Dear Mom - You'll Never Know

Dear Mom,

It has been years since I saw you, years I refuse to count. So much has changed. I can still remember the last time I saw you, I cried as I went to my plane, I felt death even then, from the moments we hugged goodbye. I thought Julie was going to die, but it was you. I still cannot shake that moment.

I have been thinking of all the things you’ll never know. You never knew that I went to college just to make you proud; you’ll never know the struggle after you died to finish. You never saw James married, or Julie, or Jeffrey. You never met the women I married who you’d prayed for all those years. You didn’t see the rose we had for you at my wedding, or the music to the dance that should have been ours. You’ll never see the faces of your grandchildren, or meet the woman who is married to Dad. Since you left there have been so many struggles, so many losses, and so many stolen moments.

I am in massage school now, I remember you asking me to rub your neck, all those pains which were missed signs you were sick. I want to be a healer, because of you another thing you’ll never see. Sometimes I imagine your view point, seeing everything, but that is no comfort for I will never look you in the eye again, face those fierce blue eyes which burn with love, harsh, judging, soft knowing, comforting eyes.

We spread your ashes under two trees we planted for you at home, though the word home doesn’t fit without you in it. I planted a tree at college for you, I saw it last week and it is still growing, now taller than you ever were in life. Yet your shadow still remains, you will never know the impact you’ve had both in life and death. I was so very mad at you in life, how you pushed toward a non-directed perfection, pushed to love the other no matter the scars it would cost, my anger died with you.

You’ll never know how you shaped this world by your presence as well as your absence. The people in my life who remember you are dwindling, as are the ties I can touch and see that remind me of you. Your pictures are so very small in comparison to the women you were.

All this, all that happens in my life from that point where you staggered and fell for the last time… all the joys and pains we yearn to share, all the hopes and dreams that were born and died since you went away, everything that is stuck inside of me, all I want to ask and share… all of it, you will simply never know, never hear.

With Love in Sorrow,

Squeaker

Full Circuit

It had been many years since Louise had walked on her own; so her previous care taker had told me. I watched Louise each morning struggle and groan to her feet, half shuffling, halting stutter steps with her walker to the bathroom, and back to her bed again. It was hard to inspire her to do much else, many had tried and all had failed. Louise was a good fifty, slender graceful beauty of her youth intact; the doctors could not find a reason for her motor skills’ deterioration. The wiring seemed all there, they’d said, but something is missing to complete the circuit.

I’d only been her care taker for 6 months when I first heard her story, or rather stumbled upon it, or maybe it stumbled upon me. I was fetching Louise a blanket from the hall closet when an album came off of the shelf and landed on my foot. As the throbbing pain subsided, I delved into her past. Pictures leapt out from the pages, over and over all the same, her and a dark haired man dancing. Occasionally one would bear the title of this regional semi-final or that, this championship or that. The costuming changed; as did the style of dance as the dancers gracefully aged, but the couple’s posture was the same always linked, then the pictures abruptly ended. One last photo had been removed; I could see the aged yellow frame with a crisp white space where the photo had been.

I phoned Louise’s last care taker and found that she had indeed been a famous ballroom dancer who had disappeared from competition after a love affair. Thinking there was no more to the story I let it go.

Three weeks later flowers arrived. I brought them in, and just before I put them in a vase she came to the kitchen, out of breath, and flushed. I quickly asked what the matter was, and prepared to dial 911. The words tumbled from her mouth… She had smelled the flowers, and wanted to know who had sent them. The card was blank. Her face fell again as did the energy she’d just had. I assured her I would look into it as they were from a florist just down the street.

The next day I stopped in and asked about a bouquet sent to 1027 Valley View Drive the day before. The man behind the counter lit up, yes he knew the order, he had arranged it himself, the older gentleman who ordered it had insisted on every detail. He’d figured the arrangement was for some sort of surprise celebration, perhaps an anniversary. I told him that the card had been blank, and he was puzzled, the gentleman spent half an hour writing, it cannot have been blank.

I returned and shared the news, again there was a brief burst of life, and then her face fell again when I said there was no name, and the man had paid cash.

Another week passed and we had a caller, this was a rare treat as she had no family, and too little time for friendships during those years. A tall man with silver graying hair asked for entrance, on a visit over due. Recognizing him from the pictures I let him in smelling his strong cologne. He had barely crossed the threshold when Louise met us in the hall, his cologne her call.

He handed me his hat and coat, and a CD and bid me put the music on. Both looked at one another aged, stumbling, as they walked. He held his hand out for hers, and she accepted it. And they danced, oh how they danced. And for that brief moment Time stood still to watch. And as the music ceased so did their moment frozen in time, and back to their seats they went. The circuit found its completion after all, and so does this story end.

Home Brewed Tea of Bitter Bitter Memory

Home Brewed Tea of Bitter Bitter Memory

Some days, when the cold rainy fog of life descends I retreat into my memory. I walk even measured steps through the kitchen of my recollection. The one cobwebbed windowsill is alive with herbs of all varieties, each leaf coated with a layer of dust. At first I quickly and haphazardly pick them, but as the dust takes flight into the air, my progress slows. And as more new leaves appear so does my clarity fade.

My thirst deepens as my lungs coat with dust. I pick the last few, and begin my preparations. First I rinse the innumerable specs of dust away which cling to the ridges of each moment. They seem clean enough, though the air is blurred by the invisible unwanted, which become all too visible in the stream of light though the window. I crush each leaf, patiently attempting to extract meaning from these moments; some seem to burst forth with strong fragrances, triggering familiar feelings from within. Others I grind longer and longer and feel nothing; nothing but the emptiness of past tastes and smells my saturated senses refuse to welcome in. After all the moments are processed, I sweep them into my filtered strainer.

I fill the kettle with pure tear water and place it on the stove. My skin reluctantly embraces the onslaught; waves of heat wash over, they release the swift cascading sweat of regret, the light steam billows and swirls and mixes with the airborne dust causing it to fall muting the colors as does volcanic ash poison made ever more potent. I pace the small space as the kettle starts to boil just as my Father did before me; my bare feet leaving tracks in the thin film of dust-mud now covering all I see and touch. Then the familiar scream, the pressure is too much, the heat has done its brutal task,

let the steeping begin.

I thrust the muddled mixture of moments into the scalding sorrow water and wait for the visions to come forth. And appear they do, twisted, ephemeral, with a familiar torturous bent. They haunt, entertain bemuse and befuddle. Speak, they, in wafting hissing whispers of love lost that was never had, moments lost amidst the recollections’ rushing waves that pound, engulf, release and swallow whole again. I am steeped in the permeation of painful indecision, foolish follies all; originators of scars that are my mark to this day. As happens every time, I have chosen my moments incorrectly, and let them steep far too long. I am left with this pot of potent poison of my creation. This is the concoction which I crave to imbibe. I surrender to it so it might digest me and make good on its promise to paralyze, to sharply dull the hurt of now from which I am retreating. This is how I make the bitter bitter tea of muddled moments in memory.

The Peoples of the Key and Lock

The Peoples of the Key and Lock

There once were two towns, both of strong, proud folk with meager estate, perched in old stone houses above a valley with river meandering between. The towns had both good and bad years, as towns do.

Then the Invisibles arrived.

So it happened on one night, the kind of night when pies are left out to cool in the autumn breeze, both towns’ folk took after dinner strolls along river and upon returning discovered; !robbery!, !thievery!, !unspeakable betrayal!... all the pies were gone.

Next mourn when women folk went down to the river to draw water and begin their daily toils, stories flew criss-cross over the water. All talk was on the thievin’ in their midst and, as happens when women folk get to talkin' bout this and that, soon the men folk get the idea that a meeting should be held.

So each town held meeting and speak of the violation they had all suffered.

One town in their wisdom decided to build fences and lock their houses when leaving for the evening's strolls, as only makes right sense. The other town decided that pie was only good for one thing, namely eating, and if there was hunger in their midst then they would fight it how they knew best, namely baking. They decided to place vittles out nightly, with a key under the pan or plate as a sign of welcome; in hopes that the hunger would be fed and the Shamed would fess up bringing all to light.

So each town enacted their plan with haste and fervor. And as brisk dusk fell, one town was alight; windows defiantly thrust open, the other cold and dark as if braced for impending battle.

Next mourn when women went to draw water, and begin their daily task; words hurled across the river. “What fouls you are”, said the people of locks and fences, “to feed the Lazy offa the sweat of your toils.” “What folly”, returned the people of keys and open windows, “hunger when met with ill-will only breeds cruelest desperation!”

Both in their wisdom were correct. The town of locks and fences had three houses robbed. The town of keys and open windows found vittles gone, plates and all. So, as women folk talk, get an idea into their heads, so men-folk get the notion it’s about time for a meeting to be held. The town of locks and fences decided they were still too soft. They needed police with clubs to patrol the streets, impose a curfew on all. The town of keys and open windows decided that as fall was coming hunger must be much greater than imagined so they ought to hang coats, hats and gloves on shrubs and lower branches. For as you are hungry, also do you get awful cold.

So each town by their wisdom so set to work. Attics and basements, alleyways and dark corners were the places of preparation.

Next mourn came the women folk went to draw their first water for the day, and began their chats each side further spoke their part. The town of locks, fences and clubs jeered still more fervently. “You townsfolk will be robbed blind and left helpless to give away your life blood and get nuthin’ in return!” The town of keys and open windows, and coats made their snide reply; “To be cold and hungry without a friend in the world is the recipe of murder both to human and of common decency.” So as women get to talkin’ and men get to noddin’, they reckoned another meeting was about in order.

So the town of locks, fences and clubs were further outraged. Police and curfew added none to their security, four houses robbed and not a witness found. In turn the town of keys, open windows and coats found all they had given gone with no trace none of thank you given. So each town devised the last desperate and final step, for none could think of any other.

Next mourn; when women yawn and warm their hands by newly stoked fires and head to the waters to draw their daily ration, civil tongues did they employ. The towns people of locks and keys, of open windows and strong fences of clubs and coats did all washed out their buckets, their ears, and eyes, set to what made sense.

So they did pull down stone by stone and so dissolve the towns of stone perched on their lofty heights, and built from them a third town bridging the river, connecting folk on both sides. They set to work this final solution for the Invisibles' hunger, cold and want of house and work, acceptance and community. As if in response Invisible did at once appear that night. Lights set the valley aglow between those old cold stone towns. There was born the town between, a town of generosity and caution, of wild hope and shrewd planning. In their midst did they greet anew old neighbor and new alike. With new eyes they saw hunger and sickness, grief and pain in all their forms, along with their inadequate but ample remedies. The third town all slept soundly and dreampt of robust spring.

Last Great Gesture

The door slammed so hard it didn’t close. The light streamed out, a sliver of warmth across the cold snowy street. The hollow prints, still fresh, the only marks of humanity upon the tranquil scene, and they too were filled one drifting snow flake at a time. Soon all trace would be erased, and by next morning when they found her there would be no hope of recreating those last moments.

More fuss would circle around her, than had ever happened in a day of her life, all save the first. Her birth was one of silent tears, strains, and relief. Shouting would be the one constant in her life, from her very beginning to her last moments on this earth. Never one to yell back, quiet rage slowly built within. She knew her place, and never a day went by she was not reminded. First to last none-withstanding.

Life was hard when she was young, dreams and hopes could not help but flood the clean expanses of her imagination in stark contrast to sewage puddles on the corners that were her nursery. It would be hopeful to say she learned, and learned well, the costs of dreams, but sadly it was a habit she never broke.

Her teenage years were much the same, placing hopes and dreams as olive branch crowns on any passersby who might be the secret to her freedom from the invisible bonds that held her on the street. Her mother lasted until her 17^th birthday and then vanished, no one saw, but all knew her fate.

She was destined for greatness, hope was her only choice; love had to be her freedom. Many men came, and more left; her inward rage only mounted. The world could not be this way; the world simply could not be this way. She turned inward, seeking her salvation from within.

She dabbled in religions as many sample pizza toppings, mixing and matching but the grease just never seemed to sit well, and as she regurgitated the words to her… friends... the results were the same: Food poisoning.

Then came the great night, the night for which she would finally have her fame, the night when all would take note, newspapers proclaim her story and carry her picture, at least for a day. Her first of many lovers came back into town, he had made his fortune and come to take her from this place. Classic Fairytale ending, eight years, five minutes too late. For as he found her; body warm, lips parted, and arms stretched wide for his embrace; that which caused her to move about in this world had left her. Hope, had left her, or she had finally parted ways with it. She was dead, no cause of death could be found, no visible trauma, no fresh wound marks to be seen, no health conditions worthy of her demise. With all the science, all the tests all the reason and intellect brought to the task, no one could see what was clear, a broken heart leaves no visible marks to be seen and yet covers all we see.