Sunday Cherry Cake

In times when everybody - or at least every-female-body - looked at him and saw but a blooded hunk of meat, hot inebriating vapours liquefying into lust down their lungs, he used to be my Sunday cherry cake. In times when he would take a lot, give less and none to me, I used to live on smiles and breathe once a few hours, weekdays only.

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I, for one, am more into sour cherries and could go on living a life on an exclusively sour cherries diet. Had it not been for Sundays and my father taking me to the sweet-shop. A 7 years old's eyes gaze in obvious and innocent expectation to the tempting shelves and mine always fixed on the whitish cubes with the breath-taking mouth-watering red drops.

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For two surreal years I breathed a few of his cigars and built a couple of new worlds each day. We met in breaks, occasionally, and I was far too young to speak out louder than my eyes could scream. Not young enough to call it illicit, had it happened…

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Grandma's kittens wouldn't always sit and wait for me to hung them by the tail next to the drying laundry. Nor would they always feel as excited as myself about taking a soapy foamy scented bath. And marmalade, I learned, was not a good hair-gel replacement. And pencils were for writing on the notebooks whose sheets were not for wrapping one week young ducklings. As well as many enough nails had been stuck into the appropriate places on the walls, none more required - nor endured - by the house resistance structure. No Sunday cherry cake to follow…

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Not to expect, not to ask. Not to reproach. Yes to dream. Yes to let the dreams fly to only a clearly specified realm. If I would please do. No stepping out of line of unspoken rules. Finding the door lights off - groping in shyness or head smashing on all four sides of its frame - anything would do. Remembering the coordinates - no second chances. None needed. Afternoons drowned in pain and close souls to hide it from. Learning it the hard way and loving every single blooded tear.

~~~

Kittens and ducklings didn't get to outlive the experiments more than 20 years. The restructured sweet-shop sells not as good as expensive dried laundry. There's dozens of recipes and I am old enough to build my own cherry cake. Some Sundays. 

Reviews

[~The Queen~]

I have to say. Awesome write, but I got super confused, which isn't good because this is a contest. >< crap, lemme read it again...

-The Queen

[lAcEy_LoO's Poems Site]

Clever! It cool

[Dalaina Renee]

Very interesting story. And the title is what caught my eye. Cleaver!