Mine?

Given breath, given life,
Given sorrow, given strife,
Knowledge learned
Through work and life,
Is anything truly mine?

Father's eyes, mother's chin,
Sister's laugh and brother's grin,
Face defined
By blood and bone,
Is it even mine?

My own mind, my own sin,
My own voice, and my own skin,
What good are they
In my life
When nothing's truly mine?

Lessons learned and put to heart,
Even though it's torn apart,
These things are mine
And mine alone.

And none shall take them from me.

Rain: A snapshot of reunion.

It was raining. Again.

Sarah McKinley hated the rain. The sky became gray and dreary, the moisture falling from the sky was frigid, it soaked you to the skin almost instantly, and it made everything muddy and slick. The only thing she liked about the occasional desert rainstorm was the smell: cool and clean, drifting up from the pavement and whispering in her ear about far off places and scattered dreams.

In Arizona, rain was rare, and she didn't believe in dreams anymore.

She shuffled over to the couch to grab a pair of slippers. She needed to check the mail, and there was no way she wanted to get her feet wet. When she opened the door, moist air and musty fragrance flooded the living room. Her cat looked up briefly from his nap on the recliner, vaguely curious, but too lazy to investigate the change in the air.

Sarah walked out to the driveway, shoulders hunched against the cold wet spatter that still fell from the sky. She heard someone down the street belting out an off-key rendition of "Singin' in the Rain," and decided that they needed to be shot. But not by her. She was too cold and wet and miserable. I should have been born as a cat, she thought.

When she turned, mail in hand, to go back inside, she screamed. No! That couldn't be...

"Sarah?" The ghost by her front door smiled wanly.

Even though she knew it wasn't possible, she let the whisper fall from her lips. "Brian?"

His vague smile turned into a full-blown grin. "What can I say, 'lil sis?" He chuckled, "Rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated."

In the next instant, the mail lay forgotten on the soaked concrete driveway, and Sarah McKinley was sobbing in the arms of her assumed-dead brother.

It was still raining. Large drops of cold water fell from the sky onto the siblings, and Sarah decided something in that moment: She loved the rain.

Pen & Paper

Here I am again,
Alone with my thoughts
Wandering the depths
Of my mind.

Two candles are lit
By the window.
The flames sputter and twist,
Giving me light and warmth.

Pen touches paper,
Glides on a black streak
Through a boundless sea
Of white perfection.

Symbols soon form.
Letters convey thoughts,
Not blemishing the
Inimitable page,
But enhancing purpose.

From these simple words,
A story unfolds
Telling of beauty and pain
Of sorrow and joy.

A catharsis of thought
From a pen
And a page
And a candle-lit room.

This is peace.
This is perfection.
This is purpose.

copyright 2008, H.J. Hanauer