Cicadas

The sound of cicadas

rose and fell like a deep sigh,

exhaling into the Charleston spring air of 1892.

It smelled tender -

whispering gentle aromas

of magnolia and jasmine

like scents could fall off of the sky’s fragile bones.

The wind fawned over the curls in my long auburn hair

as I looked back at Ivy Hall -

the family estate.

I did not yet understand why,

but I could feel the beginnings of it then.

I would grow to hate that lovely place

that echoed a cliche of a hometown I longed to escape.

Splattered silver laughter ran from the lush garden beside me on my gravely walk back into the soiree.

How small the minds of men and women were who roamed such large mansions.

Charleston,

the most divine mix

of the worst of the good and the best of the evil.

The vines that once held together beautiful trellises

to opulent, cruel homes filled with jewels,

now suffocated the remainders

of decaying decadence.

The ravenous and colorful gardens

gasping to be watered,

The deaths of horses

that had never-before been spooked,

The smell of woven Sweetgrass baskets,

that robbed so much of the hands that woven them.

True history sat in the streets

like a gossiping tale

to be kept an ancient secret.

I briskly walked

past the mausoleum

that wickedly cradled my sister.

Lisette - gone too many years now to count.

Her death brought with it the feeling

evil will always outlive good.

As one’s death outlives their life.

The ever-growing Dogwood

outside her final resting place,

showed me hope

of something different.