sister from another mister. You gonna be my friend and like it! heheh! ;-)
ReplyDeleteI never met my dad, never knew an official name for him. My mom wrote "Unknown" on my birth certificate because she had to or she would've had problems getting assistance from the state. But, she had a picture. It was easy to see he was the one--I got his brown/black eyes exactly.
I have you a shout out on my latest blog. ;-)
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ReplyDeleteHehehe, what a pair we are; regarding fathers. It would appear I was left with memories, and you, a picture. I wish I had a picture of mine, and I bet you wish you had memories of yours :P
That shout-out was such a generous thing to do (BTW tell Dewey I says: Hey!).
Shila, when someone is nice to me it always takes me by surprise. There was a time when I didn’t know how to process kindness at all, and I’ve still not completely mastered the art. Having said that, I’ve learnt the trick is to enjoy it and say “thank you”. So, thank you, my friend. That was a nice thing you did. I appreciate it. (((♥)))