THE AMUSED LIFE BLOG

HE WAS A WORDSMITH Poem by Anna Maria Terlinden Rogers He was a wordsmith. I hold him in a memory. I am beautifully resilient. I have always been. I am blessed by that.  You were my Achilles' heel, the wax I built my wings out of as I tried to fly towards the sun, the shine on those 30 pieces of silver that I betrayed a Messiah for. You were the chink in my armor,  the fruit that I wanted to taste just because I wanted knowledge, the person I would have let cut my hair, allowing you to leave me weak. I am blessed to have survived.  I always do. I am beautifully resilient. I hold him in a memory. He was a wordsmith.

WOULD IT EVER BE THE SAME She wondered if it would ever be the same. The deep breaths that yielded oxygenated lungs, but no sweet scent of the things she longed for. The comfort of the kitchen, the nisus of her handmade dough,  her home-grown vegetables, the milkiness of the fresh mozzarella and the garlic and oregano which she always used abundantly. Which no longer smelled the same. No longer sparked her excitement. The loss of a culinary expectation. Because we had an communal expectation, we listened to the spark of excitement from news reporters who  believed we would care for one another and would do what was right so that the illness would no longer be an issue. As one of those who's symptoms abundantly lingered on the milky fog of her brain, dealing with symptoms no one could see. The illness that was not home-grown  but who's nisus ravaged the world we live in, leaving no one the comfort of connection, that robbed so many people of the sweetness of living and end...