Category: #Prose

Letter to My Daughter

Dear Naomi,

Today, your brother Manny will be born. Mommy and Daddy are really excited to meet him and to see how you two will get along. My prayer has been that you will share a strong, endearing bond.

I apologize for not writing to you more often. I’ve wanted to-and not to make excuses but, Daddy has been very tired and very busy these last few months.

I always wonder when you read these letters will you ask yourself, “Why did Dad always say he loves me?” Maybe you will, maybe you won’t, but just in case, I’ll tell you. A father’s love and affection towards his daughter is vital in her young age. It helps to build confidence and self worth. I want you to know what real love is, it’s not just a feeling, its putting those feelings into action.

When we found out you were a girl, I spent the rest of your mother’s pregnancy planning to shower you with hugs, kisses, and compliments.

Naomi, always remember this: Daddy loves you no matter what. You will disappoint me, even make me angry, but I will still love you. Most importantly my dear, you can never escape the love and compassion of Jesus. He loves you more than I ever could!

You are currently two and a half years old, but when you read this understand something: today, Emmanuel James Still will be born. He will not replace the love I have for you in my heart, he is not your competition. I love you both deeply, it is a love you cannot understand until you have children of your own. You will always be my Pretty Lil’ Brown skin Baby, and my heart is big enough to love you and your brother.

So while today may not be about you, just know that you are still on my mind, and hold a special place in my heart.

Love you to the moon and back

-Dad

A Kiss Like Lightening

He sat in the diner sipping his coffee. He could not help but notice the waitress at the door with the green tee-shirt and tight jeans. She was dark brown, cute with high cheek bones, smooth skin, and eyes that flashed seductively.
“Can I get you anything?” Her voice sang to him through an imaginary fog. He held her gaze briefly before responding, “More coffee—please.” She smiled and as she walked away her thick hips swayed with an intoxicating rhythm.
She was perfect—not too thick, not too thin. His thoughts raced with controversy. Was it wrong to desire this woman? Even if it was only for the night?
His gaze lingered out the window of the diner as the rain swam through the night—lightening flashed, and thunder rumbled.
“Your coffee, sir.” She smiled, and her teeth shone like a thousand pearls.
“May I ask you your name?” He asked as she took the liberty to sit across from him.
“Tanya, with an ‘A’.” She never bothered to ask him his name. She merely sat, enjoying the mysteriousness of this gentleman.
Deep down, she too felt a conviction for wanting him, but—for some odd reason, she felt a strange sense of pity for this man as well.
The diner was well lit and slightly noisy. There was no room for privacy. He had conflicting thoughts and feelings running through him. Now that I know her name, where do I go from here.
“What happened to your arm?” She asked referring to the bandage he was wearing. He explained about the accident he had at work three days ago.
“Your eyes—they are absolutely stunning!” She said as she took his hand and led him away from the table and towards the door.
There was an electric vibe coursing between the two, something neither had felt before.
Standing at his car they shared a kiss full of passion—like the lightening flashing around them. Tanya slipped her number into his hand.
He let go as his convictions began to fade, but a sadness remained. She saw it in his eyes that he was going home to an empty bed. Explains the pity she thought. Poor thing must be aggravating.
He felt confused. He felt free, he felt ashamed—relieved and burdened. Being a young widower, his heart still ached for his beloved—but his body craved release. Every face belonged to her, every caress gave him flashbacks of the vivid love they once shared.
“The coffee is on me,” she sang through the rain. She sauntered back into the diner as lightening burst through the dark sky and thunder hollered over the rain.

Axed

I am finally alone and in my head. Like looking around a room with familiar walls but unfamiliar furnishings. I do not know these thoughts. This is my space, I should feel at home instead of a lost voyager drowning in a sea of unspoken creativity.
It is a stuffy place to be, with no mirrors to show reflections of me, no windows to let in what I need to breathe. How can this be? Who took an ax to the root(s) of my tree—I had named her Life and Longevity.
I want to tell you world, that I turned 32 today, but no leaves of reflection can fall, this breeze sneaking through my window, tickling my toes, melodies cascading through my headphones—yeah I am 32 today, and for the first time in quite a while I am in my dome, reshuffling, reclaiming it as my own.

Clocking in

Here I am, fourteen minutes before my shift starts. The hum of soda machines envelope me in sweet noise. I turned off the blasted blaring TV just to have a few moments to write… I have had so many creative ideas these last few weeks but I have been preoccupied. These glaring florescent lights irritate me… but they are on some some sort of a motion detector. This morning’s breakfast consists of scrapple, donuts, scrambled eggs, and oatmeal. Lunch is bbq chicken potato salad, and I don’t know what else.

As I write my mind keeps traveling to my wife. She is so beautiful. We had a baby free weekend last week and it was the best feeling in the world to laugh and just be our old crazy selves again. I cant get the sensation of caressing her brown skin out of my mind… I sure hope today goes by quickly, her soft lips have me even more distracted.

Its 5:23, technically I can clock in and start my day. Should I? Or should I write for another seven minutes. Sometimes (as much as I hate it) I’ll post from my phone just for the sake of placing meaningful words together(also to put a post up if it’s been a while). I usually write my poems down in a composition book, then type them up, proofread them and such, then post. Now all I’m thinking about is the lady of my life and that sexy outfit she had on yesterday.

It is almost that time-four more minutes until I am a slave once again to the demands of the man(not necessarily any white pereon, just the boss). Three more until I begin to sweat and my mind checks out of the Warm and Fuzzy Hotel and into madness… cooking can be that way sometimes. I cook for over 100 residents… It is 5:29, I must go now. Tell my wife I love her, I’ll be thinking of her and tell…..