In memory of Renee Good

The trees were bare, spindly silhouettes threaded out against indigo sky. Fiery gold layers lit the horizon over cold morning water. In this silent majesty, mere moments before color washed to pale and the day began, three gunshot blasts. At thirty-seven I was lucky enough. Enjoyed calendar days; took them for granted. My young boys laughed and rolled with the new puppy on wide green lawn; my mother’s house at Easter where we hunted for plastic eggs she’d filled with chocolate and marshmallow chicks. Festive shreds of green everywhere! And trips to the seaside, long salty walks down the Cape where we’d flee from crabs that pinched our feet and fingers. When I was thirty-seven we celebrated the re-election of a kind president and the evening news didn’t make me cry. But alone on my porch at daybreak today, my children grown, I imagined a hunter sliding a blood-red cartridge into a steel barrel aimed at my head.

Gilded horizon,
let me savor your colors,
sacred hushed vibrance.

 

Megan Hart is an elementary school teacher in the Finger Lakes Region of New York. She enjoys taking classes through the Downtown Writing Center of Syracuse, and spending quiet time on her front porch reading, writing and reflecting on the natural beauty that surrounds her.