When you’re gone
even
for a moment,
I lose part
of me.
A catch in
my chest
whispers your
absence to
my heart,
slowing it--
until
your return
amplifies its beat,
your touch swells
the sound,
filling me full,
deafening me
to all else
but you.

THE GARDEN OF THE LAST DAYS

In the final days
The blooms were bursting and bright
As each day ended
The fragrance wafted into her room
through the open window
Each breeze brought another scent
and a reminder of regret
She wondered why the curtain
was too heavy to flutter
and yet
The more magnificent weight in her heart
caused her to tremble
As she got up to take one last look out the window
she remembered why she came
When she gazed at the garden
she remembered why it was time to leave
It wouldn’t be long until each flower
genuflected to the power
of the frost that was on the way
The cold nights ahead would be the end
of this patch of garden
Then she would go
and plant again

Technically, it could be called a first date. What did that mean? Magdalena was tense and confused. What was the distinction between “friends” and “dating”? “Friends” meant you got each other’s jokes and were available for sharing breakfast tacos or beer. “Dating” meant something more formal. Especially a date that involved dressing up and meeting family members. Whoa! How had this all happened so fast? She had stepped up initially as a friend. They were both at that age where it is painful to go to a wedding solo – she would help Eric out; be his “date” for the wedding of his brother. It rapidly became more involved; travel, hotel sleeping arrangements, clothes. Clothes! How was she going to pull it off? Magdalena had been in tennis shoes and sandals so long, the very idea of anything resembling heels was excruciating. Formal wear meant drearily going through the racks of discount stores to find something acceptable and affordable. Her mom had been sweet. She knew Magdalena was in a pinch, and fronted her the money to buy something un-embarrassing.

They had passed a lot of hurdles to get there, and now Magdalena and Eric were dressed in their finest, waiting to be seated in the restaurant for the rehearsal dinner. Looking at Eric in his dark suit and tie, Magdalena surprised herself by blushing and averting her eyes. She had never seen him in anything other than torn jeans and T-shirts, and truthfully had not realized how good-looking he was. Haircuts were not something he could afford to splurge on, and although he had a cleaner cut than usual, a persistent cowlick jutted up unpredictably from the top of his head.

They played their part; walking arm in arm to their assigned table. Next to them was Eric’s beloved grandfather, a nonagenarian. They settled in and ordered a glass of wine. After the appetizer, Magdalena got up to go to the ladies room. Eric’s grandfather also stood, holding a high-ball. Something wasn’t right; he was unsteady on his feet. Magdalena took a step closer to him, to lend support. Before she knew what was happening, Magdalena was holding Eric’s grandfather horizontally in her arms. Tenderly, she embraced him, like a big unexpected doll. She was not large; barely making five feet tall, and he was tall and spindly. Yet, she stood her ground, holding him like a willowy scarecrow. His drink had spilled messily over her dress. Now what? Desperately, she sought out Eric’s face for advice. The gossamer shawl she was wearing fell away, revealing substantial biceps acquired through pottery-making.

Things were unraveling. Instead of presenting herself as a mysterious ingénue, here she was holding the family icon in her capable arms; waiting for instruction as to how to proceed.

Nameless

On each of us it looks different; I thought it would be the same.
But in her it is silence, on him bravado.
For the sixth grader it’s in being the class mascot, while for the doctor it’s an overt and constant display of sexuality.

It is our best kept secret.

She has a nick name for everyone. Tabitha quickly became Tabby and Karen is Probie, signifying a special relationship with Tabby and Probie. They are verbally tagged so that all others must silently and indirectly credit her each time the shorthand versions are used. It’s fun, but the women are claimed without even knowing it and she has dodged another bullet. No one can see her inside the cleverness.

Nearby there’s a cave called “Cave Without a Name.” I’ve always thought it odd, the name.

On her it’s a blue suit, just a little too tight for the workplace and for her mother, it’s an extra layer of fat, nestled around her middle.

Why did I think we would all wear it as a size 12 baggy jean, the way I do?


On him it settles in as paralysis, just one more game of solitaire. On her it’s overachievement, a litany of degrees and belongings cluttering her. His feet turn inward with hesitation, hers are duck-like, quacking with ego.

We don’t name it so it keeps us from ourselves.

It looks so different on each of us, shame does.

Another Bloody Sunday Chapter 2

"Damn, damn, damn," Steve pounded the steering wheel of his rusted out 1967 Ford truck with his fist. He sped down the dirt road hell bent for Mexico. It was only a matter of time before the police got to the house and found a way to blame him for Katie's death. He'd pried open Janet's hand as she slept early this morning after he'd found his nag of a wife dead on the floor. Janet could sleep through anything, especially after a few drinks, and she'd had plenty the night before. The evening was fuzzy in his head- he remembered they'd all fought, but he wasn't a murderer. Yet, knowing he'd get the blame, he'd replaced Janet's key with the bloody knife- that knife Katie would wag in his face and tell him what a no good for nothing bastard he was every chance she got. God, he despised her. Truth be told, he'd wished for her demise. He fantasized about it as he jerked off in the shower. In one of his many scenarios, the police came to the door.

"Steve, old man, we've got some bad news for you," they'd say. (Everyone in town knew everyone, so there was no need for formalities).

"What is it?" he'd reply, looking genuinely concerned. "Did something happen?"

"I'm afraid so, guy. It's Katie. She must have been out shearing the sheep over by the cliff. A passerby found her at the bottom - It seems when she fell, she landed right on the shears and cut off her own head!"

"Oh my God," Steve imagined himself falling to his knees - he knew otherwise he might shout for glee, and that just wouldn't look right.

Now, Katie really was dead, the police would be at the house any minute, and though they'd initially blame Janet, they'd eventually realize she was being framed, and he was the obvious suspect. Who else could it be? A dark bushy haired stranger, perhaps? Katie was equally despised by everyone, it was true, and mean Scrabble players are known for living very long lives. Who was fed up enough to use her own cuticle knife on her? He couldn't help but smile when he saw the X carved neatly into her forehead. There's your fuckin' X, Katie, darling.

His cell phone rang, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin. When he saw Janet's number on the display, he didn't answer. A text message came through: "Steve, where the hell r u? You'd better get ur fat ass back to the house- I no u did this- and bring back my key, u slimy piece of shit."

Steve pulled over to the side of the road, threw the phone onto the ground and stomped on it for good measure. He picked up the pieces and flung them as far as he could, got back in the truck and continued heading south.

homework prompt for tonight - AGE

“I just want a diet coke,” she said, as they walked through the theater door. “Go ahead and I’ll meet you on the right side. I need to use the ladies’ room”. As she scurried off, her eyes perused the walls for the typical logo indicating restrooms or, specifically, the women’s bathroom. Aha. There it is. As she walked by the mirror on the way to the stall her peripheral vision caught a body and head that looked familiar. She turned to look and say hello and then realized it was her. It was her, but it wasn’t her. Oh dear. She stopped, turned to the mirror for a full frontal and gasped. “That’s me?” she thought. OK. Get a grip. Now is not the time to evaluate where the hell you went wrong. Your husband is waiting and the movie is starting in a minute. She forced herself to move toward the stall and not think about what she had just seen. When she returned to the sink and bent over to turn on the faucet she again concentrated on the mirror. This time all she saw was her face. Good God. “Once I get home, I’m never leaving the house again,” she said to herself.

Later that evening, after they’d returned home from the movie she snuck into her bathroom, took off her clothes stood in front of the mirror and just stared. “Where did I go?” “How did this happen?” “How did I not notice?” “Who is this woman?” were the thoughts that tumbled around in her head. This must be akin to waking up from a coma twenty years later. You conk out looking young, pretty and perky and you wake up looking old, tired and dumpy. Had she been in an emotional coma these past few years? After all, she did stand in front of this very mirror at least twice a day to wash up and brush her teeth. She looked at herself every day. How did she not see?

She stepped closer to the mirror, leaned forward so she was nearly nose to nose with herself and took a good hard look. Who are you? Where have you been? What happened to you? Why didn’t you take better care of yourself? You should have spent more money on face creams and dermatologists. A nose job wouldn’t have hurt. I wonder how much an eye job is. And, the frown? When did that show up? Do I now have a permanent frown? She stood up straight again, closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she opened her eyes as she smiled and looked in the mirror. OK. Now I look like a happy hag. Well, I guess that’s improvement.

Where had she read that Coco Channel had said that God gives us our young face and we are responsible for our older face, the one we deserve? Did she deserve this? Did she deserve to have someone reflect back to her an image that was totally foreign? This isn’t the person I know or knew. This woman looks like she’s lived through a few things. Well, I guess I have, but does every little bad thing that has ever happened to me have to be recorded on my face? My eyes look like they’ve seen a lot. Maybe too much? If I wear more eye make up can I make them look more innocent? She was sure there was probably mascara called “innocent lashes”. The demographic target of this product was women like herself who would rather buy expensive mascara than pay for a facelift. The ad copy would tout something like “brush it on and wipe off years”. Ah, if only mascara were the magic wand of life. Looking at herself and deeply into her own eyes she knew mascara wasn’t going to make a difference. If the eyes are the passage to the soul, she mused, I am terrified to think what my poor blessed soul looks like.

OK. Let’s look at this face and see what it tells me. If I am a total stranger to this woman looking back at me then maybe I can get to know her. She remembered the old passport photo she had found the other day when looking for something else. That day, it hadn’t struck her how different the photographed face was from the one she now had. She remembered glancing at the photo and thinking how dark and shiny her hair was and how vibrant she looked and then tossed it aside in pursuit of the photos she was looking for. Now, she remembered that passport photo. She remembered the long, straight dark hair and the suntanned face that smiled out at her. She even remembered that young woman. She was so full of life and curiosity. She was so naïve. That’s it! That’s why I look so different. I am no longer naïve. That’s what shows on my face. I know. I know what life is and I know what life can do and be. Each wrinkle and furrow and flake on my face represents a page in my story book. Chapter one started the little curls at the corners of each eye. Chapter two gently brushed on the shallow crack in my forehead. Chapter three was a doozy and it slapped on the tiny crevices around my mouth. Chapter four must have added the jaw that so pathetically sagged.

But this is all vanity, she thought. Why am I looking at this creature in terms of youthful beauty? Why even compare her to the way she looked thirty years ago? What’s the purpose in that? It doesn’t make sense to contrast the two images. Images, exactly. Not people. Not lives. She had been comparing the superficial appearances of her old passport photo with the current reflection in the mirror. This woman clearly had qualities and advantages her younger self couldn’t have even conceived of. She has lived. Isn’t that what she was supposed to do? Life had been occasionally rough so her face was no longer smooth. Disappointments had dimmed her youthful radiance. Loss of innocence had created a spiritual depth that was illustrated in her eyes. She has been around the block. Sometimes she went around blocks that were detours fraught with flashing lights and pot holes. Sometimes she went around the block so fast she made herself dizzy. She’d seen and done a thing or two and it did and should show on her face. My God, she thought, military officers proudly wear badges and stripes to indicate what they’ve accomplished. They have medals of distinction they wear to silently communicate that they’ve been through hell and back. Damn it, my face is my badge of honor, she thought to herself. What I now see are not flaws. They are signs of courage and strength, even hope. Each imperfection on my face reflects an accomplishment of my spirit and the evolution of my life and soul.

She looked again in the mirror and this time recognized the woman who looked back. There you are! Here I am! It is you! Wow, some life, huh? And there’s even more to come.

Just Another Bloody Sunday

I owe this to Deb who, when hearing that I was having a bit of writer's block (i.e., laziness), gave me this prompt with the directive to get it into her mailbox by three o'clock the same day:  "you wake up next to a dead body with a bloody knife in your hand, and little recollection of what happened -- piece together the clues".  FYI, the names have not been changed to indict the guilty.


Holy Bloody Sunday, Janet thought. It is Sunday, isn’t it? Where’s Mom? Oh, Christ, she must have gone to church. She still couldn’t get used to that, Sunday mornings having been lazy for most of her life.


She’d yet to lift her head from the pillow and her voice was groggy and dull even as she called “Hey Steve? Where is everyone? Katie? Are you guys here? Hello?” She was having an especially hard time waking up. It wasn’t a hangover, and she hadn’t been up especially late, only until about midnight playing Scrabble with her mom, brother and sister-in-law. They’d finished the game when Katie played her last tile, an X, on a triple word score when she turned Janet’s word “on” into “exonerate”. That much she remembered clearly, even though she still felt dead to the world.

Lying in bed, very still even yet, she began to piece together the previous evening. Sitting around her dining room table, Mom, Steve and Katie eating popcorn and playing Scrabble, quiet and typical enough, except that there was weightiness to her memory. Had they argued? It was coming back; there had been an argument. It was over dad’s old gun box, the one he’d made to house his first pistol that they used to shoot at the old barn out at Lake Wauenpaupak when they were kids. Steve thought it should be his, but Janet taunted him, just like the old days, saying that he could have the box, but she still had the key.

Man that had pissed him off. As she recalled the scrabble squabble she realized that her hand was clutched tightly under the covers, still holding that key. She tried to relax her hand and release it, but it felt stuck, almost as though the key had adhered to her skin. She managed to bring her arm out from beneath the covers and look down at her hand. Bloody Sunday, indeed. That was no key. It was a small, sharp knife, dried blackish blood fusing it to her fingers. Janet shook her hand in recoil, fully awake now, the knife flying across the room and landing, holy shit, right next to Katie’s dead body. “Exonerate this”, Janet thought.

Janet knew that knife. It was the one Katie always carried to trim her cuticles at odd moments. She also kept a wad of steel wool for buffing her nails, which she kept oiled with lanolin from her very own sheep. Her nails were at a high shine, perhaps even shiny enough to reflect other people’s scrabble letters.

The dead body wasn’t all that was amiss – there was no smell of coffee, an arena that had always been Steve’s. He insisted on having a Melitta coffee maker wherever he went, ever trying to keep Katie happy, right from the first caffeine drip of the morning when she rang her bell signaling her readiness. Janet could have used that coffee at that moment as she tried to wrap her head around a missing brother, a dead sister-in-law, a bloody knife in her hand and a mother off at Mass.

Little by little images of the evening began to form. In fact, there had been more than a scrabble squabble, more of a scrabble scuffle. Janet recalled how badly Katie had wanted an “X”, and how she’d begun to pester Steve that he probably had one and was too stupid to know what to do with it. At just about the same moment that Janet had been taunting Steve with the key to the gun box, Katie had been brandishing her knife and muttering something about an “X”.   Mom just kept saying that if god wanted her to have an “X” he’d give her one, and that we should all just feel the glow of peace around us. Details were flooding back by now:  Mom playing with her string of beads, the nice ones that her friend Helen had given her, the bitch slapping, the politically incorrect Indian burns, the hair pulling, the kicking, the kidney punches. It was enough to put Mom to sleep with her rosary in her hand, her children playing together just like old times.

Janet recalled Steve trying to pry the key out of her fingers, and her clutching it so hard her fingernails dug into her palms making them bleed. Meanwhile, Katie had gone after Steve with the knife, convinced he had not only the “X” but that he was going to fill up the triple word space before she had her turn. Unfortunately, Janet recalled nothing after the skirmish; she’d probably passed out the way she usually did from the pain of Steve twisting her arm.

As Janet sat alone drinking Melitta coffee and thinking things through, she knew that the most likely scenario had been the simplest. Steve, with the ringing of his wife’s bell in his ears for the last thirty years, had finally lost it over a Scrabble tile and stabbed Katie with her own cuticle knife. In the skirmish he’d seen his chance to twist his sister’s arm behind her back and at the same time exchange the gun box key for the knife, and then tuck her, unconscious, into bed thus affirming his innocence, leaving him to run off to parts unknown – maybe Lake Wauenpawpak.

God knows we all had motive to kill Katie every time she defined the word she’d just made; indeed, any jury in the world would reach the same conclusion: exonerated.

Memories

We carry our memories,” he said, “into every minute of our being.” I didn’t hear anything else for the next few minutes. The rest of his words were fuzzy static in my ears. I leaned back, closed my eyes and repeated to myself what I had just heard. We carry our memories into every minute of our being. I wasn’t sure if I grasped what it meant, but I knew it was profound and a tad prophetic. Clearly, we each carry our memories. How could we not? Our memories are with us always. Sometimes, we just aren’t aware of them. They accumulate whether we want them to or not. Our memories are stored and sometimes categorized. Some of us neatly stack and file our memories so they can be easily retrieved. Others have a memory collection that looks like paper blowing out of a dump truck on the highway. The memories float around, unassembled and disorderly. They drift away and come back and when they land it is softly and without notice. They only serve to litter our unconsciousness and confuse our lives. Many of us experience memories that drop on us like efficient highly trained warriors out of nowhere. Uninvited they march in, take over and threaten to assault us and disrupt our lives. But what he said and I think what he meant was that our memories coagulate. They form sticky relationships with each other. They build skyscrapers in our minds that reconstruct our experiences. Sometimes they fit together neatly like a jigsaw puzzle and other times they clash and resemble a poorly done house remodel with additions and knock outs that make no sense. Memories become a part of us and inform our behavior and how we conduct our daily lives. Our memories intertwine with each other and with our DNA. Spiral to spiral they design who we are. We are works in progress because each day creates new memories and each new memory changes our pattern. Our memories may coincide happily or they may form dysfunctional relationships, but they morph together and create us. Each memory is alive in us and shapes our being. Is that what he meant by “into every minute of our being?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We carry our memories
Into every minute of our being

This memory
That memory
Recent or long ago
They remain whether we remember
Or not

They may hide
They may haunt
They may whisper
They may taunt
They may comfort
And cajole
Or
Accuse and scold

Our memories can live peacefully together
Or they can collide and conflict

Our memories can be sticky
Or slick
They can firmly attach to us
Or slide away and go deep into our
Subconscious where they may melt and morph

But they never leave us
They never disappear
They are always with us
They move throughout our mind
Body
And soul
And shape who we are

We are clay
Our memories the sculptor

Gravity

i read today with my son

a lesson on gravity

but i learned about falling

i am

we are

always falling towards

the center of the earth

in that small moment

with the words

swimming in our minds

tangential

attractive

electromagnetism

force

my lesson

checked as complete

i sighed

so many things

in my mind

sat down

and understood

One of those six word memoirs...

Moon phases have nothing on me.

A thump. A thud. A bang. Silence. The silence marking before and after.

Bewildered, I looked at the scattered random toys of a fourth child – a few blocks, dolls with their faces scribbled out, chipped wooden men that balanced on each other’s shoulders if you had more than two. The toy box lid had slammed shut, and our dad lay dead on the floor. Bang. The black telephone clutched in his hand. Thud. He barely fit in the hallway head to shoe. Thump. His heart gave out, and he was gone. The two questions, first as a child – “where did he go?”, later as an adult –“who was he talking to?”.

The cramped hallway had a huge attic fan whose maw opened up to suck in all the air, balloons, and paper airplanes. Darkly numinous, it was a perfect place for a game called Murder in the Dark. “Murder in the dark, murder in the dark, monkey wants to speak, speak, monkey, speak.”

Made up games, children’s voices, songs, laughter, bitter tears, slammed doors, and the piano.

An old upright piano has a unique quality of sound, warm and round and sentimental. If it’s in a room with wooden floors, the floor becomes a part of the instrument. In a room with wooden floors, surrounded by people and played by someone attuned to the sound, then the breeze comes through the screen door next to the piano, and that becomes a work of art.

The attic fan purred on, swimming through the air of time, pulling the hot summer air through the screens, past the piano which played on and through the organic life our family pieced together.

If

If I were a pebble
on the beach,
would you bend down
and pick
me up?
Would you think me
beautiful,
take me home and
place me gently in
in your
treasure box?

Maybe you'd skip me
out to sea,
where I'd slowly
float
to the bottom,
settling into the
mud,
never to be found
again.

Or would you toss
me
into your small
red bucket
with the others
you've collected
and listen to me
ping
against the tin?

And later
use me as
a part of
a tiny stone
wall
surrounding your
sand castle?

Would you notice
my heart
shape,
smile, and write
your initials on
my smooth
surface?

Perhaps you'd drop me
into your
pocket
and someday give
me
away to
your lover,
who would sleep
with me
under her pillow,
and dream of
you.

I am a childless motherless child and today is mothers day. For years, I spent hours trying to find just the right card and just the right words to write on the card. It’s hard to find one that keeps to a basic unemotional greeting and doesn’t extol the virtues of mom. What I searched for was a card that fulfilled the basic obligation without any hint of sentimentality or even love or affection. Sometimes, I ended up buying blank cards with a flower on the front just to avoid the prospect of sending what would have felt like a hypocritical greeting. I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression or the satisfaction of thinking she had the qualities of a mother or that I believed she did. She gave birth to me. She was my mother biologically. But she did not nurture me. She did not teach me. She did not protect me. These are the things I thought when I would sit pen in hand ready to write something on the card I had finally selected. What to say? I couldn’t even write the words thank you without feeling like a participant in a fraudulent relationship, which is, of course, what we had. For all of my adult life, we had choreographed and danced in a mother daughter pax de deux in which we each pretended that despite our differences there was still a modicum of familial love. The truth was, I stopped loving my mother very early on in my life. She became something I had to endure and transcend. I was not grateful to her for anything. In the end, I usually ended up writing something like enjoy your day, have fun, happy mothers day and other generic versions of the same wish.

She died a few years ago and now mothers day comes and goes without my even noticing or barely being aware of it because of the other mothers and daughters in my life. Mothers day used to be another painful landmark on the roadmap of my life. It was a day that couldn’t help but remind me that I’d never really had a mother. On my passage from childhood to adulthood I had not experienced a motherly figure who pointed me in the right direction and filled my tires with self esteem, confidence and love. I never experienced the soothing comfort of the motherly security blanket that sheltered my friends. My journey through life has not enjoyed the benefit of a mother who was there to reassure me if I had an emotional flat or needed fuel. Even when she was alive, I was motherless and on my own. The Hallmark ads on TV showing loving relationships between mothers and daughters used to bring me to my knees. Watching those beautifully depicted scenarios made me feel like the Morton salt girl was floating above me pouring and pouring her salt on my wretchedly warped heart. And, me, without an umbrella.

In the past, mothers day made me feel like I was a little girl again. I was brimming with hurt, resentment, dread, pain, confusion, disappointment and fear. It hurt to have a mother who was clearly not on my side, who put herself first and her daughter second. It confused me to have a mother who manipulated people and situations to show herself in the best light and shape shifted the reality that I knew. I resented not learning the regular lessons one is supposed to learn from their mother. I dreaded having to be with her or speak to her. The pain shifted from a dull background throb when I was away from her into one that was present, sharp and searing when I had to be near her. Until she died, I was terribly afraid that as bad as it was while she lived it would be worse when she died. I feared the guilt and loss would own me once she permanently left my life and this world. Instead, the minute I heard she was no longer living I sighed with relief and exhaled the pungent air of the life I had known before her death and inhaled the fresh oxygen of life after the death of my mother.

When my friends worry about their daughters I envy the daughters for being the recipients of such concern. When my friends have conflicts with their daughters I have to be careful not to insinuate myself into their stories. The daughters of loving mothers can often behave like the daughter I was. Not many people understand what it’s like to grow up without the crutch of a mother and my stories and recollections can be perceived as criticism of them. When my friends complain about their daughters and how they are treated by them, I wonder if the whole problem was that I was a bad daughter. But, I know that’s not true. I wasn’t a good daughter, but I no longer blame myself for the situation I was born into. Just because I wasn’t good doesn’t mean I was bad.

My childless status is mostly due to my being motherless. Mother child relationships are mysterious to me. There are magic words involved that I never learned. There is an entire language both verbal and physical that is completely foreign to me. I knew that if I had a child I would most likely feel even more lost, abandoned and short changed. My own child could only magnify my lack of a mother. After all, among the many things she did not teach me was how to be a mother. I had no monkey see monkey do to rely upon. I imagine most people think I am childless because I am physically incapable of having children. Or, maybe they think it was a high minded decision about population control. In reality, I didn’t think I could do it.

In retrospect, I realize that in many ways my mother did the best she could. She knew no better and probably should have remained childless herself. There are ways though that she could have and should have known better. For all of us there are times and obligations in our lives when we must think of someone other than ourselves and if we don’t due to a lack of character, imagination or courage then we are at fault. My mother saw the world through her own prism and was never able to view me or anyone or anything else on its own merit. She was incapable of fulfilling her lifelong obligation of motherhood although she pretended to and I sometimes wonder if she actually fooled herself into thinking she did.

So, today, I enjoyed a mothers day brunch with women who are either geographically or emotionally distant from their daughters on this particular day. As I’ve matured, I’ve learned and observed that mother daughter dynamics are as brittle and mysterious to others as they are to me.

Ultimately, I think, what each of us wants is to matter in this world. That one desire probably lies at the crux of why we do most things. It shapes our world view and belief system as well as dictates our rules of survival. In our primary relationships we want to matter in ways that are substantial and not tangential. We want our importance and intrinsic value to the people we care about to be reflected back to us in a way that provide comfort, quiet and calm. We want to be valued and appreciated for who we are and not just what we do or can do for them. The ultimate sustenance is when our very existence matters to someone. This is what love is, I think. But, to matter is different than to be needed. Maybe this is where we go astray sometimes. We think that if we need someone then of course they matter and by deductive reasoning then that also means we love them. But to have someone matter does not necessarily mean we need them and the highest love is one not based on need. I don’t think my mother was able to parse this distinction. Her love was greedy. If I’d had children, I was afraid mine would have been the same.

Mombo

In honor of mother's day, I am practising making a photo post. Mombo with her turkey pan.

NEWS!

I just heard that I made it into the final round for Chicken Soup! Funny, though, they added a Biblical quote at the beginning- from the New Testament! I wrote and told the editor that being Jewish, I'm not comfortable with the quote of their choice, so I hope they will change it...Keep your fingers crossed that I make it through this last round! Thanks all...

Reluctant Rhyme

I have always been a poet,
And I wish I could control it,
But for reasons inexplicable, I can’t.

When I try to write down poems,
There are no seeds of thought to sow ‘em,
And the words I want to utilize are scant.

But then sometimes when there’s no moonlight,
Like a creature of the night,
I rise and leave my warm and cozy bed.

I find my fav'rite pen and little book,
And slip into my chair within its nook
Where the thoughts pour forth from deep inside my head.

It’s as though someone else is writing 'em,
And I’ve learned to stop from fighting 'em
As if I’m a vessel for another’s creativity.

My hand writes down what my brain tells it to-
Before I know it, I’m completely through,
so I go back to bed and sleep 'til the dawn awakens me.

Do you think there are people for whom life is a video game?
A violent one
Do you think their recipe for reality must include
Conflict and brutality?
Do you think they create hostility in a world that may otherwise be
Peaceful?
Do you think we stand a chance of containing their
ferocity and force?
Do you think they are unable to survive in a world with no
Enemies?
Do you know who their enemies are?
Is it us?

JOY RIDE

Joy Ride

Remember when you were little and your dad would say
Come on kids. Let’s go for a
Joy ride
His joy wasn’t yours
And yours wasn’t his
But, it was always a joyful experience
Him with hours of driving around the countryside looking at
The scenery
You waiting patiently in the back seat for the final destination
The A&W
where a root beer float would reward you for riding quietly
And pretending to enjoy the bucolic view
Now that we are older, gas is dear and roads are filled with
rage instead of joy
We find our joy in other places
And in other ways
Today, like many mornings, I took my bike out for a spin along
The river
As I reveled in the scenery I thought of my dad
And how things constantly change and forever remain the same
I wasn’t going to have that end of the ride root beer float
But
I dearly wished my bicycle seat could vibrate

A Comment disguised as a blog

Hey Linda
Please don't call me at 3:00 am in the morning. Take heart, though, that there are other spectres out there, pacing the floor, lighting dim lights. I can't imagine slamming a door at that hour, unless police and weapons were involved. I'm not sure that I would trust what I would write; hobgoblins live there; future ,past, and present merge. There is a Spanish word I love, which means the hour just before the dawn: La Madrugada. Given your present situation, the calm space before the working day begins must be very special to you.

Sunday Morning

Here it is, 2:26, on Sunday morning. Remember how people used to say, "Your best friends are the people you could call at three in the morning?" That was always the litmus test. I've never actually tried it, but maybe I will.

Or better still--I'll call you all via blog-phone. Listen in. Eavesdrop. Be amazed. Be happy. Just be here, like pulling up a raggedy and most comfortable chair in the candle-lit living room of a house we all share.

The house color has been chosen: 65% Spun Sugar. The trim: Nacre. The door--well, that's the mystery of the week. I have a line of sample quarts standing in my front yard now like a procession of fat little girls at a wedding.

As I've been exploring paint this entire week--that and door mats and mail boxes and house numbers and fans--I'm remembering the time we all wrote about colors, how much it matters: color. How much the name of the color matters.

Some people may put themselves to sleep counting sheep--or making plans for snails. Or conjuring up drink recipes. But this month, at least, I put myself back into dreaming mode by naming the colors: bluestone, dune grass, paradise valley, Maine shore, Carolina Sky. I can imagine writing a book, each chapter named a paint color!

Strawberry Field meets Twist of Lime.

Skydive Blue meets Tree Frog Green.

Mombo

San Antonio, Texas 1969

I opened the silverware drawer and counted out twelve forks and knives. Some of the forks were for salad or desert, and one of the knives was snapped off at the tip from someone using it as a screwdriver, but all were real silver; not recently polished but with the soft patina of common usage.


No one told me to set the table, but I knew if I didn’t, everyone would be crowding around the stove, serving themselves, and I thought the dinner deserved better. The heavy oak table with the cannonball legs was stretched out, and covered with a white linen tablecloth. It was common enough for us to have roast chicken, or fall-apart chicken as we liked to call it, but Mom had outdone herself tonight – Cornish Game Hens for 12 people. Rounding out the menu was Uncle Ben’s long grain and wild rice, canned asparagus spears with butter, and tomato aspic with mayonnaise. That was about as gourmet as we got. I poured the hot tea into a glass pitcher, and stirred a good amount of sugar into the deep amber liquid, then squeezed lemons through the bent strainer, and filled the pitcher with ice cubes from the plastic trays until it had just the right bright orange color. It was less complicated to just fix the tea than putting out all the sugar and lemons and all. No one offered to help me set the table, but that was O.K. It was my thing. I straightened out the plates with the blue cobalt “kissing dove” pattern. They were something we were collecting from the grocery store; now that we nearly had enough the first ones were already showing chips and hairline cracks.


The fragrant hens were roasting in the largest pan we had; a navy blue enameled tub we called “the turkey pan”, for obvious reasons. Our sister, Mary Ellen was home from college, adding to the sense of celebration. My brother Joe, and I had each invited friends, and a relative was new in town, having just moved to San Antonio from Kentucky. Joe was already warming up the upright piano with some bluesy New Orleans as we finished with the preparations. There was an art to opening windows and closing certain doors to get a good cross breeze across the dining room. The scent of summer jasmine pulled through the window screens and mixed with the aroma of the roast hens.


Mom served my friend Eugene first. Without a thought to the extravagance, she plopped down two entire hens on his plate. Just prior to that moment, Eugene was in love with me. He wrote me a poem. He wrote me a song. But now he was in love with my mom. Eugene was not just big, he was obese. He sat down at the right hand of my mother, with me next to him. He looked back and forth through his crooked plastic glasses between the two Mercedes, and the two hens, pleased beyond compare at his good fortune. It was funny the way she didn’t ask him what he wanted, but just gave him what seemed like the right amount of food.


As the happy din of silverware and dishes commenced, our second cousin Julian began to feel at home, and soon had us laughing with stories about our grandparents and relatives known and unknown. Once warmed up, he proceeded to command the table, consisting mainly of young girls. He put his tweed jacket on the back of his chair and rolled up his sleeves. A college professor, his reddish hair grazed his shoulders in what would soon become a grizzly ponytail. He was erudite and witty. He was opposed to the war in VietNam, and made veiled hints at smoking marijuana. Mary Ellen was in college in Washington D.C., and she began to talk about the demonstrations and sit-ins she was witnessing there. A spark was lit. There was a world out there of young people and ideas and motion, and they seemed to know all about it. It was thrilling. Around the table eyes were shining with approval and acceptance. As was typical, my mom made not the mildest comment about the politics and current events. Her simple question cut like a knife through the conversation. She asked Julian why he hadn’t brought his wife and children over. He shrugged it off, but still it was odd. Why hadn’t he?