Category Archives: Bronte Brown Blog Post

The first time I saw a dead body was in the woods. Uncle Rufus open coffin sat where the porch swing once hung. The rusted ceiling bolts reminded me of what once was. That old dingy porch framed a poignant image. Unintentionally, I took a mental snapshot.
I stood and stared. Death barred the doorway entrance. The splattered sunlight melded with the shadows. The white wood planks faded into the background as if engulfed in sadness. The inner light was gone. Only a shell remained. Nature reclaims what it intends.  
Yet, life lives on where memories flow like a sweet bension between the falling rain-- 

quiescent tide,
the porch-swing rhythmic pace-
tealights fade
--

First Encounters
First Encounters

The first time I ever saw a dead body was in the woods. The open coffin sat where the porch swing once hung. The rusted ceiling bolts served as a reminder of what once was. The porch framed a poignant image. I took a mental snapshot unintentionally.

I stood and stared. Death barred the doorway entrance as the splattered sunlight melded into the shadows. The white wood planks faded into the background, engulfed in the past. The inner light was gone. Only the shell remained. Nature reclaims what it intends to, sending life's events to where memories flow.

As we headed southeast from Memphis, Tennessee that morning, I had no idea what a funeral entailed. The paved roads gave way to winding backroads layered with gravel and dust. Hours stretch as time slows its pace. You weren’t allowed to ask,  “Are we there, yet?”

 After a few wrong turns, my aunt remembered the landmark and turned toward our destination. Traveling the backroads of the Mississippi hill country was not meant for newcomers. Country folks have no need for road signs. They get by with a few landmarks and directions as the crow flies.

Great Uncle Rufus was my Papaw's brother. I noted the same pointy nose as mine. Milling about, I listened to whispered stories: sad, funny; yarns and tall tales. Still, people act odd in the presence of death standing on the doorstep. Some ignore the open coffin and pass through the doorway. Some, like me, keep their distance.

Cousins departed for the clearing. Blue sky peeked through the trees, and sunlight warmed our insides. Time giggled along with us as we told our stories. Death remained on the porch which was comforting for a nine-year-old. 

From a mischievous twinkle to the shape of a nose to a familiar gait, the past is intertwined with the future. Lessons taught, lessons learned, favorite recipes, a hand--me--down quilt, family stories, and my family nose. Everyday routines are instilled and handed down to the next generation. 
 
faded white wood planks
engulfed in quamoclit,
a reclaimed quiescent


Slowly evanescing
time spins memories
of you

mental snapshot
framed a poignant image
old dingy porch 


Haiku format:

Faded white wood planks
engulfed in quamoclit,
a reclaimed quiescent

Rusted ceiling bolts 
serve as a reminder 
of the porch swing 

Now, the open coffin sits. 
Sending life's events 
to where memories flow. 

The inner light gone 
reclaimed by nature, 
only the shell remains. 

YET>
Past lives on in 
family stories, recipes, my nose- 
as treasured memories. 

I was nine years old
This is my story -
retold. 

a prismatic wash in a golden mist- 
a sweet bension between the falling rain.  

Faded white wood planks
engulfed in quamoclit,
reclaimed quiescent

The first time I saw a dead body was in the woods. The open coffin sat where the porch swing once hung. The rusted ceiling bolts served as a reminder of what once was. That old dingy porch framed a poignant image. Unintentionally, I took a mental snapshot.

I stood and stared. Death barred the doorway entrance. The splattered sunlight melded with the shadows. The white wood planks faded into the background as if engulfed in sadness. The inner light was gone. Only a shell remained. Nature reclaims what it intends to, sending life's events to where memories flow. 


Haiku format:

Faded white wood planks
engulfed in quamoclit,
quiescent and quaint. 

Rusted ceiling bolts 
serve as a reminder 
of the old porch swing 

Now, the open coffin sits. 
Sending life's events 
to where memories flow. 

The inner light gone 
reclaimed by nature, 
only the shell remains. 

YET>
Past lives on in 
family stories, recipes, my nose- 
and treasured memories. 

I was nine years old
This is my story -
retold.