I would have come to you...

I would have come to you… I would have held your hand in the quiet… I would have spoken words to you that you understand without speaking… I would have felt the pulse of your heart… I would breathe the air that you breathe and exhale your essence… I would have walked with you in the night and looked for your shadow in the day… I would have chosen the time to say what I must… if I would have known… I would have come to you…

Shannon R Killman

Reels of Time

I used to think if I held my breath and closed my eyes… I could make time stand still. Who can tell… it may have worked. I couldn’t hold my breath for very long. I look for the quiet and the special in my surroundings. My mind slows when a certain glow pulls itself before my eyes. I find myself in-between breaths.

I wasn’t looking for an unusual experience as I peeked into the den while the children giggled and laughed while they watched themselves on a newly found video tape. It was rescued from time and from the dust of years by an observant hand. Many years had passed and the size and form of my offspring had changed. The infant smiles and tears flashed before me as if I had dropped away to the past.

The innocence and the freedom of youth were spilling themselves into all of my senses. I was bombarded by light and sound. They were flashing in a random rhythm that pulled me into a trance… a trance that smiled to my soul.

I saw visions of first baths… of Easter egg hunting… of Christmas presents… of a new flowerbed and garden... visions of shiny new bicycles and children dancing and laughing. There were unfamiliar paintings on the walls and forgotten furniture and clothing. I heard echoes of a voice. A voice I recognize as the voice I am told is mine.

There are the smiles of life... the eyes that do not change with time. The familiar patterns of speech and of laughter… the movement of the lips and the tilting of heads. I rested in my thoughts. I paused to think of the past that was filling my mind. I wondered if I had made the right decisions from day to day. I wondered if I had time to correct my mistakes.

When these images from my past came to an abrupt ending… I once again found myself pausing in-between breaths. Just like when I was young, I wanted to purse my lips together, close my eyes and have time stand still…

Shannon R Killman

Hands of Love

I remember the simpler times… slower times. I can feel the fan blowing from overhead. I can smell the biscuits in the oven and see the remnants of the dusting of flower. I can’t help but touch the butcher’s paper that held the thick-sliced bacon. I can still feel the residue between my finger and thumb. As I pass by the oven, a whisk of heat falls upon my cheek. I pull myself up on my toes to peer into the sink… a swirl of bubbles hangs tight against the edge, pulling away from the haphazard arrangement of the thick, heavy dishes.

There was a movement… much as in a choreographed dance. There was a rhythm to mealtime. There was an order and a placement. It felt like a symphony coming to a crescendo. The meal was ready and the activity pulled like gravity toward the busy kitchen table. Some needed to be called to the kitchen… most instinctively knew.

There was always pride in the preparation. There was a purpose in the place-setting. The dishes have generations of stories to tell. The tablecloths were soft from years of washing and ironing. How many tales were told upon this table cloth? How many of the young were taught and persuaded into manners? Everyone had their place according to age and respect. I can remember the adultness in the prayer. I peeled the words that I remembered from my tongue as I lipped a rehearsed prayer… the same prayer my children instinctively recite today.

Then there were the linen napkins… they were always part of the meal. I can see the folds in them as we prepare to eat... our mouths watering with anticipation. They were kept in a special place… a place known to all. There was a quiet feel to these napkins. I can see them in the market… new and crisp. Loving hands held them and smoothed the folds. They must have been a luxury to purchase. I can see them wrapped in thin, crispy paper… tied with white, soft packaging string.

Linens were hand washed separately… they were special. I can see the inspection after each washing… looking for an errant spill or stain... a visual inspection of the monogram. Carefully, they had been ironed… never too much heat. Always was the attention to detail and the rub of a familiar hand… lovingly smoothing out the seams… placing them in that familiar place, ready for the family… ready for another meal.

The loving home… the loving friends and family… the food, the aroma, the wood and the quiet and the calm… it was always there. The smiles that fed our souls were there. The chatter and the looks of approval were always with us. When we placed our napkins on our laps, there was an instinct to place them squarely and to smooth out the seams. The hands of love have always been with us through every meal.

Shannon R Killman

Forgotten Trail

I was traveling today between a small town in the center of the State and my hometown. It was a hot summer day… much like most of our South Carolina summer days. I looked up at the sky and searched for that hopeful grayness that relieves that intoxicating heat that overtakes my lungs.

The sky was heavy blue and the clouds that tried to form in the distance were pushed away by an unseen force. I knew my trip would be a long and windy one in my old friend the Jeep. I searched for an alternate route through the slower country lanes… hopeful for a shady route.

I turned off of the main road and could hear the rhythmic humming of the cicada as I slowed down to a second gear crawl. I peered over the hood and smiled as I felt the wind shift to the side of my face. Where would this road take me? I decided to take my time and feel my way toward home.

The first mile took me to a dip in the road that begged me to slow. I followed a hidden road between forgotten road signs. The texture of the road was different. The joints in the road had separated and sang a rhythm under my tires. Dry weeds spilled out of the cracks. The shade that spilled off of the pines flashed across my eyes and striped the old concrete road that once brought promise and prosperity between two growing communities.

My mind could see the smiling farm houses that once stood within walking distance beside this old symbol of progress. I could see the lumbering road equipment pushing up piles of farmland while the billowing diesel exhaust spilled out of the smoke stacks… the children walking behind the machinery searching for treasures in the freshly cut dirt while workmen keep a steady eye on them.

I’m sure there were scatterings of secret hand prints and names scratched within the concrete for miles. The younger adults drove their new automobiles into town and the older generation grumbled about the intrusion…

My journey into the past ended too quickly…and my road was coming to an end just as it had begun. I pulled to a slow crawl and stopped beside another forgotten road sign. I had to turn left or turn right… right felt the friendliest.

Shannon R Killman

Union

This tune I carry in my mind plays again the history of the innermost thoughts of my past. To deny my past would be like penetrating an ancient vessel of precious oil. Without the oil, the vessel is an empty container destined to be crushed into shards.

The lamp and oil fulfill the task of preservation only as an undisturbed union. By whose authority can we dissect this bond that God has made? How can we predict the ultimate outcome?

If I choose to flee from my surroundings… all seems to be new. Just as the promise of a new day and a renewing season, my thoughts remain untamed. Still, the past is all around me within the soul of my mind.

This vessel of flesh and blood contains the priceless oil of my soul. To struggle for the escape of my person is a relentless venture. Man on the journey of life can only place one foot before the other and continue his pursuit

There is no escape from the mind. The complexity of our thought is just a blink of an eye to our Maker. The transformation from the past to the future can be like a butterfly from the cocoon… or like the falling leaves from an ancient tree.

I long to gather my testament and soar into the promised breeze. The calamity of the rains may drive me to the ground, but the warmth of the sun shall dry my wings and I will once again be part of the freedom of flight.

Shannon R Killman

Circumstances

I have felt, in this recent past, a familiar pull at my subconscious. That feeling that I never wanted to resurface. I strained to look around for the answers but wondered through my nights as a blind man.

I could feel the heaviness of my heart within my chest and the tug of helplessness that surrounded my mind. I feel like a man trying to find his way to the surface of a raging, rolling river… struggling to find the peace on a calm and waveless shore.

My thoughts for you became desperate to the foreshadowing of events I could not control. I will have to adjust to my life without you… these thoughts leave me helpless in my struggle. How can I handle the torment of another in your arms?

It seems that love has turned a cruel hand. How can so much good and so much tenderness end before it had a chance to begin? Now I am void and alone in my world. It should not be this way. Your words that placed an end to our time struck at me in the way I expected them to… the torment of my thoughts were only too real.

I wish that our time did not have to end. You cannot understand how much my soul was at rest when I realized that you could be the one that was meant for me. Circumstances dictate all things. I wish our circumstances were more in my favor.

Shannon R Killman

Gift of Joy

I am always in search of a certain feeling… a particular flavor… a memorable aroma or a light that throws a comforting shadow on my life. I am in search of the good things. I silently reject and dismiss negativity and darkness… I used to fight the negative but realized that in order to win, I had to walk away.

There are people that surround us in our daily lives… there are people we choose to share a portion of our sanity with. We can be friends from across the street or from across the country.

I have read your words of encouragement to others… I could feel your concern for the pains of your friends. Your words are as good as your deeds. You love your family and your surroundings. You have found happiness. Some of us peer into your life and we are the better for it.

I asked you to paint a picture for me and my family. I knew you would put love and tenderness into it. I knew you would share a bit of your soul with us. I wanted some of your joy and happiness to flow within our home.

I didn’t care what colors you used, you didn’t ask… I didn’t care what the subject, you didn’t ask. I knew it would be as it should be. When we opened the box that sat in our living room, we were like a family at Christmas. I gently cut the tape that held our parcel at bay. The layers of bubble wrap enticed the child in every one of us.

When Kate’s mother was living, she used to blow a kiss to every red-bird she saw. She would purse her sweet little lips and blow a wish of happiness to her mother who she said was waiting for her in heaven. When Kate sees a red-bird in the yard or in our little town, she blows a kiss to Nana, her mother, I know Nana is waiting for Kate to return to her in heaven. I smile as I see my children replay the same scene… So you see, the little red bird that we see hopping in our yard is a special little bird to us.


I was charged to paint our kitchen once upon a time. Kate went to the paint store and stared at the color swatches… she stood around and compared the golds and the greens and the reds… I didn’t hurry her because I am not a fan of painting. I didn’t hurry her because she doesn’t like to be hurried, and she knows I am not a fan of painting. After a very long week of decisions and blocks of colors all over our kitchen walls, she made a calculated decision on the perfect color of green.

As you may imagine, this green did not match well with the color of the adjoining living room that falls next to the dining area… that connects with our kitchen. Back to the paint store for the same routine… again, no hurry… Before long, I was painting again… this time in the perfect color of chocolate brown.

I don’t know Lary… but I know he loves you. I know it because I work with wood and I know when you asked him to make a frame for the painting, he didn’t hesitate. I looked at the frame just as I looked at the painting. I see clean and precise cuts. I know he loves you because the wood is clear and without knots… the screws that hold it together are cleanly counter-sunk. He must have used a new saw blade because there are no chips on the edges. He took a vast amount of pride in making something for me… for someone he doesn’t know… I know he smiled as he presented it to you… I know you kissed him in appreciation.

So you see Dixie, we have been waiting for this beautiful painting for some time. These are the colors of our lives. These are the images that pull us together… the family tree… our loved and admired feathered friend and the symbols of our children. It is all there… perfect as it should be.

Thank you for this gift to us… thank you for this gift of joy…

Shannon R Killman