There was a time when
Our existence meant more than
Bills and politics
About the Creator
C. H. Richard
My passion is and has always been writing. I am particularly drawn to writing fiction that has relatable storylines which hopefully keep readers engaged
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More stories from C. H. Richard and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 16 hours ago in Poets
The Lesions of Devotion
Every day I set myself down on the freshly cut lawn and strip myself bare. I take my guitar and finger the frets and pick at the strings, listening for dissonance. My life is dissonance. I twist the tuning pegs until each string sounds bright. Then I kneel, calves pointing behind me, kneecaps facing forward. All exposed to the breeze. I close my eyes and play the melody.
By Paul Stewart2 days ago in Fiction
Comments (18)
Oh, so much said in so few words! This is beautiful!
simple and true. haikus are my favorite
So simple and so true!
Unfortunately. Well done!
I read it out loud and slowly edged down the page. And ooof. that last line.
Oof, nostalgia overload. The title of this, especially, gives me all the feels.
Oh my word, I felt that so hard! Wow, what a great job on that!!
It would be so nice to experience that again!
Brilliant!!!
There was? Ouch!
Well done and so true.
Oh, hear hear! This is so true. So poignant in such a small number of words! Well done Cindy!
Love this! Well done!
Aw, I love this so much. Lovely nostalgia. 🥹❤️
Take me back to that time!
So very true , wish that time to come back
Omggg yessss! I wish we can go back to those times. Loved your Haiku!
Oh yes! I loved those times. Well done.