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From my collection: Death by Design

… is an adventure, a journey, dance, song, like some say, then, hopefully, this pulling inside my chest means I’m not filled with fear only.

Are we flesh-coloured clothing on a golden washing line? Is the writing on a hero’s journey heroic? Will the carrot ever swing closer to my face? Will the semi-clouded moon answer me if I keep singing at her misty veil? If junior Eastern monks could fish all day with straight hooks, perhaps I can yield all day to my warders. Find Smoke’s Way through the cracks in time’s prison wall, to dance new moves in my prison garden’s lunar light.

Talking about prison: On a Tuesday afternoon we entered a museum. Our son touched an artwork, the alarm screamed. A stern voice issued a warning.

As we arrived home, our daughter’s white and pink bike lay abandoned in the yard. Her porcelain fairy with one wing huddled by the window, hugging her legs.
“Will you go shopping?” my wife asked
“Okay, do you have a list?”
“Dad, my fairy is sad, can she come with?”

The dad, daughter, son and fairy travel around the corner to a suburban mall. Life in a retail parking lot reveals so much – sparrows, doves, fallen leaves. People park, walk, talk, fight, look at the mall’s koi pond, and the not so coy. Our neighbourhood of funny walks. Yellow leaves on thick, green grass. Coffee shop smells.

We return from our little trip. Home sweet home. Our son throws his animals in a basket. Closes the lid, then his eyes, and waits. Our daughter hops and skips. Birthing new worlds under the river bush willow. Her fairy with one wing huddles and hugs her legs.
Cries.

Returning from her story dance, she asks, “Daddy, what is a volcano?”
My laptop stretches its arms as it wakes up. I download a video. She jumps on to my lap, I press play. The volcano erupts with arcs of ash, steam and lava. For a moment, anything, everything is
still
possible.