Garden of Gray

Photo by Thgusstavo Santana on

A trail of brown boxes line the sidewalk, leading to a moving truck with other memories piled inside.

Today, a family moves out of their small gray home, a sad shadow of the vibrant yellow one beside it. Bright as a lemon and absent of anything sour. Except for the Gray family, who were stoic, all carrying moving boxes in methodical procession and silence.

When they finished, they took one last look inside the house. Old corners adorned themselves in the finest webs vacated by the last owners. They inhaled the stale air, the familiar aroma of old memories and knick-knacks, things that were special to them on display for the entire family to gaze upon. All gone.

The vibe was off, yet potent, unseen, and detrimental to the soul. They had to get out.

Their last steps past the overgrown weeds is a memory of a challenge faced, accomplishments and failures, strange growth in the shadows of pain. The Grays didn’t tend to this garden; they were moving on.

After their solemn departure, the small gray house vanished, while the yellow stood alone, waiting.


Today, a family emerges from their vibrant yellow home. Inside, shelves are full, reflecting the Grays and their knick-knacks. Old and new memories merge. Outside, rows of flowers line the house, blooming in rediscovered bliss. It is what they nurtured with hope in the years of gray gloom.

Scattered across their front porch, the Grays sit in silence, smiling, watching the sunrise together of a new day, and a new chance.

Truth Beyond Flesh

Art by Kirsten on PENUP/Snapseed

Dreary graphite drip,

strands of silver silk draped

serene perfection.


edited expressions —

artificial masks of glee

atop bitter misery.

Door Talk

Photo by George Becker on

Most of his companions thought he was a captive the way he interpreted his home life: “Just wait until you’re 18, man. It’ll get better when you’re an adult,” they’d reassure him.  

At home, the teen felt free within the cluttered confines of his room. Only upon cravings for food and drink would he emerge in a mad dash to the kitchen and back to avoid the constant questions and suffocating concern of his parents. Their hopes of a productive conversation with their son often resulted in faint, rushed responses through a locked door. 

Why doesn’t he talk to us? Where did we go wrong? Mother and Father wondered, reliving the happier days when their son was little and enjoyed their company. Now, they were a nuisance. Sometimes it was simpler to just leave their son be.  

“We’ll always be here for you, no matter what,” his parents reminded him every day.  

They prayed for their son’s success as a writer, encouraging him from afar with every tap, tap, tap, of the keyboard behind the locked door into the late hours.  

He’ll hear us one day. 

And as time went on, the son became a father facing a similar dilemma. His daughter scoffed at every hello and shunned questions, avoiding his presence to great lengths until she needed something which made him feel used. He knew these tricks, the evasion.  

But why me? I was always the cool one. 

Water grew thicker than blood as friends replaced him and his famous adventure novels she once held dear, left to collect dust on the bookshelf, old news. 

Why doesn’t she talk to me? 

The epiphany struck a heavy blow. Now, the son, the father, heard them.  

“I’ll always be here for you. No matter what.” He couldn’t believe the same words moved from his lips, his parents were somewhere above smiling. And there was no response from his daughter other than the familiar sound of soft brushstrokes. 

He knew deep down she would hear him. One day… 

Dawn’s Healing

Art by Kirsten on PENUP/Snapseed


waterfalls break

from glassy pools

of temporary gloom.


in slumbers arrival;

troubled thoughts

left to darkness,


in Dawn.