“The Tears” by Christy Anna Jones

You died on a Monday evening.
The Weather Channel says it was raining and windy
but I don’t remember that.
What I do remember is
the phone call in the wee hours of the morning.

The three-hour drive to the airport.
The Delta employees being too kind too helpful,
(there must be a secret code on one’s ticket for
“Her mom is dying.”)
The long wait for the rental car, the longer wait for luggage.

The traffic at rush hour, the helicopter, the rubberneckers.
The plea to god to let me arrive in time.
The dad on the porch crying.
The clock frozen at 6:21.
The dead body in your bed.

The stillness of the room, the energy gone.
(Where does it go?)
The lock of hair I snipped from your head.
The mini-van.
The whispered good-bye.

The dog standing in the driveway.
The howling.
The tears.
The tears.
The tears.

“The Tears” by Christy Anna Jones, via Melancholy Hyperbole.


“Are You Alright” by Lucinda Williams

“On Your Birthday” by Christy Anna Jones

You wore a red cable knit sweater shortly before you died,
it was one of your favorites.
I have photograph after photograph of you wearing it,
each one a different memory I turn to for warmth.

The red of the sweater always brought out the strawberry highlights in your hair
lighter and brighter as the summer wore on.
Even when you stopped coloring your hair
your silver strands still reflected its red glow.

The day after you died, I took your sweater from where it had been casually tossed
and I inhaled deeply.
You smelled clean — of Dove soap and soft musk.
And in one single moment a thousand memories of you brought me to my knees.

I folded up your sweater
with care and reverence
and I sealed it in a gallon-sized Ziplock bag
so I would always have it to remind me.

On your birthday I took it down from the top shelf in my closet.
I unzipped the bag–carefully and only by an inch–
lowering my nose into the bag as my body lowered to the floor,
those memories again bringing me to my knees.

Quickly, I sealed the bag shut, feeling guilty and regretful,
afraid I had lost your scent forever.
As if that were even possible.
As if I could ever forget your smell.

Like home.
Like love.
Like safety.
Like Dove soap and soft musk.


* “On Your Birthday” by Christy Anna Jones via The Shine Journal: The Light Left Behind.

“Tangerine” by Christy Anna Jones

Dry your eyes
go sit on the porch
in your favorite rocking chair
the one that reminds you of
tangerines and peach ice cream
of Nina Simone and mandolins
of her.

Drink in your sorrow from a paper cup
and watch as the sinking sun
slips away into an infinite pool
of cloud and sky.
Streaks of orange and red as rich as the
over-ripe peaches you would pick
with her
for ice cream.

Look into your cup
see the deep orange swirl of the sorrow you drink.
Notice the taste on your tongue
sweet like a juicy tangerine.
Feel the evening breeze against the fine hair on
your bare arms and
on your sun-kissed shoulders.
Breathe in
and then let it go.

See the breeze blow specks of orange and gold
like tangerine dust
into the world around you.
Look into your cup of sorrow,
once full, now empty.
The air smells sweet
like Tupelo honey and sunshine
like mandolins and peach ice cream
like tangerines.

Does she still remember times like these?


* “Tangerine” by Christy Anna Jones via The Voices Project.


“Tangerine” by Led Zeppelin