The dverse haibun theme is fear. Fear is a big thing, and it never goes away. An easy one to write since it’s something I think about every day one way or another.
What do I fear? I fear what might be. I fear the child’s fever that won’t descend, the late train, the doorbell that hasn’t rung, the telephone that won’t pick up. It’s in the blood, a gift, the anxiety that walks beside me like a second shadow, crouching close to the wall where the rubbish gathers and the pigeons scavenge, picking at every trailing, frayed edge of my nerves.
It’s in the blood. Grandma lost two children and refused to go to their funerals, destroyed the death certificates, and now no one even knows where they are buried. Lost grandad too after only twenty-four years of marriage, had a nervous breakdown and wouldn’t let her youngest leave the house. Followed her grandchildren around as if only her watchful eye stopped the claws of death snatching us away.
Deeper than worry is the visceral fear of loss, and it nags and gnaws at the merest hint of trouble, the barest bones, like a famished dog. If I should find myself adrift, with the phone in my hand that never answers, waiting at the barrier for the passenger that never arrives, and for the doubt to become a certitude, my world would shatter, blow away like the thistledown that fills the bright spring air.
Wind blows through the leaves,
spring-brisk and blossom-scented,
heralding the storm.