Flowers in New York

"Flowers in New York"
By
Brian Paul Dunlop


The day was savage. The sun was cruel.

My mind continued in a race. Thoughts of the great unknown struck upon
my mind like glue on a mouse trap.

What will happen when I die? Will I go out like a roaring flame; at
one moment, sparking in a mighty inferno and then snuffed out, never
again to burn, never again to think.

My mom was a strange woman. A woman molested by the man who was meant
to guide her, to show her mercy, to let her have life.

I can't remember his name, but I know he died, long ago. Cancer of the
heart, he possessed.

Cruel irony knocked at his doorsteps like so many beggars, crying out
for food, pleading for money.

An old miser, he was. Not many had the nerve to attend his funeral,
knowing what he did to his daughter, my mother.

What a strange day; March 14th. I shuddered as the wind grew upon my
nerves an eerie core of a dark nature. And I was a dark man. There
was no humbling or curing me; just another nobody wrapped up in the
social American mind frame.

Perfection? Only a fool thinks of such a venture. Oh, but my mind did
toss and turn.

Never hiding upon any shadow of light. Always searching for that one
final answer.

Always dreaming. Always looking.

And I can remember mother now; smiling, laughing, crying, dying from
the inside-out.

And the day they took her away was the day that I died. Such a cold
Autumn's day, such a cool Winter's night.