Forsythia Yellow

32 0 0
                                    

 There I am: coffee cup in my right hand, dead shrew in my left. This is a common occurrence. It only becomes Unusual when we look to the spot where I place my items. It is sitting in the middle of the room and on it lay a piece of paper, my coffee cup, one honeybun, some dried flowers, a vape, my dead shrew. If this were a table, it would be only slightly strange. However, this is not a table. It is a piano bench.

There I am: sketchbook my left arm, dead frog in my right hand. This is a common occurrence. Today it is Unusual as I place my dead frog on the piano bench in the center of some mandoo, a V8 Energy drink, and a 72 pack of colored pencils as my sketchbook goes on the couch so that I may lay down and draw.

There I am: a yellow colored pencil in my right hand, a dead caterpillar in my left. This is not the color I wish to use today. I set the dead caterpillar on the piano bench and pick up my sketchbook. I want the colored pencil to be as yellow as the forsythia that rims the cemetery, as yellow as the forsythia at home under which lay a plaque reading "We miss you, Goldie.", as yellow as the leaves on the pear tree that stands in memory of my friend Kyler. As yellow as the fuzz on bumblebees.

There I am. Today it is just a dead bee. I feel the death of this bee hitting me three years ago when I cried from three days straight until all I could do was dry heave. I feel the death of this bee hitting me two years ago when my tears were hot and silent. I feel the death of this bee hitting me a year ago when there were no tears, only pill after pill getting stuck in my throat.

There I am. And somehow, I am.

You've reached the end of published parts.

⏰ Last updated: Apr 27, 2019 ⏰

Add this story to your Library to get notified about new parts!

Prose PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now