K. Z. Richards

I have never been a poet, and my writing trends more traditional than postmodern, but occasionally, I like to dabble. The following is a piece I wrote for a postmodern fiction class in college, but I ultimately ended up abandoning it and writing something else for the assignment. My goal for this piece was to explore how life can be ironically symmetrical through postmodern prose that borders on poetry, and though I don’t consider it a polished piece, I would love to share it with you and hear your comments!

Dust to Dust

Darkness.
Darkness.
And Pain.
Struggling for breath.
It hurts.
Blinding light
and faces all around.
Unfamiliar faces.
They cradle my head.
They seem to know me.
Tears in their eyes.
Men and women.
A woman, weary but warm.
Long dark hair.
She holds me to her bosom.

The work is past now.
We dream of life just beginning.
Hours, just the two of us.
It seems there’s only time now.
We stare into each other’s eyes.
Faces are becoming familiar now.
Mama.
Dada.
Gramma and Grampa.
Family. Not strangers.

It was my first day of school today.
Mom bought me a backpack with my name on it.
We had a back-to-school party with all my cousins.
I will be in school for the next twelve years. Maybe twenty.
It seems like an eternity.
Monday through Friday.
Six-hour days.
How will I ever make it through?

Mom doesn’t understand the value of a good story.
She says I’m like a broken record—
the same jokes over and over.
I try to tell her that the bananas and oranges “knock knock” joke never gets old.
She should hear the kids at school.
They still think it’s funny every time Tommy tells it.
And he’s told it at least a million times.
It’s probably because his mom packs two desserts in his lunch.
The other kids fight over who gets his extra dessert.
One day I sat next to Tommy at lunch but he gave his dessert to Sarah.
I told Sarah it was my birthday and that fruit roll-ups were my favorite, so she gave it to me.
Then I told her the bananas and oranges “knock knock” joke.
She laughed. She was my first girlfriend.
It wasn’t my birthday.

Mom has no idea.
She says I don’t listen as well as I used to.
It takes at least three times to get me to do the dishes.
I wonder by that point why she doesn’t just do them herself.
She was nearly red in the face by the time I got around to them today.
Voice elevated to unnatural pitches.
Veins popping.
I hope she knows I honestly forgot the first two times.
I don’t ignore her on purpose.

Tonight I took Helen Carter to prom.
I will always remember tonight.
Surrounded by our friends.
The lights.
The music.
The smell of her hair.
Her velvet soft lips.
Her fingers intertwined in mine as we swayed to the music.
Mom says I’m too young to be thinking like this,
but I can’t imagine life without her.

Three a.m. The baby wakes again.
A fever. Why?
How high?
Try Tylenol?
Helen hums.
Our child is sleeping.

I place the key in my wife’s hand, and she smiles, she cries.
This home is ours.
But money? she asks.
We’ll find a way.

You’ll find a way.
But money? my daughter asks.
The car is yours.
I place the key in her hand, and she smiles, she cries.

We are sleeping.
The phone rings.
Babies cry, Helen whispers.
A fever? How high?
Tylenol. Good night.
Timmy had woken again.
Three a.m.

It feels now as if I’ve never been without her.
And though my children and grandchildren think I’m too old to act like this,
I take her fingers in mine, we sway to the music,
and I plant a kiss on her wrinkled lips.
Her smell is as I’ve always known.
Apples
And blossoms.
We are surrounded by our family.
I will always remember tonight.
Tonight we celebrate our fiftieth wedding anniversary.

I don’t ignore her on purpose.
I hope she knows I honestly didn’t hear the first two times.
Veins popping.
Voice elevated to unnatural pitches.
I know communication is an important part of life,
but at certain point it seems easier just to do things herself.
On the third repeat I realized all she wanted was for me to pass the salt.
My wife says I don’t hear as well as I used to—
she has no idea.

My daughter brought the grandkids over to visit today.
Timmy told the bananas and oranges “knock knock” seven times.
He’ll be a ladies man just like his grandpa.
We Thurston men know how to woo the women.
When I was his age, the girls would give me their desserts just so I would tell them the bananas and oranges “knock knock” joke.
Helen won’t ever let me have seconds on dessert.
She says I need to watch my weight.
Then I buy her roses and she lets me have a second cookie.
I’ve always been a hit with the ladies.
We Thurston men know how to woo the women.
They used to give me their desserts so I would tell them stories.
The ladies have always loved my stories.
My daughter says I’m like a broken record—
the same stories over and over.
She doesn’t understand the value of a good story.

How did I ever make it through?
Eight-hour days.
Monday through Friday.
It seems like an eternity.
Today marks forty years.
We had a party with all of my friends and family.
Helen bought me a plaque with my name on it.
It was my last day of work.

Faces are becoming unfamiliar now.
Strangers? Family.
Ellen?
Helen.
Yes, my dear Helen.
We stare into each other’s eyes.
It seems there’s only time now.
Hours, just the two of us.
We watch for life soon ending.
The work is past now.

Someone holds me close.
Long silver hair.
A woman, weary but warm.
Men and women.
Tears in their eyes.
They hold my hand.
They seem to know me.
Unfamiliar faces.
Faces all around
and blinding light.
It hurts.
Struggling for breath, now.
Pain.
And darkness.
Darkness.
Darkness.