Dear Weekend,

once upon a time, we were friends.
I don’t even recall when this changed, but when I think back, it seems, you’ve been such a traitorous bitch for the past couple of months. It is probably my fault, so I should apologize for calling you names, but damn… I am mad at you.
I long for you, week after week. Welcome you with open arms when you arrive, always hoping we can go back to the way we were. But every single time it bites me in the ass. When there is nothing left to clean, nothing left to rearrange, vacuum, restock, scrub or build, you leave me alone. Utterly alone. Once, we used to enjoy our time together. Now, when there’s nothing left to do, you leave me all alone with my thoughts – and wow, this is still such a painful experience. I never thought I would say this, but when you’re here, and I have “endured” your presence for more than a day, I long for Monday to come and sweep me away. Keep me busy… keep me away from painful memories, that haunt me (for the time being).

I didn’t mean to call you names. I didn’t mean to sound rude. I am just so disappointed that you and I don’t work out anymore – when I just know how much I really need you.
I hope this period of time will be a short one… and that we will learn to spend time with each other again.
I miss you. Very much.

The Involuntary Thinker

Dear Dishwasher,

It has been years since I last saw you and could greet you as a friend.
I think of you – think of the times I moaned and rolled my eyes whenever we had an encounter. I often pushed your buttons – and you were always forgiving.

People change.
I took you for granted and feel the need to apologize for the way I treated you. I was young and didn’t know what I was doing. I am so sorry.
Now, that you’ve been gone for so long, I can honestly say: I miss you. Dearly.

I am certain my dishes do not appreciate me invading their privacy every day – I often have to touch them in the most intimate places… it leaves us all feeling uneasy. Most of the time, we can’t even look each other in the eye afterwards… talk about awkward.

I want you to know that I can’t stop thinking about you. I saw your cousin at my friend’s house the other day – he looks a lot like you.

Perhaps one day, you will find your way back to me.
I will look for your coming.

With gratitude,
the Rueful

The Long Hours



She had ribbons in her hair. Purple velvet, nested in a sea of auburn. Small amethyst beads on her neck sparkled softly in the lantern light, complimenting her radiant smile. Her dress billowed and swirled as she danced to the sole violin’s tune, her breathless laughter the sweetest music in his ears. They fell in love beneath the stars; and love, in all its forms, guided them throughout the years, until auburn turned gray, turned white.
When she left, his heart went with her.

On this November day, there is no warmth left in the sun. He gently touches the amethyst necklace, carefully placed on the wooden chair next to his. The tea in his tin cup has long gone cold. Trees shed their leaves in gusts of autumn wind, and his Longing counts the hours, until they meet again.

(140 words)

Written for VisDare26: Engraved – 150 words or less. Grab a pen and join the fun!
photo credits:

A Thin Line


Mother once told me to be a symphony.

Back then, I did not understand why she deemed those words important, yet the intensity of her green-eyed gaze, as she said them, stayed with me throughout the years.
Since that day, I have made decisions that caused me to stumble; decisions that brought me to the brink of the abyss – daring me to take another step. I have made decisions that elevated me; lifted my true Self higher than I could have ever imagined.
It is a challenge to not get addicted to extremes – they singe your insides with bittersweet intensity, leave you wanting more. It takes courage to not lose oneself in the process of finding purpose.

Today, I walk the thin line between black and white, careful to tread lightly.
Today, I take life’s chords and arrange them to inner harmony.

Today, I am a symphony.

(147 words)

Written for VisDare 25: Precarious – 150 words or less.
photo credits:

Dear Suspense,

… aren’t you selfish.
To think you have to turn up now and parade in front of me just when I thought I had everything sorted out – can’t say it’s a pleasure to see you.
Nope, it really isn’t.
I guess you need the attention – but I have to say you may have come to the wrong person seeking it.

I will do my best to ignore you.
I am not sorry for that.

*I can’t heeeear you!!*

Christmas and the ‘Deadly Anniversary’

My father shot himself on February 3rd, 2003.
He took a small-bore rifle to his head and ended his life two days after his 44th birthday.

At his funeral, my mother, sister and me did not follow the casket as burial custom demands, but walked in front of the funeral procession instead.
Apparently, this was wrong. People frowned upon it.
I didn’t care. I wanted everything to be over and done with.

Two weeks later, after the gossip of my father’s ‘unnatural’ death had spread through the small town I was living in at that time, a woman started talking to me while I was out for a walk. She asked me if the rumors were true that my dad had shot himself in the head twice, because the first time apparently hadn’t done the job.
I left her standing in the street without a word.
Stupidity and lack of tact don’t need to be rewarded.

The first Christmas without him came and went… as well as his first birthday. It was a strange time, but I know that it’s the same for every person out there who lost someone. Anniversaries aren’t always the good kind.

Every year on Christmas, I think of the Dead.
It’s like a habit – an anniversary of thoughts (sort of).
Maybe it’s because I finally take the time to relax for a little while… escape the daily grind and our fast-paced world. I am somewhat ashamed. Throughout the course of the year, I rarely think about my father anymore.
Sure, thoughts of him pop into my head now and then, but they aren’t frequent.
I seldom look at his pictures… they are there, up on the shelf in their usual frames – and that’s that.

Next February, it will be 10 years.
10 years since he’s been gone.
It seems like such a long time.

I seem to have lost the ability to ‘picture’ him in my mind. I mean, fully picture him. I can’t see his face anymore… all I get are fragments… his beard, the color of his eyes – but if I try to see his face when I close my eyes, it is simply not there.

We tell our Dead they will always be remembered.
We tell our Dead we will never forget them.

I think we lie, unintentionally, when we say things like these. Images, once so vivid in our minds, fade in time – like old photographs. After years of ‘absence’, all we remember is a vague outline of the person we once loved dearly.
All that truly remains is a feeling.

I love Christmas.
Not for the presents or the food, nor for the fact that it is a religious holiday, but for this utter stillness inside of me. I have time to think about the past and do not need to rush.

I enjoy the company of the Living and the Dead alike.

Sometimes, I wish I had a photographic memory.
Sometimes, I wish I could see the faces of the Dead lighten up for me… for just a moment.
But I am me… and so I will have to make do with what I have.

I love Christmas. It makes me remember the Dead.
I am thankful to be reminded.


Merry Christmas.

photo credits: