We are the Family

The house was a bee-hive of activity. There were a hundred things to do before traveling to the upstate for a soccer tournament this morning. We push our busy schedules and merge our lives to strangers’ that become acquaintances and friends. Today, we have a new family.

We have the quiet group… away from the others... we smile and talk in bursts of politeness. There are the important ones… there are the involved and the uninvolved. There are many among us that don’t know the rules… the ones that know all of the rules and the ones that just enjoy watching the children play the game.

There are the quiet ones… the loud ones… the irritators… the ones that stand behind and the ones that stand in front. We get along… we smile and we laugh. There are the observers… the photographers… the statisticians… and there are the time keepers…

We are the sideline players… the sideline coaches… and we are the sideline referees… We are not the team… we are the drivers … we are the equipment managers... we are the haulers… we are the cheerleaders and we are the critics… We are not here for ourselves. We are here for our offspring and for each other. Now… we are the family.

Shannon R Killman

We Stood Close

I watched the rolling skies last night. The water fell upon us with a steady fury. The lightning split the sky like broken glass. From the safety of my porch… water splashed up on my feet leaving the feeling of humid stickiness.

My Grandfather grew up in the deserts of Arizona and would wait with anticipation for the torrent of nature to fall to the earth. We would stand with him on his porch that usually stood in place to protect us from the sun. We would watch the dark, thunderous clouds cascade over the mountain range.

We could smell the sweet and heavy aroma of the winds that absorbed the heat and dust of the parched earth around us. It would throw itself on our faces and swirl around our heads. The temperature of the air fell in gusts that hit our skin in layers. Small swirls of sand and desert debris scattered themselves in every direction and gathered our attention away from the clouds.

The thunder clouds reflected the light as they muscled themselves in the upper atmosphere. Grandfather would stare into the sky hoping that this time the winds would be kind. The texture of colors in the dark and light clouds gave way to the steady gray of water that made its way to our porch. The rain came in heavy drops that spattered the dust under the intermittent pattern of rain… then it would come to us… the wind was replaced by rain… the rain he remembered from his youth.

There was the smile that I remember… the smile of gratitude on his stubbled face… the smile of contentment. We changed in those years. We learned to respect the rain. We learned to stay on the porch and wait for the blessing. We stood close… the rain splashed up on our feet and left that humid stickiness that I will never forget.

I now find myself drawn to my own porch when the storms crawl upon me. I pull my head to the air and search for the aromas of the desert. My children pull themselves outside with me... and we stand close...

Shannon R Killman

the Spirit of My Mind

I want happiness… I want to see the faces of the ones I love and feel a reflection of joy… I want to feel energetic… I want to walk without notice of my limbs… I want sunshine… sunshine with dabbles of shade to cool my soul… I want smiles from strangers… smiles that are infectious to others around… I want love… the love that feels like yesterday… a yesterday of discovery… I want warmth… the warmth of a child in my arms that nears slumber… I want laughter… a laughter that pulls from my spirit… I want peace… a peace that has no plan… a peace that exists on its own merit… I want conversation… a conversation in the dim light of companionship… I want attention… the attention that is undeserved… I want friendship… friendship that is earned through years of trust and honesty… I want charity… to give without credit for the deed… I want dancing… the dance of youth and the dance of lovers… I want calm… the calm of the sunset… I want satisfaction… the satisfaction from within… I want treasures… the treasures of a prized shell on a quiet beach… I want surprises… the surprises that stop the rhythmic pulse of my heart and renews the spirit of my mind…

Shannon R Killman

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