This morning the alarm is distant
I wake in the dark
and the cool breeze
flits through aspen leaves
a bird calling out in the pre-dawn
silhouettes of trees, houses,
fencelines and garden trellises
as the sky warms to shades of
periwinkle, lavender and rose,
a mourning dove calling out "Who, who?"
repeating her endless query.
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Saturday, May 24, 2014
Promise of Potential
What is it precisely that makes it so devastating when a child dies, even more so than an adult's death? I think it's that promise of potential, cut short, a thread snipped before the tapestry is woven.
Yet how many of us truly live up to that potential that we mourn in a young person's death? The sarcastic part of me sees sweatpants and video games, dead-end job and hardly the kind of earth-shattering minds that we envision while staring down into a tiny casket.
Sure, probably not ever person feels an overwhelming desire to change the world, make a difference, live a life of meaning, but we become a society merely content with the status quo. It's far easier to swim with the current, and so on. We try to fit in, rather than stand out... and somehow years and decades slip by without us even noticing.
But isn't a part of who we are and the potential influence that we have also based on those people we meet, get to know, mentor, help, laugh with and love? Is the sadness over a young person's death also the loss of an entire storyline - all the heartaches and triumphs, all the loneliness, and the courage, the love, possible children, the lineage, the completed masterpiece of a life?
Yet how many of us truly live up to that potential that we mourn in a young person's death? The sarcastic part of me sees sweatpants and video games, dead-end job and hardly the kind of earth-shattering minds that we envision while staring down into a tiny casket.
Sure, probably not ever person feels an overwhelming desire to change the world, make a difference, live a life of meaning, but we become a society merely content with the status quo. It's far easier to swim with the current, and so on. We try to fit in, rather than stand out... and somehow years and decades slip by without us even noticing.
But isn't a part of who we are and the potential influence that we have also based on those people we meet, get to know, mentor, help, laugh with and love? Is the sadness over a young person's death also the loss of an entire storyline - all the heartaches and triumphs, all the loneliness, and the courage, the love, possible children, the lineage, the completed masterpiece of a life?
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Poems in May
5/20/14
Wisconsin Tornado
One day the sky felt sick
the gray bellies of the clouds roiled
and the air was an unhealthy green,
clustered heavy and close to the ground
panting and low.
Inadvertently I crouched,
running for the truck,
the handle sticky with the sweat of summer,
dropping heavy onto the windshield
as we raced the wind toward home.
5/21/14
Red Rain
She was lost
standing in the torrent of water
that fell
camouflaging her tears
the pain in her body
in her mind
at the breaking point
staring at the floor
watching beads of water
pool like mercury
racing for the drain
and her thoughts
swirling in red rivers
through the holes in her life.
5/22/14
An Ordinary Evening
My toenails are blue,
and they shine out of the dirty water
as I take the soapy scrub brush
and smell the wet dirt
as I scour the stairs
and sweep the water toward the bottom stair
across the turf green of the indoor/outdoor carpeting
and listen to the neighbors
watching a game on TV
on an ordinary evening.
Wisconsin Tornado
One day the sky felt sick
the gray bellies of the clouds roiled
and the air was an unhealthy green,
clustered heavy and close to the ground
panting and low.
Inadvertently I crouched,
running for the truck,
the handle sticky with the sweat of summer,
dropping heavy onto the windshield
as we raced the wind toward home.
5/21/14
Red Rain
She was lost
standing in the torrent of water
that fell
camouflaging her tears
the pain in her body
in her mind
at the breaking point
staring at the floor
watching beads of water
pool like mercury
racing for the drain
and her thoughts
swirling in red rivers
through the holes in her life.
5/22/14
An Ordinary Evening
My toenails are blue,
and they shine out of the dirty water
as I take the soapy scrub brush
and smell the wet dirt
as I scour the stairs
and sweep the water toward the bottom stair
across the turf green of the indoor/outdoor carpeting
and listen to the neighbors
watching a game on TV
on an ordinary evening.
Monday, May 19, 2014
Reflections on a sunburn
I've been working on cleaning out the winter's accumulation at the back of my horse's stalls, and in doing so, I got a sunburn. Of course, I winced when I asked my husband to rub lotion on it, but oddly I also feel invigorated as well, as though I have done something vital and essential, something fulfilling and empowering as well. Not just the sunburn or physical labor, but the actuality of doing something outside, being in the early summer air and breeze, absorbing all the green of the trees and the blown-out dandelion heads in the grass.
Modern humans spend an awful lot of our time starting at screens- computer, phone, television, and I feel the deprivation of sun and fresh air. The sunburn is a reminder of the hours spent with my horses, the sound of the wind rustling in the cottonwood leaves, the sound of the horses munching, the swish of tails against the first flies. I put my mare's fly mask on, and lean against her warm side, resting. There is some kind of camaraderie that I find with my horses, that peaceful company without expectation - except perhaps hoping my pockets hold treats.
Modern humans spend an awful lot of our time starting at screens- computer, phone, television, and I feel the deprivation of sun and fresh air. The sunburn is a reminder of the hours spent with my horses, the sound of the wind rustling in the cottonwood leaves, the sound of the horses munching, the swish of tails against the first flies. I put my mare's fly mask on, and lean against her warm side, resting. There is some kind of camaraderie that I find with my horses, that peaceful company without expectation - except perhaps hoping my pockets hold treats.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Toothpicks, then!
We seem to have a fruit fly infestation in our apartment.
My husband tried to clap his hands to squish one, but missed.
I told him "You need your chopsticks, Mr. Miagi." (A Karate Kid reference).
He looks at me pointedly and says "These are FRUIT FLIES!"
"TOOTHPICKS, then!" I exclaimed, then laughed myself silly for five straight minutes. :)
My husband tried to clap his hands to squish one, but missed.
I told him "You need your chopsticks, Mr. Miagi." (A Karate Kid reference).
He looks at me pointedly and says "These are FRUIT FLIES!"
"TOOTHPICKS, then!" I exclaimed, then laughed myself silly for five straight minutes. :)
Thursday, May 15, 2014
A Dinner Fit For Ravens - Writing Exercise
Writing exercise: Random First Line Generator
writingexercises.com.co.uk/firstlinegenerator.php
So for this writing exercise, I was supposed to break out of my typical genre, and write in a style that I never would normally write in. So I picked horror, which very definitely fits the criteria. I went to a random first line generator to get me started, and here's my (edited) result. After a first read-through my husband was confused, so I had to do some editing to make the plot line clearer after answering some questions he had. (SO GREAT to have a listening ear/in-house editor!) Here we go:
---------------------------------
A Dinner Fit For Ravens
"Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out."
Everyone knew you didn't go out after dark. Not here. Not alone. She pulled the furs closer around her shoulders and watched the slashes of lighting through the cracks in the heavy shutters. A raven croaked in the corner, sharp eye glinting at her in the ember's light.
"Whsst!" she hushed the bird, "Your Elle's got a fine treat cooking up for you." She shuffled to the hearth, throwing the last tinder on the coals, the quick crackle as flames leapt their length and died down again, the spots still glowing in her eyes.
In the morn she would have to go farther for fuel. The longer distances to haul wood were hard on her bones, but there was little choice. The boy who had come by to help her with chores and the heavier tasks could no longer work. She even kept the gloves she had loaned him, ridiculously oversized on his small hands. It was lonely now, without the boy's chattering. As a matter of fact, not many came around any longer.
A banging sounded as a shutter worked loose, and she and the raven eyed it. The storm was worsening, and the season was young yet. The storms had been growing more severe, lasting longer and blowing harder than memory could recall. She had enough here for a while, though she needed more fuel and laying up supplies for the storm season yet. She secured the shutter, banging the bolt home hard that held them locked in against the night.
When she was a young girl, she remembered crying in nameless fear against the dark, her terror strongly gripping deep within her. Eventually her mother relented, leaving a candle stub lit to light up the shadows. How strange that an echo of that fear boiled up inside her now.
Her raven rattled its feathers briskly, fanning its wings slightly, and cocked an eye at her inquisitively. He was restless, and she felt the same urge that he did. The air was charged, the tops of the trees in the distance nodding rhythmically under the blasts of wind, dark roiling clouds sliding across the face of the moon.
His talons gripped the perch, beak clacking as she undid the aviary door. In a rush of ink he was past her, swirling around the rafters in a whirl of smoky black. She smiled a yellowed smile, and slid the furs from off her shoulders. The beam across the door took a hard push out of the brackets, and the door creaked on its hinges from disuse. A fork of purple lightning illuminated the air as the wind peaked in a higher crescendo, pulling at her hair. She stepped over the threshold, renewed in the electrified night. Her legs stretched out as she began to run, her raven apace even in the gusts that pushed against them.
A spatter of rain hit her, cold and stinging, as her muscles loosened into a long lope. An ear-rattling rumble accompanied frequent lightning daggers. She could feel the tremors through her feet. The wind shrieked around her, the smell of wet earth surrounded her. Against the buffeting of the wind, her body felt renewed, stronger, younger. Her raven screamed above her and dove ahead, wings sucked in tight against his sleek body. The smell of copper in the air, she followed.
* * *
Blood. There had been so much blood. She had never expected it all, and how thick and sticky it was, hard to wash off, and where it had not washed away, how it cracked and darkened as it dried on her skin. It was not storming then. No cleansing rain to stand in. She could smell the copper.
The fire was barely a warm ash bed when she and the raven returned, soaked yet elated. She pulled the furs over her shoulders and peered into the pot on the hearth as he settled in a whisper of feathers onto her shoulder. Taking the ladle from the hook, she pushed the long leg bone down into the broth and stroked the raven's shiny feathers.
"Hungry?" she asked her pet, as an eyeball rolled up to the surface of the stew to stare back at her.
writingexercises.com.co.uk/firstlinegenerator.php
So for this writing exercise, I was supposed to break out of my typical genre, and write in a style that I never would normally write in. So I picked horror, which very definitely fits the criteria. I went to a random first line generator to get me started, and here's my (edited) result. After a first read-through my husband was confused, so I had to do some editing to make the plot line clearer after answering some questions he had. (SO GREAT to have a listening ear/in-house editor!) Here we go:
---------------------------------
A Dinner Fit For Ravens
"Outside the cabin, the wind howled through the trees, while inside, the old woman's fire was nearly out."
Everyone knew you didn't go out after dark. Not here. Not alone. She pulled the furs closer around her shoulders and watched the slashes of lighting through the cracks in the heavy shutters. A raven croaked in the corner, sharp eye glinting at her in the ember's light.
"Whsst!" she hushed the bird, "Your Elle's got a fine treat cooking up for you." She shuffled to the hearth, throwing the last tinder on the coals, the quick crackle as flames leapt their length and died down again, the spots still glowing in her eyes.
In the morn she would have to go farther for fuel. The longer distances to haul wood were hard on her bones, but there was little choice. The boy who had come by to help her with chores and the heavier tasks could no longer work. She even kept the gloves she had loaned him, ridiculously oversized on his small hands. It was lonely now, without the boy's chattering. As a matter of fact, not many came around any longer.
A banging sounded as a shutter worked loose, and she and the raven eyed it. The storm was worsening, and the season was young yet. The storms had been growing more severe, lasting longer and blowing harder than memory could recall. She had enough here for a while, though she needed more fuel and laying up supplies for the storm season yet. She secured the shutter, banging the bolt home hard that held them locked in against the night.
When she was a young girl, she remembered crying in nameless fear against the dark, her terror strongly gripping deep within her. Eventually her mother relented, leaving a candle stub lit to light up the shadows. How strange that an echo of that fear boiled up inside her now.
Her raven rattled its feathers briskly, fanning its wings slightly, and cocked an eye at her inquisitively. He was restless, and she felt the same urge that he did. The air was charged, the tops of the trees in the distance nodding rhythmically under the blasts of wind, dark roiling clouds sliding across the face of the moon.
His talons gripped the perch, beak clacking as she undid the aviary door. In a rush of ink he was past her, swirling around the rafters in a whirl of smoky black. She smiled a yellowed smile, and slid the furs from off her shoulders. The beam across the door took a hard push out of the brackets, and the door creaked on its hinges from disuse. A fork of purple lightning illuminated the air as the wind peaked in a higher crescendo, pulling at her hair. She stepped over the threshold, renewed in the electrified night. Her legs stretched out as she began to run, her raven apace even in the gusts that pushed against them.
A spatter of rain hit her, cold and stinging, as her muscles loosened into a long lope. An ear-rattling rumble accompanied frequent lightning daggers. She could feel the tremors through her feet. The wind shrieked around her, the smell of wet earth surrounded her. Against the buffeting of the wind, her body felt renewed, stronger, younger. Her raven screamed above her and dove ahead, wings sucked in tight against his sleek body. The smell of copper in the air, she followed.
* * *
Blood. There had been so much blood. She had never expected it all, and how thick and sticky it was, hard to wash off, and where it had not washed away, how it cracked and darkened as it dried on her skin. It was not storming then. No cleansing rain to stand in. She could smell the copper.
The fire was barely a warm ash bed when she and the raven returned, soaked yet elated. She pulled the furs over her shoulders and peered into the pot on the hearth as he settled in a whisper of feathers onto her shoulder. Taking the ladle from the hook, she pushed the long leg bone down into the broth and stroked the raven's shiny feathers.
"Hungry?" she asked her pet, as an eyeball rolled up to the surface of the stew to stare back at her.
Monday, May 12, 2014
That Pansy
You, that pansy, nodding at me as I pass,
thinking green thoughts and deep earth,
breathing spring and brushing life
with butterfly-lens petals.
Don't think I don't notice you as I pass,
longing myself for deep breaths
and earth in my toes.
thinking green thoughts and deep earth,
breathing spring and brushing life
with butterfly-lens petals.
Don't think I don't notice you as I pass,
longing myself for deep breaths
and earth in my toes.
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Ice in the Potatoes
She laughed when we discovered
the ice cubes in the cooked potatoes,
a joyful sound that I had rarely heard
and which stuck with me for years after,
though in that moment the hard truth stuck
like a stone in our craw
as we looked at each other
over the set dinner table,
the ice cubes melting
in the hunks of steaming potatoes
and realized that my grandmother
was losing her mind.
the ice cubes in the cooked potatoes,
a joyful sound that I had rarely heard
and which stuck with me for years after,
though in that moment the hard truth stuck
like a stone in our craw
as we looked at each other
over the set dinner table,
the ice cubes melting
in the hunks of steaming potatoes
and realized that my grandmother
was losing her mind.
Saturday, May 10, 2014
The Pink Slip
It wasn't right, she thought. It wasn't right that she gave it all. It wasn't right that she gave her years, her endless hours, her commitment, her all, as she stared down at the pink slip on her desk.
What was she but a cog in the corporate machine? What care had they for her overtime hours, not on the clock, or for missed dance recitals, t-ball games and soccer practices?
She put the picture of her children in the box. Janie was in Florida now, in her senior year in microbiology, walking in May. Kyle ran an espresso bar and internet cafe in Greenwood, CO, with twin boys and a wife who used some sort of rock crystal as deodorant, but was nice enough if you overlooked the smell. And Jeppson. Sweet Jeppson. Well, she visited his graveside on Sundays, trying to forgive the drunk teenager who hopped the curb and crushed the life out of her sweet boy.
She picked up her stapler, the one that had graced her desk, held together her accounting reports until the digitized system made printouts obsolete. She couldn't even remember the last time she had actually used it, or whether it could truly be considered company property anymore, or just a hunk of outdated technology.
Her hand hesitated, holding the stapler over the box, then put the stapler inside along with a mostly-used box of staples. She glanced around. The blinds needed to be dusted. Not much point in that now, but still, the urge for tidiness was hard to suppress. She sighed and walked to the janitor's closet for cleaning supplies.
Fridays. They always terminated employees on Friday. Less chance of workplace violence and employees acting out. In fact, high-risk employees were typically escorted out by security, Human Resources cleaned out their work spaces to secure company property and employee personal property was forwarded to the address on file along with confirmation of final pay deposit.
The office was quiet, most employees having opted to telecommute the last workday of the week, though log-ons and systems monitoring every three minutes ensured remote employees continued to get their work done.
She liked coming in, however. The quiet of her house with all the empty bedrooms, the picture frames reflecting times that she recalled fondly - it was too quiet now.
Her footsteps echoed on the polished granite, the gentle beeping of the keypad to the janitor's closet and the continual hum of the HVAC system the only noise in earshot.
How long ago that she felt complete, a mother, a wife, beloved and cherished. When her children came running to her for every bump and scrape, picked her bouquets of dandelions from the yard, their hands sticky and stained brownish from the drying milk, reading stories of fairies and trolls, knights and princesses to her rapt audience of wide-eyed babies. The days when George greeted her at the door with a kiss and tousled her hair playfully. It felt a lifetime ago.
The empty cubicles and flashing lights of terminals on standby accompanied her walk back, rags and industrial cleaner in hand.
George. That handsome and fun young man who swept into her life, matching her in intelligence and humor. She had resisted him a little at first, never imagining the power of his charisma. A couple of years of spirited debates, movies at the theater, and picnics on the lawn and she found herself in a ring and a veil.
George, the romantic.
She swept the rag down the length of the blinds.
George, the attentive husband.
The dust rolled off the blinds in little balls.
George, the loving father.
The rag wiped deliberately.
George, the man that was.
She pulled the blinds closed on the courtyard which was open to the sky. Where she had watched the trees grow from striplings, flower, shed their leaves, shed the snow, and bloom again instead of watching her children doing the same.
The box holding her belongings seemed pitifully small in comparison to the long years spent with this picture frame, this stapler, these walls. In exchange for numbers appearing regularly in her banking account.
The door clicked shut behind her with the thunk of finality. No security escort to stroll her out. Her fingerprint scan would be de-activated and she was as forgotten as though she never had been. A replaceable cog superseded by smart technology; a human component in an increasingly machine-driven android.
The route she had seen innumerable times flashed by the windows as her thoughts drifted through her recollections. Kyle's first place team in the local Little League division, team trophy nearly as tall as the boys who wielded it triumphantly. Janie's dance recital with the largest purple tutu a six-year-old could possibly manage to dance in, a china doll swathed in layers of tulle. Jeppson's first teetering steps to her waiting arms as adoring George cheered.
George pulling Janie and Kyle through the deep snowfall on a sled so fluorescent orange that it hurt her eyes while Jeppson tried to eat the snow and cried in shocked surprise at the coldness. Kyle's elated gap-toothed grin as he conquered riding his bicycle without training wheels, his glee at scaring his sister by hiding behind closed doors and in dark corners. Janie's straight-A report card and her beaming pride at yet another gold star from her teacher. Jeppson, her beautiful baby boy, gazing up from suckling her breast, enormous eyes framed by a fringe of downy lashes.
Her mind counted down the minutes to her destination, idly noting the "For Sale" signs posted in her neighborhood, the encroaching monolithic high-rise apartments complexes eating up all the available land and shading out the historic single family homes.
The front door needed to be painted, she noted, box against her hip where her babies used to nestle. The house was quiet, as usual. A dim, cold light shone under the door leading to the basement and she sighed, a sound full of both longing and regret.
The box went onto the kitchen counter, the study long ago having fallen to disuse and holding Christmas decorations and boxes of old photos that neither she nor George had the courage to sort through. Maybe once Janie had graduated they could fly her home and she could do it.
Perhaps they were best left in the boxes.
She pulled open the freezer, selecting a chicken pot pie and a lasagna, settling in at the table to await the oven timer.
They had enough to retire. George had gotten them a generous settlement against the teen drunk driver - or rather his parents. And she had contributed the max allowance on the days when there was such a thing as employer-matching contributions.They would be all right. But could she stand the quiet of this house day after day, the cold bed night after night?
She thought of that teen-aged boy sometimes, that boy's bad decision that changed all their lives. One day. One mistake. More lives than just Jeppson's permanently impacted. Of course, that boy was no longer a teenager. She wondered where he ended up. Involuntary manslaughter.
The ding of the oven brought her out of her reverie. Hot pads and two forks, balanced precariously, she turned the doorknob to the basement.
George didn't turn. His hand was slack holding the bottle, afghan slipping from his lap to pool around his feet. The steady glare of the screen in front of him served as the only illumination.
"I brought you dinner," she mumbled, trying to keep the indifference out of her voice.
He stirred, and the bottle slipped from his grasp to thud on the floor. They ate in silence, his heavy breathing disgusting her, yet she unwilling to leave. She retrieved the bottle, sour-smelling suds in the base. She gathered up the forks and set her foot to the stairs when George said something. She couldn't quite hear it, and half-turned.
"What?"
"I only left him for a second." His eyes looked up to find hers. "I swear, Mary, I only left him for a second. He was in the playpen. It was so hot in the sun, I just went for a lemonade. It was only for a second..."
Mary stepped off the stair, carefully, suddenly unsure of her footing. Her heart jumped and she felt a bit woozy, as though she had been the one drinking. George's head bowed, and she could feel the waves of his grief, see the gleam of his tears in the ambient light, but could not bring herself to go to him.
She looked past him through the open door. Kyle's room, left exactly the same, rows of trophies, stacks of comics, high school Letterman jacket still on the hanger. Just as Janie's room upstairs with her collection of porcelain ballerinas, Jazz dance team photo with girls in sequins and heavily-rouged cheeks holding their first-place ribbons. And just the same as the door to the room beside their own. The door to the room they never opened. The door she had walked past all these years carrying the dagger in her heart. The reason that George slept in the basement - the door he could not pass, the pain he could not drown.
Trembling, she walked to the shell of the man who had been her husband, who had struggled with the same pain, and who had lost.
His voice quavered, "I had a call from Kyle today. He put the boys on the phone... Isaac and Micah, they called me Grampa."
Mary reached for his hand, as unsure as stroking a stranger's dog.
"I need help, Mary." His voice broke. "I want to be... Grandpa. I was too late for Jeppson, but I could be a grandpa to Isaac and Micah, if they'll let me. And I need you too, Mary."
His hands clasped hers with a new ferocity. "Will you help me?"
She felt a hot tear roll down her face, and before she even realized it was her own voice she answered. "Of course, George. Of course I will help you. It wasn't your fault! I love you and we will get through this too. I love you, George!" The words tumbled out of her and suddenly they were weeping, she holding him to her chest where she had comforted their children. Eventually his sobs faded, and she laid him down, pulling the afghan up and around his shoulders, kissing his forehead when he drifted to sleep.
She collected the forgotten dishes and tip-toed quietly upstairs. The box sat on the counter where she had left it. She took out the photo of her children, kissing it and running a finger over each of their bright faces, Janie looking askance at Kyle as he probably had poked her just before the flash, baby Jeppson pleased to be sitting upright by himself and looking right into the lens. She put the stapler beside the picture and carried the box down the hall. Heart hammering, she stood in front of the closed nursery door, at the knob she so often had failed to turn. She glanced into the now-empty box, steeled herself, and pushed open the door. The door creaked a bit as it swung open, and she kneeled down to place toys into the box.
It was going to be all right, she thought. It was finally going to be all right.
What was she but a cog in the corporate machine? What care had they for her overtime hours, not on the clock, or for missed dance recitals, t-ball games and soccer practices?
She put the picture of her children in the box. Janie was in Florida now, in her senior year in microbiology, walking in May. Kyle ran an espresso bar and internet cafe in Greenwood, CO, with twin boys and a wife who used some sort of rock crystal as deodorant, but was nice enough if you overlooked the smell. And Jeppson. Sweet Jeppson. Well, she visited his graveside on Sundays, trying to forgive the drunk teenager who hopped the curb and crushed the life out of her sweet boy.
She picked up her stapler, the one that had graced her desk, held together her accounting reports until the digitized system made printouts obsolete. She couldn't even remember the last time she had actually used it, or whether it could truly be considered company property anymore, or just a hunk of outdated technology.
Her hand hesitated, holding the stapler over the box, then put the stapler inside along with a mostly-used box of staples. She glanced around. The blinds needed to be dusted. Not much point in that now, but still, the urge for tidiness was hard to suppress. She sighed and walked to the janitor's closet for cleaning supplies.
Fridays. They always terminated employees on Friday. Less chance of workplace violence and employees acting out. In fact, high-risk employees were typically escorted out by security, Human Resources cleaned out their work spaces to secure company property and employee personal property was forwarded to the address on file along with confirmation of final pay deposit.
The office was quiet, most employees having opted to telecommute the last workday of the week, though log-ons and systems monitoring every three minutes ensured remote employees continued to get their work done.
She liked coming in, however. The quiet of her house with all the empty bedrooms, the picture frames reflecting times that she recalled fondly - it was too quiet now.
Her footsteps echoed on the polished granite, the gentle beeping of the keypad to the janitor's closet and the continual hum of the HVAC system the only noise in earshot.
How long ago that she felt complete, a mother, a wife, beloved and cherished. When her children came running to her for every bump and scrape, picked her bouquets of dandelions from the yard, their hands sticky and stained brownish from the drying milk, reading stories of fairies and trolls, knights and princesses to her rapt audience of wide-eyed babies. The days when George greeted her at the door with a kiss and tousled her hair playfully. It felt a lifetime ago.
The empty cubicles and flashing lights of terminals on standby accompanied her walk back, rags and industrial cleaner in hand.
George. That handsome and fun young man who swept into her life, matching her in intelligence and humor. She had resisted him a little at first, never imagining the power of his charisma. A couple of years of spirited debates, movies at the theater, and picnics on the lawn and she found herself in a ring and a veil.
George, the romantic.
She swept the rag down the length of the blinds.
George, the attentive husband.
The dust rolled off the blinds in little balls.
George, the loving father.
The rag wiped deliberately.
George, the man that was.
She pulled the blinds closed on the courtyard which was open to the sky. Where she had watched the trees grow from striplings, flower, shed their leaves, shed the snow, and bloom again instead of watching her children doing the same.
The box holding her belongings seemed pitifully small in comparison to the long years spent with this picture frame, this stapler, these walls. In exchange for numbers appearing regularly in her banking account.
The door clicked shut behind her with the thunk of finality. No security escort to stroll her out. Her fingerprint scan would be de-activated and she was as forgotten as though she never had been. A replaceable cog superseded by smart technology; a human component in an increasingly machine-driven android.
The route she had seen innumerable times flashed by the windows as her thoughts drifted through her recollections. Kyle's first place team in the local Little League division, team trophy nearly as tall as the boys who wielded it triumphantly. Janie's dance recital with the largest purple tutu a six-year-old could possibly manage to dance in, a china doll swathed in layers of tulle. Jeppson's first teetering steps to her waiting arms as adoring George cheered.
George pulling Janie and Kyle through the deep snowfall on a sled so fluorescent orange that it hurt her eyes while Jeppson tried to eat the snow and cried in shocked surprise at the coldness. Kyle's elated gap-toothed grin as he conquered riding his bicycle without training wheels, his glee at scaring his sister by hiding behind closed doors and in dark corners. Janie's straight-A report card and her beaming pride at yet another gold star from her teacher. Jeppson, her beautiful baby boy, gazing up from suckling her breast, enormous eyes framed by a fringe of downy lashes.
Her mind counted down the minutes to her destination, idly noting the "For Sale" signs posted in her neighborhood, the encroaching monolithic high-rise apartments complexes eating up all the available land and shading out the historic single family homes.
The front door needed to be painted, she noted, box against her hip where her babies used to nestle. The house was quiet, as usual. A dim, cold light shone under the door leading to the basement and she sighed, a sound full of both longing and regret.
The box went onto the kitchen counter, the study long ago having fallen to disuse and holding Christmas decorations and boxes of old photos that neither she nor George had the courage to sort through. Maybe once Janie had graduated they could fly her home and she could do it.
Perhaps they were best left in the boxes.
She pulled open the freezer, selecting a chicken pot pie and a lasagna, settling in at the table to await the oven timer.
They had enough to retire. George had gotten them a generous settlement against the teen drunk driver - or rather his parents. And she had contributed the max allowance on the days when there was such a thing as employer-matching contributions.They would be all right. But could she stand the quiet of this house day after day, the cold bed night after night?
She thought of that teen-aged boy sometimes, that boy's bad decision that changed all their lives. One day. One mistake. More lives than just Jeppson's permanently impacted. Of course, that boy was no longer a teenager. She wondered where he ended up. Involuntary manslaughter.
The ding of the oven brought her out of her reverie. Hot pads and two forks, balanced precariously, she turned the doorknob to the basement.
George didn't turn. His hand was slack holding the bottle, afghan slipping from his lap to pool around his feet. The steady glare of the screen in front of him served as the only illumination.
"I brought you dinner," she mumbled, trying to keep the indifference out of her voice.
He stirred, and the bottle slipped from his grasp to thud on the floor. They ate in silence, his heavy breathing disgusting her, yet she unwilling to leave. She retrieved the bottle, sour-smelling suds in the base. She gathered up the forks and set her foot to the stairs when George said something. She couldn't quite hear it, and half-turned.
"What?"
"I only left him for a second." His eyes looked up to find hers. "I swear, Mary, I only left him for a second. He was in the playpen. It was so hot in the sun, I just went for a lemonade. It was only for a second..."
Mary stepped off the stair, carefully, suddenly unsure of her footing. Her heart jumped and she felt a bit woozy, as though she had been the one drinking. George's head bowed, and she could feel the waves of his grief, see the gleam of his tears in the ambient light, but could not bring herself to go to him.
She looked past him through the open door. Kyle's room, left exactly the same, rows of trophies, stacks of comics, high school Letterman jacket still on the hanger. Just as Janie's room upstairs with her collection of porcelain ballerinas, Jazz dance team photo with girls in sequins and heavily-rouged cheeks holding their first-place ribbons. And just the same as the door to the room beside their own. The door to the room they never opened. The door she had walked past all these years carrying the dagger in her heart. The reason that George slept in the basement - the door he could not pass, the pain he could not drown.
Trembling, she walked to the shell of the man who had been her husband, who had struggled with the same pain, and who had lost.
His voice quavered, "I had a call from Kyle today. He put the boys on the phone... Isaac and Micah, they called me Grampa."
Mary reached for his hand, as unsure as stroking a stranger's dog.
"I need help, Mary." His voice broke. "I want to be... Grandpa. I was too late for Jeppson, but I could be a grandpa to Isaac and Micah, if they'll let me. And I need you too, Mary."
His hands clasped hers with a new ferocity. "Will you help me?"
She felt a hot tear roll down her face, and before she even realized it was her own voice she answered. "Of course, George. Of course I will help you. It wasn't your fault! I love you and we will get through this too. I love you, George!" The words tumbled out of her and suddenly they were weeping, she holding him to her chest where she had comforted their children. Eventually his sobs faded, and she laid him down, pulling the afghan up and around his shoulders, kissing his forehead when he drifted to sleep.
She collected the forgotten dishes and tip-toed quietly upstairs. The box sat on the counter where she had left it. She took out the photo of her children, kissing it and running a finger over each of their bright faces, Janie looking askance at Kyle as he probably had poked her just before the flash, baby Jeppson pleased to be sitting upright by himself and looking right into the lens. She put the stapler beside the picture and carried the box down the hall. Heart hammering, she stood in front of the closed nursery door, at the knob she so often had failed to turn. She glanced into the now-empty box, steeled herself, and pushed open the door. The door creaked a bit as it swung open, and she kneeled down to place toys into the box.
It was going to be all right, she thought. It was finally going to be all right.
Friday, May 9, 2014
Newspaper headline & list of ingredients - Writing Exercise
Today's writing exercise was to create a writing piece making up a newspaper headline and using a list of ingredients. I know, right?! Here's my take:
"State of Utah issues health alert - Tarragon, Allspice, Kosher Salt respond." - Salt Lake City Tribune
Cinnamon called the meeting to order. The jars rattled to attention in the spice rack as Cinnamon tapped a chopstick against the spoon rest in a staccato bid for absolute silence.
"Ahem."
Allspice sat a little more flush in the rack.
"There has been a warning to which we must pay careful heed."
Clove buds rattled together in anticipation.
"This is a concern directly affecting each and every one of us, and together we will be successful!"
Oregano interrupted, "But what is it? Tell us!"
Cinnamon cast a sidelong glance to Allspice, who frowned severely at Oregano. Abashed, Oregano shuffled back to order.
"We have a sacred duty," Cinnamon continued, "A solemn and sincere purpose to overthrow bland cooking!"
"Here, here!" cheered Kosher Salt.
At that moment, Peppercorns, serving as sentry, gave the signal and they all fell silent.
The clink of pan and whoosh of flame, crackle of butter in the pan filled the air.
Tarragon silently prayed, "Pick me! Pick me!" and rejoiced when lifted in blessed sacrifice for the cause.
"State of Utah issues health alert - Tarragon, Allspice, Kosher Salt respond." - Salt Lake City Tribune
Cinnamon called the meeting to order. The jars rattled to attention in the spice rack as Cinnamon tapped a chopstick against the spoon rest in a staccato bid for absolute silence.
"Ahem."
Allspice sat a little more flush in the rack.
"There has been a warning to which we must pay careful heed."
Clove buds rattled together in anticipation.
"This is a concern directly affecting each and every one of us, and together we will be successful!"
Oregano interrupted, "But what is it? Tell us!"
Cinnamon cast a sidelong glance to Allspice, who frowned severely at Oregano. Abashed, Oregano shuffled back to order.
"We have a sacred duty," Cinnamon continued, "A solemn and sincere purpose to overthrow bland cooking!"
"Here, here!" cheered Kosher Salt.
At that moment, Peppercorns, serving as sentry, gave the signal and they all fell silent.
The clink of pan and whoosh of flame, crackle of butter in the pan filled the air.
Tarragon silently prayed, "Pick me! Pick me!" and rejoiced when lifted in blessed sacrifice for the cause.
Sunday, May 4, 2014
There's a deepness
There's a deepness in what we have
as we take thread and needle
stitching through holes
in the bleeding tissue of our hearts
tugging the thread hard
to pull closed the wounded edges
of our lives, tying knots
to keep us close
heart to heart
in a world of bitter rage
and shocking kindness.
as we take thread and needle
stitching through holes
in the bleeding tissue of our hearts
tugging the thread hard
to pull closed the wounded edges
of our lives, tying knots
to keep us close
heart to heart
in a world of bitter rage
and shocking kindness.
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