This was a poetry exercise I attempted. It kind of fizzled at the end. I'm not sure if I did the assignment right but if anything, it got me writing. I shared some poetry with a friend once and he felt weird reading it, and thought it was a little too personal, like a glimpse into my diary. But, I told him, that's what poetry is--feelings,pain & life. And, p.s., I promise, I'm not an angry or bitter person.

Colors

I was lying next to dad on a velor, biege blanket
Listening to the slowing rhythm of his breathing.
His thin, sky blue, nightshirt rising slowly up and
deflating again, then pause, like a hot air balloon perhaps descending.

Tears streamed down my pale face, turning gray with fear of what's next.
The crystal ball showing Mom clearing away her gray clouds to make room, in the future, for the handyman lying out our porcelain tile, gray under my feet.

The black night now turning blacker in my new isolation.
The irony of loosing not one, but two parents that evening.

I shuffled my pink, fuzzy slippers on the hard tile from my parents'
room down to the front hall and peered through the horizontal blind, searching for the sound.

I make it back to my room and try to sleep on the hard bed, much like life. Afterall, not everything can be as warm and comfortable as a feather filled bed. Dream on.