For Jaxon

Three days ago, my mom's cousin and his wife and two sons were in a horrific car accident, and the oldest son passed away. The father and the younger brother were transported to the hospital, and for a long while, we were unsure whether they would survive or not. By the grace of God, they did, but my cousin's death shook the family, especially because he was so young.
It arrives as a full-bodied shock when we hear of a family member passing away, but said shock is intensified when death blindsides us. Considering this for the past few days, I realized that this is the first encounter, at lease concerning my family, where someone hale and healthy died. Everyone else lived full and long lives, dying of either old age or a long-term illness that provided us time to prepare and say our goodbyes.
Nothing like that happened with Jaxon, and although I didn't know him as well as I would have liked (his family lives several states away and we don't have the opportunity to visit them often), my heart still grieves, and it probably will for a long time.
This is for you, Jaxon--a celebration of your life.


Pretending to know or understand your plan is absurd.
I don’t know.
I can’t know.
I won’t even attempt to surmise
What you’re thinking when you act.
It’s futile.
Vanity.
And utterly exhausting—
Beyond everything in my meager capability to fathom.
So I won’t ask why tragedy occurs
Out of the blue, blindsiding all of us.
I won’t ask why you allow the
Young,
Innocent, 
Children
To die without reaching adulthood.
We say they possessed so much potential.
Possessed.
Past-tense. 
Potential.
Future implications of a goal or thing 
Not yet reached.
Yet you know, and I know, that we label things
Incorrectly and inerrantly wrong.
See, the young met their potential.
They lived their full life,
Touched,
Loved,
Lived.
And were loved dearly in return. 
They never fail to reach their potential.
They never fail to live their lives in the fullest,
However short they may be.
We speak of their lives as being snapped
By the cruelty of the
Fates,
Norns,
Moirai.
The threads of life trimmed.
Although I cannot begin to explain or understand
What you think or your reasons,
I know that all lives, however long or short,
Bear the same weight,
Purpose,
And meaning:
To glorify you and show others how to
Love,
Laugh,
Live. 
By fulfilling those things, there is no potential wasted,
No cutting short the thread.
There are only the sweet years complete
With the loving and the living.

~Abigail Blair

The Mask - A Short Story I Wrote in High School

I have a blog post today! My phone so thoughtfully reminded me a minute ago as I forgot due to the mayhem and insanity that has been the last couple months. Update on life: I passed all my classes this semester and am now a senior in college set to graduate next December; my husband and I are preparing to celebrate our first Christmas together; the editor for Trill! Magazine hired me to work for them over the summer; and thanks to the incredible book, 400 Writing Prompts my friend and coworker gave me as a Secret Santa gift, I have an idea for a new dystopian book! I think it has potential to turn into something great. Besides all of that, I am still attempting to work my way through outlining my novel, for which I thought up a new (and exceedingly better) title yesterday evening. Since I have not written much save a few poems here and there since October, I decided to post a short story about redemption I wrote while in high school called The Mask. I hope you enjoy it!

(Book from Piccadilly Inc.)

The mask lay on her dressing table. It was beautiful by the standards of the townsfolk, covered in bright colours and radiated joy and happiness. Reluctantly, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her heart ached and her eyes shone with tears and hidden pain. Every flaw in her life stared at her and she shuddered with repulsion at the ugliness underneath. She touched the mask and slipped it on her face, hiding every emotion deep within her.

She gave a false smile and walked into the town as if she were as carefree and as joyful as her mask portrayed. Around her, people went about their daily jobs and duties, smiling behind their masks. The painted colours displayed beauty and perfection; these people clearly had everything they desired and were pleased in what and who they were.

But she felt dirty and fake.

She smiled at her friends and family, but inside her, beneath the mask, she wept. Her heart was empty and she had nowhere to run. No one to turn to.

Then a young man caught her eye. He had no mask, and his simple smile was warm and genuine. His face was plain in comparison to the vibrant colours of the masks around him, but she saw something about him that was truly beautiful. Then he turned and looked at her.

Their eyes met, and she looked away, ashamed, for she felt his gaze boring into her. She knew he saw the emptiness behind her mask and was afraid. But her fascination in him drew her closer. He still stared at her with loving eyes, and she knew he was not someone to fear.

Timidly, she made her was across the street toward him. A crowd had formed around the young man and was listening to him speak. His voice, tender but strong, pulsed through her. He spoke of things unheard of in her town. He spoke of freedom and forgiveness, of life without a mask. The townsfolk scoffed at his words and moved away, but she stayed, alone with the man.

Suddenly she was shy, and tried to move with the crowd. Then a gentle hand touched her arm, stopping her. It was the man. She stared at his hands, for on his wrists were two scars.

He taught her about life without a mask. A life without pain or heartache. A life free from the ugliness that haunted her. Tears filled her eyes and rolled down her face under her mask. Gently, the man reached behind her hair and removed it. She quickly covered her face with her hands; afraid he might see and know the truth. But he only smiled.

Slowly, ever so slowly, she took her hands away, revealing her true self. His eyes stared with forgiveness and love into her own eyes, eyes filled with sadness. He whispered two words to her. Two simple words that made all the difference to her.

She felt as if a weight had been lifted from her, and her heart was no longer empty and she no longer felt pain, but peace. She smiled, not falsely this time, but truly smiled. He reached out one of his scarred hands, and in it was her mask, now appearing dull and shabby. She took it from him, and with one last look, left. He had seen her for what she truly was under her mask. He had shared her pain and he had healed her broken heart. He had forgiven her. She put her mask away and never wore it again. Never again, because he had called her beautiful.

Have a lovely weekend, and I'll see you in two weeks with a new poem or two!
~Abigail Blair