How long have I loved you, a question I seemed to ask
How long have I known you, counting the years is truly no simple task
I have loved you far beyond time and space
I knew from the moment I laid eyes on your perfect face
Something about the way you tucked my hair behind my ears made it very clear
That we would sit through many starry nights
As the years go on and I still long for your touch
I long for the spark that strikes when we meet eyes
Face to face, you and I, we must have known each other in a beautiful other life
One where every storm was weathered, just you and I together
I have always known, we'd be forever
L.M.A
About the Creator
Leonna Ash
Hello!
My name is Leonna
I'm a mother, wife, avid gamer, plant lover, animal lover, survivor and aspiring author.
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Your Happiest Dreams
I was diagnosed with depression when I was a kid, many, many years ago. I had just lost my Father to suicide when I was nearly 14. I was blamed for that tragedy by my mother and siblings. This brought a deep ache into my life. An ache I never truly knew until the moment I was told he was gone, forever. I found myself yearning for my Father. I wanted him to come back and tell everyone that it wasn't my fault. I wanted him to tell me that I shouldn't be sad, that I should stop moping about and do the things I want to do and I shouldn't feel bad for doing them because he can't. But that day will never come. So I lie awake in my tiny apartment almost every night, with the swirling thoughts of "What if" But with every thought, my soul aches deeper. My alarm goes off at 5:30 am every morning. I rise to a Viking chant, as a reminder that I am strong, courageous, and worthy to rise with the burning sun and so I do, and I take my shower and I comb my hair, I brush my teeth, I put on my scrubs and, walk out the door. "I'm just like everyone else" I say to myself. I deserve to be here, I truly do but some days it doesn't feel like it so I have to kick my own ass and make sure that I believe it. I walk into the nursing home at 7:00 am. I clock in on the computer in the administration office at the front of the building, I grab my clipboard and my trolley cart full of medical supplies and, make my rounds. I've worked at this Nursing home for three years and I guess it has helped me feel better about my own life, reminding me that I could be in that bed and to be grateful that I am not, yet. However, I never do anything with my life though I would like too. I have never even left my hometown. Every day I stop into the room of a man named Fredrick. Fredrick was a kind spirit. He tells me and the other nurses that his health has declined since his wife left him, she died from cancer many years earlier. I believe that we can die from broken hearts, because my father broke mine and there were many times when I felt I could not go on. Fredrick is terminally ill and his time was very limited. But he was vivacious and still full of life. He had the craziest stories to tell. He once told me that he spent time in a small Russian village, where he cared for a family for years and wondered if their grandchildren were there tending to their humble farm, he'd grow silent and ponder those things as did I. He told me that he met his wife in the Scottish highlands, visiting one year. He told me that they kissed atop a cliff overlooking the ocean. A lot of the nurses here never believed Fredrick's stories, and hurried on to make their rounds before he could ever finish. But I loved his stories, and I would make every excuse to stay and hear his adventures, I believed him. I Believe him because I am someone who was never believed. I think we need each other in a strange way: he needs to be heard and I need to be somewhere else and since I can't be somewhere else, his stories are my safe escape. This old man's mind was a doorway to not only different parts of the world but, another universe. That's how I've always seen people. I made my usual rounds and I clocked out at 5:30 pm. I never left without saying goodbye to Fredrick, but for some reason, that Friday, it had slipped my mind and I hurried to pick up some takeout before making my way home. That following Monday, I was shocked to hear of Fredricks passing. They said he went peacefully, and died in his sleep. My heart sank so deeply, it fell even as far as the ache that has lived inside of me since my father left. I wonder if that is truly peaceful at all- to pass in your sleep. My sleep was rarely peaceful. My subconscious flooded me with nightmares nearly every night. The same one, every time-never failed. I would make it to my Father's house, I walked inside, the door would be unlocked. But he wasn't there, I didn't go straight out the back door to the back porch. (Which is the logical thing to do) But I walked out the front door, and walked around the entire house to find him staring up at the sun, tears rolling down his face, ready to take his own life. I would scream, and nothing would leave my mouth. Not a breath, not a sound, slowly, my legs would descend into the mud that suddenly appeared below me making it impossible to run and stop him and then a deafening bang would ring in my ears. I would wake. But Fredrick I hoped went peacefully, contently in one of his stories, maybe the one of his wife, maybe the family in Russia or, his elephant ride in India. I prayed, for the first time in a long time, for his safe and peaceful descent. And when I got home that night, I had a nagging feeling within me. Suddenly, a voice in my head- maybe my own, maybe someone else's- screamed "I fear death" I wonder, do I? Or do I fear having never lived? Something I have heard many times that saying. I felt I would leave this earth empty and, sad; as I have spent many of my days. I want to feel light and joy and happiness before I leave this place. Please don't make me leave this place. Weeks went by and Fredrick's room was empty but, soon to be filled with someone who I hoped would be just as joyful and interesting as he. But several more weeks went by and it stayed empty. I stared at his empty bed with dreadful, hopeless thoughts swirling in my head and I would shut the door which felt like I was shutting away more than just a room. The next morning while I was back at work, making my usual rounds. I had a visitor. She was a tall, beautiful woman. Her name was Mona. Which was fitting because she was more beautiful than the Mona Lisa. She told me she was an executive of Fredrick's estate, that he made it very clear that I be given $20,000 dollars and a small, worn out black pocket book of which no one could know the contents but myself. I was shocked at the news and I asked her if she was certain that it was me that he had written into his will, and she said yes she was certain. In fact she made it very clear that this is what he wanted. I knew Fredrick did not have a lot of money, so I was bewildered by the amount. Mona had me sign some official paperwork and so I did. I was later sent a check. Which I would not deposit into my bank account for many reasons and many weeks. The first being that I did not believe that it was real. Maybe that is the stage of denial they talk about in grief support groups at the home. I felt that if I deposited this check, it meant Fred was really gone. It was an action that would set his departure in stone. The second and, saddest reason is that I did not feel deserving of it. What did I ever do to deserve such a wonderful gift? I listened to his stories and changed his bandages. I wasn't paid well, but it was never about the money. It was about the connection I felt with those I served. It was the fact that every person I had ever met was a universe to be explored thoroughly and compassionately; but this i realize is not a common practice among man, unfortunately for the world. So is that I why I deserved this? Because I could show a shred of humanity in a world filled with corruption and despair? I had left Fredrick's pocket book on my desk for several weeks, when I got a call from Mona, while laying in bed. She was questioning why I had not deposited the check and adviced me to do so as soon as possible. I sat up and stared at the little black book that lay on my desk across from me. I walked over to my desk and took a seat in front of it. I slowly opened the book. It was worn, leather bound with a lattice like pattern on it's cover, I opened it up to the very first page and there was my name written in Fred's shakey handwriting. "Leora" "May you live your happiest dreams" When I read that line I immediately began to cry. I cried because I never told Fred of my nightmares. I never told him about the many nights of cold sweats, the nights when I would awake sobbing and screaming, ears ringing and, my body trembling. But I cried too, because I did not know what my happiest dream was in any conscious moment or subconscious nightmare. I had never dreamed a happy dream. I started to flip the pages and to my shock there was only a few pages that had any words written on them, besides the front cover with my name. It was pages full of lists, lists of places and people, and locations. The places and people of Fred's stories. I cried for a long while, and by the time I gathered myself, the Viking chant slowly seeped into my ears. I am strong, I am courageous, I am deserving. Fredrick knew only bits and pieces of my journey however, he knew that I experienced great suffering and he was always able to make light of his own suffering. He was able to find a way out of the darkness and that was to see something other than the darkness, to feel something other than suffering. There are many feelings and suffering is not the only one. There is love, there is wonder, gratitude, hope, empathy and many more. And as I stood up that morning with that little black book in hand. I felt every. Single. One. I booked my first flight to the Scottish Highlands as soon as the sun rose and I stood upon the cliff where Fredrick kissed his late wife, Isla. I looked to the ocean. The water crashing against the rocks, I felt the sun warming my skin, I had never felt so alive. I would honor Fedrick and relive his adventures while making my very own within them, I would heal my broken spirit with love and wonder. I reached my hand out, shaking against the wind above the massive cliff, my other hand clutching the little black book to my heart and with a melancholy smile and, many tears. I whispered "Thank you" May we find peace in life, as those who have passed on found in death. Leah M. Ash
By Leonna Ash 3 years ago in Humans
The Whiskered War
A domestic drama; rather, you're witnessing a millennium-old conflict over the fate of the entire planet (and possibly just a smA titanic struggle between wits and strength has been raging in the shadows for millennia: The Great Nibble vs. The Purrsecution. The cats, the furry fighters, the fascists of the feline world, occupy one corner. In the other, mice make up the squeaky squad, the small militia. The reward? Domination over the entire world (and possibly an especially tasty cheese wheel).
By Richard Weber2 days ago in Humor
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