of Morning Flavors

I woke this morning to what must have been the sound the air makes as the first rays of sun spill into the room. The golds and whites of the light create a vacuum for the shadows. They give me a path to follow as my eyes adjust from a night of darkness.

There was quiet all around me. The floor felt cool under my feet as I made my way to the kitchen. I scooped the coffee beans into the grinder. The smell of the whole coffee beans is fruity and aromatic… it is the aroma of time and of a craftsman’s patience.

I moved to the century old chopping block that anchors my kitchen. The yellow and white potatoes stand ready with their fragile skins and droplets of cold rinse water. My ears are filled with the rhythmic sounds of my favorite knife piercing and slicing in a well rehearsed cubed pattern. I pause to see the cross hatches in the ancient wood below my knife. Generations of my family have repeated the same chorus as I… perhaps with the smell of coffee in the air and in the quiet.

There is a familiar sizzle in my favorite pan… the rendered bacon grease that adds a depth to the flavor of my potatoes flows around the raw onion that has given in to the edge of my knife. The transparent onion skin reflects a copper light that melts into the watery surface of the ancient maple...  it balances on a torn edge and looks as if it is waiting for an errant breeze to pull it into the air.

The seasoning is like a symphony… the rough texture of the sea salt fades into the crevices of the pan while the pepper grinder glides over and around vibrating under my palm and fingers. A small pinch of cayenne pepper and paprika leave freckles of flavor on every morsel.

Soon the variety and contrasts of color meld into golden brown. The steam from the moisture of the potatoes and onion hover close to the heat and disappear as invisible vapor. After a last toss and stir from my favorite bamboo spoon and a quick cook’s taste… a simple beginning of a warm start of breakfast is ready. The golden brown of the potatoes roll around the caramelized onion and smile upon the shiny white of the kitchen platter. A final contrast of dried parsley pulls the eyes into a green morning’s dance…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Secret Season

I drove to the beach today… slowing to see the cotton fields that stretch across the countryside. I would pass great swaths of farm land in different stages of harvest. The fertile, dark earth in some fields held on to brown stubbles of cotton stems that had given in to the harvest. Around every other country mile, the full, white plants of cotton filled the horizon.

The season was here… the in-between season… the secret season. The cold air was held back by weeks. There was still delicate moisture in the air. The clouds hung low. The air and the landscape looked like winter… it looked cold, but the air was comforting as it filled my lungs. Autumn’s color fought through the constant green of the pines… the winter season was nearing.

I could sense the beach… the air was different. In the summer, the traffic slows and the excitement builds inside as you approach. The last miles are full of sights that fill the mind… the colors of summer reflect off of the sand and off of the neon. But summer has ended… the traffic is gone… the people have made their way home. The sun perches low in the clouded sky and the neon is now a lonely reminder.

I drove down the quiet streets and parked near the boardwalk. It felt odd to be able to choose any spot in the sandy lot. There was no chatter of music in the air… no cars and no aroma of carnival food. The winds of the beach tossed sand underfoot to soften the edges of the concrete.

The beach was clear… no umbrellas… no running children or colorful floats. A solitary kite struggled against the wind in the distance… a dozen gulls huddled together near the dunes and glanced my way as I moved near. The sea knows… the cooling sands know. The secret season is here. There was a quiet comfort… the winds blew the memories of the past through my mind as I stood on the edge of the world.

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Who is it…

Who was it that I first remember laughing with?

Who was it that I remember in footy pajamas?

Who was it that held my hand when I was afraid?
Who was it that I shared my Halloween candy with?

Who was it that I hid my Halloween candy from?

Who was it that I remember wrestling with in the yard?

Who was it that I shared adventures with in the neighborhood?

Who was it that was always introduced as the eldest?

Who was it that answered questions that little boys ask?

Who was it that led me through the halls of my new schools?

Who was it that I could look up to?

Who was it that I fought with?

Who was it that wanted the green bicycle when I wanted red?

Who was it that I could count on when I got in trouble?

Who was it that could keep a secret that needed to be kept?

Who was it that dragged me through the desert?

Who was it that dragged me through the mountains?

Who was it that was there when I grew up?

Who was it that has seen the roads of this country?

Who was it that I looked for when you were away?

Who was it that helped me through my rough times?

Who was it that always had a better old car than me?

Who was it that tells stories of adventures like no other?

Who was it that put me to work?

Who was it that taught me the skills I use today?

Who was it that can cook as well as I can?

Who was it that always remembers to call on my birthday?

It is you… my brother

                                                Shannon R Killman

if Nobody

If nobody served… it would be different

If nobody cared… it would be different

If nobody wondered about the future… it would be different

If nobody had the fire inside… it would be different

If nobody had to convince their parents… it would be different

If nobody had the courage to continue… it would be different

If nobody had to leave their families… it would be different

If nobody survived the training… it would be different

If nobody knew the importance… it would be different

If nobody was serious… it would be different

If nobody was willing… it would be different

If nobody understood bravery… it would be different

If nobody traveled the world… it would be different

If nobody watched our shores… it would be different

If nobody peered through the skies… it would be different

If nobody survived the depths… it would be different

If nobody showed respect… it would be different

If nobody prayed a prayer… it would be different

If nobody was a leader… it would be different

If nobody looked toward home… it would be different

If nobody fell to the earth… it would be different

If nobody shed their blood… it would be different

If nobody did this for strangers… it would be different

If nobody ever said thank you… it would be different

                                                         Shannon R Killman

Smiling Underwater

My son Cody has been taking classes on the weekends for his certificate for scuba diving. There has been quite a bit of classroom training, but they finally started diving. His first trip to the field was in Lake Murray which is a stones throw from our house.

I pulled into the parking area of a public access to the lake and searched for signs of my family who were watching the diving class. I heard the familiar tones of my younger children echoing off of the water. I walked over to the edge of the dam and saw my wife and kids perched on the spillway like little ducks. It was early afternoon and the sun was battling with the wind and clouds for time against our skin. The clouds were thick and heavy. They were swollen with water and teased us with an occasional rain drop.

We sat next to the staging area close to some concrete steps that led into the water. There were a dozen and a half oxygen tanks soldiered upon a blue tarp that sat under an oak tree next to us. We were in the right place… we quietly waited for some activity. We heard the occasional flipper that pierced the surface and watched bubbles rise. Dark, seal-like heads would pop up from time to time and we would try and guess which one of the divers was Cody.

The November water was cold… like the wind. And just as we decided to make our way toward the vehicles, the group of divers made their way toward us. We found our Cody. Whispers of blonde hair that were not protected by his wet suit gave him away even before he removed his mask to give us a smile and a wave of acknowledgment.

 

His hands were cold and he pulled them to his palms in rhythm trying to warm them up. We wanted to help him with his tanks and his suit, but we held back… afraid to interfere with the class. I saw Jackson pulling at the seams of Cody’s diving bag. He hurriedly tugged on the zipper to ready it for the equipment. He saw me watching him and reluctantly pulled back with a smile.

 All of our eyes were drawn to see what Cody was prying from his driver’s pouch. Underneath the tear of Velcro appeared a treasure. We gathered together to watch him pull a forgotten bottle out of his pocket. I watched him admire it. He rubbed his hand over the surface and onto the neck of the clear glass. He smiled and held it out to his mother. Six little hands ran interference until she was able to take it from him. We all wanted to know where it came from and how he could see it in the murky waters of the lake.

The excitement of this first diving trip may escape him as he gets older. The magical feeling he must have felt as he first touched that little treasure will come in different forms as he finds different paths to follow. But who can know what this may lead to. He may use this day to follow a dream that will lead him to a world of crystal waters. I just hope he can hold on to the feeling of freedom… the comfort of his family beside him and the emotion of finding something special and unexpected. I can still remember him as a little boy playing in the bathtub with a new toy… smiling underwater and blowing bubbles.

                                                         Shannon R Killman

He Knows

Some may have looked to others…

Some my have sought advice…

Some may have walked in the shadows…

Some may have tired…

Some may have insisted on help…

Some may have been needy…

Some may have failed to hold the hand of the lonely…

Some may have not noticed the sadness…

Some may have strayed…

Some may have not given their heart…

Some may have not smiled…

Some may have taken the criticism…

Some may have not cared…

Some may have not felt the details…

Some may not have recognized the rewards…

Some may not have had the faith…

Some may have known…

Some may not have known…

He knows… He knows you were faithful…

                                                Shannon R Killman

I Prefer

I prefer the calm… the flavors of a small, still voice.

I prefer the softness… the whispers of love.

I prefer the warmth… the comfort that comes with time.

I prefer the reflections… the memories of joy.

I prefer the sands… the shores of lapping waters.

I prefer the peace… the slow reactions, slow communication.

I prefer the energy… the brief spark from the eyes.

I prefer the strength… the confidence in body and soul.

I prefer the laughter… the magic of spontaneity.

I prefer the deeds… the power over words.

I prefer the friendship… the evidence over distance.

I prefer the water… the ability to cleanse... to purify.

I prefer the dreams… the escape of the mind’s boundaries.

I prefer the mist… the curtain of imagination.

I prefer the joy… the journey of purpose.

I prefer the truth… the words of reality given with care.

I prefer the breeze… the steady reminder of possibilities.

I prefer the time… the past that flees like a playful child.

I prefer the daydream… the secret escape.

I prefer the unexpected… the compromise of life.

I prefer the smiles… the windows of internal truth.

I prefer the morning light… the promise of a new day.

                                                Shannon R Killman