Home

I missed home. But where is home? It is where my heart lies, where I can find you always. Where the first light nestles the window glass and altogether witness how the day is about to start. To color my world is to create words, expressions that reveal what I see and perceive. For without it, what am I looking for?

When sensibility and insight embrace me, I realize the calling. You are my true friend, this creative voice who shall remind me to chronicle the changing times: to know what grimacing heat is or to spread the umbrella as heavy rain pours, to glean every falling leaf, and to see the world frost. All these little things are such wisdom to me, shaping my very being.

As my pen starts to scribble, you will always give a spur of the storyline, journeying to endless adventures. However, if you become silent and distant, I find myself in such struggle: to wrestle with words until darkness consumes me.

© Sonia B. SyGaco

The Firefly

Accustomed to this night ritual, you watch---moments of affection and courtship. Fireflies, night fireflies in flickering patterns express spectacular love. Yet still, you find no challenge of seeking it the easy way.Soon it will be daybreak and you’ll have to keep posted a little longer  while the rest of the lightning bugs go back to hiding and knit their own  dreams. You have to travel a long way to where I lived, opposite to the city, the flower patch near the timberland. As a perfume maker, I must say, “Smell the fragrance of a garden’s freshness.” This scent taken from my body stored in glass bottles will always remind you of me wherever you go.

You even can place a label, clip to my feet: a winged beetle who can’t  show “flashes of love” in the twilight.  No glowing bug I am… unequipped  with bioluminescence. And so when darkness sweeps, my memory brings  back of  how you accidentally hit my head. “Please be on guard” sternly I  said. But as soon as I turned around, words failed me, for I was confronted with a face that had a thousands subjects. I mumbled silently to pass the blame to my friend who brought me to this night ball. This ball in one of  the many balls, a commoner never forgets.

For it has been written long, long ago, that fireflies, nature’s miniature light  bulbs are only predestined to their own kind. So if you and I hem in life’s interest, how will I see myself on the other side when I have been a morning fly? Tell me firefly sage, I must know why?


© Sonia B. SyGaco