A Private Winter

Suffering is an emblem of learning, a quiet recital of lessons earned. It is an omen of what is yet to come—a corridor lined with designer scars not yet seen, stitched together by faith. To have faith, you must trust. And to trust, you must accept whatever ride you’re on—the wounds, the scars, the ribbons of pain that slip in whether the doors are open or closed, leaving their marks behind.
You must learn to value your scars, assign them a worth, rather than dwell on their constant intrusion. Keep moving forward. Stop worrying. Let it go. Run wild. Let out your loudest roller-coaster scream. Breathe.
Find the root of the wound. With your best scissors in hand, cut it clean—then sew it back together. Yes, easier said than done. I know. But you are shaping blessings. Tomorrow, you will be healed. One day, you’ll tell the story—how you overcame it all, how the Man Upstairs had a hand in it.
Life lessons.

Dear Kairo!

Hello sunshine! How’s your day shaping up? All is groovy down here in the boonies, flexing high like a butterfly.

Last night, riding on a motorcycle through the darkened roads, I watched the pesky insects hoovering around like maggots and quietly settle on the ashes, as though they themselves were igniting the festival into motion. There was no light, no candles, no band, no food or drinks; so, what’s the dillio? They gathered in circles, hand in hand, leaping like pigeons startled into flight, arriving with cadence all at once in a rhythm of their own only they understood and communicated, shaking their bums bums like an Hollywood mistress.

Their presence announced itself boldly—sensual, curvaceous, celestial forms pressing forward, magically scintillating in the air, bright and restless, breasts padded by the night air, eyes shaped with a strange and gorgeous intent, hips rotating like vinyl on a dusty turntable, scratching time in a groove not even the hipster DJ could crack, smooth, deliberate, and hypnotic under the low glow of the night, lips muscular and musical, carrying the emblem of an innocence that somehow still breathed. Mesmerized, I watched from afar, aching with envy for a moment that wasn’t mine; dang it! It was impossible not to notice them. They were alluring.

Above and around us, the fuming malaria mosquitoes hovered like hungry beasts, ready to devour their prey, drawn to the frenzy, to the mayhem of heat and movement. They buzzed their way down, descending without mercy, feeding on the chaos of the night, turning the air thick with their hum. Yeah, I felt the heat burning my forehead—I woke up long enough to see a giant mosquito standing on its feet and reading me my rights. The nerve! It was feasting on me, like Dracula, sucking on my blood cocktail with a fugitive force and I was one to stay still, listening to my own heartbeat fade into its mouth. Surreal. It was a night alive—unsettling, vivid, unforgettable—a dream however, I felt compelled to share with you, someone.

Yours legally and emotionally,
Eloi Ahoy

The Baby Bottle

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April 13, 2014, Happy Birthday Baby!

I saw this last Saturday at an antique store in Winter Garden, FL and was this close, from purchasing it.

I must confess, as a blogger, curiosity had the best of me. I thought of many reasons the little notes could perhaps, make the ultimate guide to writing beautiful love of parent to child stories, an interesting read but something stopped me at my tracks.

I picked up the jar twice. I turned it around, looked a at it and turned again. I tried to peek through the translucent glass but the notes were so carefully jammed in that not even the Pink Panther would be able to solve the case.
I dragged the jar with me all over the store as I browsed through it. I misplaced it a few times to picking it right back a few seconds later, to finally giving it up for good just as fast as I could sneeze off the dust.

It did not speak to me. I didn’t think it was right. Thought I was violating the person’s trust but one could easily argue, I was not since the jar was up For Sale.

How can parents “love for a child” be up for sale? If indeed the notes were intended for a four years old in 2014, basically two years ago, there must have been a big reason why the jar was discarded and it wasn’t my job to play detective. One could play the devils advocate and assume the notes were intended to be opened when the child was old enough to read but it was there alone, tucked in a corner.

If it was meant for me to have the jar, I would have been Told So. It would speak to me and it didn’t. I would quietly paid for it and walked away with a smile but I didn’t. So, without a tear in my eyes, I laid it back at exactly place where I found it, on the left corner of the second shelf of the bookcase on the last isle.

I could think of a few 100 reasons why I love you, can you?