One was sick with hunger for mother's feminine
touch and craved women's flesh aplenty. She saw him through it and does it
still, his companion. And now he cares for her during sleepless nights of painful unrest,
and every day while she struggles to move her tired body about the house.
Another cultivated a radical understanding of freedom to flee a heart heavy
with feelings never blessed to be expressed. Seeking refuge in fluid company,
in drugs, dates, dancing. Leaving her at home to wait indefinitely for
another moment's glimpse into his loving soul. She saw him through it. And he
made sure she was adequatly, comfortably provided for when her vulnerable
nature caved her mind into insanity. He never stopped returning to her and, in his way,
loved her, though she would never say her love for him again. And to her grave
he now brings flowers.
Yet another was sick with anger and struck away both love
and life with force. She took his charm and embraced, well past his better
days, the fruits his seeds had born so reminiscent of the many ways in which
she had loved him. He had fostered a legacy of unconditional unity despite the severity of his blows.
Togethter
they tell tales of responsibility towards our kin. Our kindred fellows, yes,
humans who rise and fall like me and you. Don't we all?
What is responsibility? What is the nature of our ability to respond to each other? How do we correspond to each other? And what is love? but the
string that weaves together many stories on the spiral path of life.
