Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Kerry E.B. Black - Banshee Call

     He will come. When I call, there is no other choice but come. He, like the others, won’t know why, but he’ll wander away from his friends and companions to look into my eyes. 

     If they knew why they answered the geis, they would balk. 

In truth, those from the old country, the ones fed a steady diet of fairy tales from an early age recognize me and resist. Like the siren’s song, though, they cannot fight for long, even if they strap their bodies to the main mast of their lives. 

     It makes me sad, though, and my heart aches. I remember living, the daily chores that encroached to monopolize precious time. If I could redo my life, I would remember to celebrate each moment as a gift, an ember in an inscrutable bonfire which expires without notice. I died young, which is how I inherited my post. I serve as the mourner, the wind that proclaims the end of time for a soul. 

     I weep, I moan, and I wail to see the passage of another family member’s soul. My sorrow washes their path, makes it clear. I hope it eases their transition knowing they are missed.

     I see him, befuddled, standing along the garden path. In the muddied waters of the koi pond, I wash a stain of fresh blood from his undershirt. The sight of the fish clamoring, mouths stretched in comical gapes, hoping to capture some of his essence renews the flood of my tears. 

     He blinks in the moonlight, rubs his eyes, unsure what to make of the apparition before him. My own raiment gleams pristine, my raven hair glistening in dark waves to fall with my tears into the pond. Drip, drip, drip of sorrow. 

     “Who are you?” he asks, his voice cracking with adolescence. 

     He is so young. Why must I bear this news? I look into the rising moon, praying this one be spared. But there he stands, resolute, the Reaper. None escape his sickle.

     I try to smile reassurance, but my countenance is molded like wax to portray the solemnity of the occasion. With dignity, I bow my head and consider the stain. It will not come clean. They never come clean.  

Kerry E.B. Black's writing walks through shadowy recesses to emerge, dusty with cobwebs and glistening with hope. Follow through Twitter @BlackKerryblick and

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