One-Sided Story
“See you later, Mom,” I say as I run out the front door rushing to catch the bus, bus 19C. As usual I’m late, but luckily I only have two blocks to go. There’s my neighbor, Mr. Thomas. I’ve never noticed him riding the bus before. I saw his house for sale, maybe he’s selling his car, too. The bus will take me to work, he too, I suppose. He lives four houses down from me, the brick house with the green shutters. He had a great looking wife and a little girl, Maddie. She played with my little sis, Mindy. Pretty cool kid. He and his wife were always out doing something together: gardening in the front yard, playing in the sprinklers with Maddie, or jogging past my house as I was on my way to football practice. I’d watch them race, laughing, seeing who could beat the other home.
He looks up as I approach the bench and sees me staring right at him. I nod and apologetically smile. He just nods, no expression. I decide not to sit next to him. He seems like he’d rather be alone. I lean against the bus stop sign. I should’ve worn a jacket. This flannel shirt with the elbows worn through just isn’t cuttin’ it this morning. I see he has hot coffee, steam rising. He wraps his hands around the Styrofoam cup, to warm them. A coat and a cup of Java would certainly be nice.
An elderly woman, hair pinned to a red see-through scarf, walks across the street. She doesn’t need to look for traffic. This end of town has pretty much dried up. Businesses have moved outside the city. Peterson’s Groceries is about the only thing still living in these skeleton buildings. Good ol’ Jack Peterson is still trying to make a living on the corner of Edison and 8th Street. Of course everything they sell in there is purely profit, I swear. He still has inventory from the fifties. She sits on the bench next to my neighbor. She turns to him and says hello, yellowed teeth shows. He doesn’t seem to notice she is there. He closes his eyes, putting one of his hands in the pocket of his tan corduroy pants. You can tell he’ rather talk.
“Oh, it’s a bit brisk, today, isn’t it?” she says in a shaky voice looking straight ahead. “I’d like to nip at Jack Frost’s toes like he did to mine this morning. My poor aching arthritic feet. It was just about all I could take. My doctor gives me some anti-infamma..inflamm…something to make the swelling go down, but then they get so darn cold!” She reaches into her pink polka-dot, plastic bag pulling out an afghan to cover her legs and pulls out her newspaper. “Isn’t that the saddest story? I guess the pilot was drunk. At least he’s being charged with voluntary…ah let’s see, what do they call it. Oh yes, here. ‘Voluntary manslaughter’ and his license will be revoked. I don’t know what’s gotten into people lately. It’s the parents’ fault, I think. Don’t you?” Again, asking her question, yet looking ahead, eyes glossy and seemingly talking to herself. Neither of us answer. “Harold and I tried to teach Bobby to be a good person. ‘Do what’s right you’ll have a good life,’ we said.” She gives me a look specialized by mothers and grandmothers everywhere.
He sips his hot coffee, glancing at her paper. I look over the lady’s shoulder to read—“JUSTICE TO BE SERVED—Pilot intoxicated on Flight 1539.”
“Damn,” he says and shakes his head. He spilt his coffee on his pants and tries wiping the already saturated pant leg. “Sorry,” he says to her for no reason. His pants were wet, not hers.
“Oh, I remember the day it crashed. It was Harold’s birthday. Well it would’ve been. He passed away two years ago, bless his soul. I sure miss him,” she sighs and rubs her gold band. “Do you remember the day the plan crashed?” turning to look at me directly.
“Yeah, I came home after footb—“ I try to say; she interrupts.
“It was that awful windy day. I remember looking out my picture window to the north watching the snow blowing. ‘Not today, Tabby; you’ll freeze your little paws right off,’ I remember telling my tabby. Yep, it was a cold one. I’ve never liked the cold. I grew up in Louisiana—Shreveport. After Harold got out of the Army, we moved north. I dreaded living here. Harold used to tease me. You see, I don’t wear boots, snow boots, ya’know, so every year come first snow fall…boom! I always fall. He said it was a winter tradition.” Yellow teeth showed and her thin skin wrinkled around her eyes. She just motors on.
I think she just wants to hear herself talk. Change the subject, lady. Where is the bus? That would help. I look over at him and he actually seems to be enjoying this lady’s stories. He barely smiles and nods at her. I remember seeing him and Maddie a couple of years back out in the snow. Maddie was pretty little. She was all bundled up sledding down the little hill her dad had built for her. Kids look so funny in their winter clothes. Their snowsuits all bunched up and puffy make them look like miniature Michelin tire men. I laugh aloud. He looks back at me, but she keeps talking.
“I always wanted Harold to learn to fly. Oh, what fun, flying off here and there. But his feet were firmly planted, no discussion on that issue. He was a stubborn one, my Harold. I’m just glad he never learned. I might never have seen my little grandbaby, or our Bobby’s graduation from college. That poor man, to lose them both, too.”
Thank God, the bus is here. Maybe now he can get away from her. He sits in the sixth row, the seat next to the window. I sit next to him, so he wouldn’t have to sit by her. We bounce along through morning traffic. I try to think about my day ahead, but I can’t get that lady’s conversation out of my head; ‘to lose them both, too.’ Man, that had to be rough.
“Off to work?” he casually asks me.
Surprised, I answer, “Yeah, I’ve got a ten-hour shift, today.”
“I remember those days,” he says. “Trying to make some dough, so you can move out of the parents’ house. You live on the same block I do, don’t you?” he asks.
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“You have a little sister that plays with, ah—used to play with Maddie,” he says stumbling over his words.
I nod and fiddle with the frayed edges of my flannel. I look out the window, watching the skyline blur together as trees and buildings flash by.
“Maddie loved bus rides. She just loved ‘em. She’d sit on the edge of her seat or on my lap trying to capture every sight. She didn’t miss a thing, boy,” he laughs. “She’d even notice when I would space off and start twisting a piece of hair without knowing it. She’d say, ‘Daddy, quit twist’n your hairs. Mommy says you’d be bald if you keep twist’n.’” We both laugh and then he looks outside the window.
I look at the back of his head and notice he is balding. I reach in the pocket of my flannel, searching for gum or candy; I always have stuff stashed somewhere. Ah, a couple of peppermints from Casa del Rey’s. “You want one?” I ask.
“That’d be great. That coffee is burning a hole right through me. My wife always carried some in her purse. I have a weak stomach, and peppermint seems to settle it. She knew how to take care of me,” he says.
I notice he starts to play with his wedding band, turning it around and around. I don’t feel too comfortable, either. I don’t know what to say to him. I reach down to retie my tennis shoe, halfway in the aisle; it’s something to do.
“My Bobby and his little Mary fly in today,” the lady turns around and says looking at. “Oh, I can hardly wait, I’m so excited. It’s Mary’s first trip on a plane. I hope it’s going ok. After the crash, everyone’s a little jittery, but they’re flying in on a commercial flight.”
“I’m sure they’re fine,” he loudly answers even though this time she was just talking to me.
The bus stops and I try to get out quickly. I get the feeling this has been too long of day for him, already. Of course, everyone’s taking their own sweet time. I let him go in front of me. The lady turns to him as she fixes her scarf, “Are you flying somewhere today?” she asks.
“No, I’ll…never fly again,” he says. He tries to push past her.
She asks, “Why? Why don’t you like to fly? Since that accident, and since that pilot was----“
He snapped. “I had two drinks, lady! Only two, do you hear me?” He shot her an angry, hurt look and pushed past her down the bus stairs. The lady turns to me, shocked and confused. We shuffle out the bus as well. I thought I should explain, but I’m irritated and sick of her prodding and talking. And to be honest, I don’t know what truly happened. I look up watching him enter the airport service entrance for employees only. She’s still looking at me. I shrug my shoulders not knowing what else to do, then I too, walk away.
Flashes of Life
If you take 7th Street all the way down, going north, turn on Hennepin, past the dimly lit warehouse district, you’ll see the used car lot where Eddie and TJ crouched between a rusty 4x4 pick-up and a two-door, light blue Mazda, calculating their next move. There was a street light on the corner that had been put to rest; they shot it with a 9mm. Carlo’s Motors was dark, except for the flickering neon sign which created a tint of red against the ominous, black clouds in the cold and moody night sky. The moon was trying its best to break through the bullying billows, but they were stubborn, hiding the moon, cheating the city of light.
The spotlight was the only source of direct light. It swung like a pendulum flashing streams of light across its path. It was as if the spotlight had a mind of its own, moving in no ordered manner, just rotating, supposedly trying to curb crime. Eddie looked up at the stream of light radiating from the light’s tower. It hit the four-story building next to the car lot.
“Hurry up! What’s taking you so long” whispered Eddie as he poked TJ with the pistol. “We ain’t got long,” he said as he fidgeted with the shells in his pocket.
“Knock it off. You wanna get smart wi’me? I could kill ya right here and score all the cash,” TJ said as he shot a deadly look at Eddie. TJ was a big guy: 6’4 weighing 290. He had a lazy eye which made Eddie nervous and he never quite knew which eye to look at. But he trusted TJ. They’d been “business partners” for some time, almost five years, minus the time TJ did for stealing that white Lincoln. They knew it was risky, but all they thought of was the cash Al would pay to get his hands on that truck.
“Hey, aren’t we supposed to meet Al down by the Nicollet bridge in less than an hour?” Eddie asked. “I don’ wanna know what he’d do if we showed up late.”
“We won’ be late,” TJ said. “Have I ever let you down, man? You’re makin’ me nervous. Now, hand me that jimmy.” TJ wedged the slimjim down the driver’s window until he heard that familiar ‘clunk.’ The door latch unlocked. Like a cat approaching his kill, TJ slowly opened the door letting Eddie slide in.
Eddie was the apprentice tonight learning how to hot wire the car. He yanked the wires from under the steering column and with a shaky hand touched them together. The Mazda coughed, choked.
“Take it off, dumb ass,” TJ snapped. “Ya jus’ sposed to touch it, then le’ it go—like I tol’ja.” Eddie tried again and it started right up. Eddie slid over as TJ snuck in the door. The strobe light from the Tower struck the front of the car. TJ gunned it and tore out of Carlo’s Motors.
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It was his first night on patrol. He walked towards the water’s edge grasping his flashlight like his loaded 357 Magnum, hoping the illuminated fog and the shedding trees were the only things he’d see. A jogger had called it in. Said he heard the gunshot and saw two men down the embankment. The rookie was sent to check it out. “Please, God, let this be a false alarm,” he said aloud. His palms were sticky as he fidgeted with the new stiff leather of his holster. It wasn’t very windy that night, yet the sound of the waves rolling up the shore, one right after another and the “ssshwiiishsshsh” sound of the hardened leaves together produced a soft drum roll for what he hoped would not happen. The sky was dark with huge, black clouds. Impending danger was the message they seemed to convey. He aimed his flashlight along the rocks leading to the water. His heart pounded, feeling like his sternum would break from the intense throbbing. He needed to get a grip, he told himself. He wouldn’t let his old man down; he’d been a cop for 38 years. He’d make Dad proud, yet.
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Juanita sat at the kitchen table with her spaghetti-splashed apron still on. She rubbed the back of her neck with her sticky garlic-stained hands; her neck ached from standing on her feet all day. She walked over to the sink for the third time since she got home, partly trying to eliminate the strong onion odor that permeated her pores, but partly trying to calm her nerves. It was almost midnight and she hadn’t received the knock every mother or grandmother on the block prayed would never happen. But, there was still a lot of hours of darkness left.
She thought she’d relax, light a candle and write her sister. Her sister, Marie, had moved two hours away to go to night school. She was a teller during the day and Juanita didn’t miss her, really. When Marie lived with Juanita, she’d come in all hours of the night bringing in the latest drunk to fill that lustful void she claimed she had. Juanita wasn’t sure what she meant; Marie seemed to “be occupied” quite often.
Juanita said she’d watch over Marie’s son for her while she was gone. He was old enough to be on his own, but that’s what Juanita worried about. He’d been in trouble before and she didn’t want that responsibility. She didn’t always agree with Marie or the things she did, but she still loved her very much. And, when Juanita was in a bind a few years ago, Marie had helped her out. She found her a job at The Flat Iron where Juanita’s worked ever since. Juanita knew it was her turn to do Maria a favor. She just hoped there was no trouble.
Juanita lit the candle on the table getting out her stationery. The light from the candle sent uneven rays of yellowness on her paper. Candlelight always soothed her. It seemed to wrap warmth around her.
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Maleeka hugged her teddy taking in a deep breath of that familiar playmate’s scent. She couldn’t sleep. She was tired, rubbing her eyelids with closed fists, but her daddy wasn’t home to tuck her in. It was quiet and dark in her room, except for the rectangles of light that traveled across her wall when a car drove by. The light on the wall didn’t scare her. It actually took her mind off those pesky monsters that slept in her closet at night.
“Daddy, Daddy, I’m scared,” she called. It wouldn’t hurt to fib a little. She just wanted her daddy to play with her braids and tuck the covers underneath her chin. She loved their nightly ritual.
“Honey, now you need to get some sleep. Daddy will be here when you wake. Close your eyes, now. Sweet dreams, Maleek’. Mommy loves you—so does your daddy.”
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The policeman drove up to 1213 Bentwood, pulling up to the curb. He sat in his car for a few minutes, not wanting to get out. He wondered how his dad did it. The knock on the door startled Juanita. She bumped the table and the candle fell splashing hot wax on the letter. She opened the door, tentatively when she saw the policeman through the diamond window.
“Is Eddie Lochero your son?” the policeman leaning in the doorway asked. “Ma’am is Mr. Lochero your son?”
“No, he’s…he’s…my nephew,” she said in short breaths. How would she tell Marie, her mind raced.
“I’m sorry, he’s dead.” The policeman took off his hat.
“!Ah! !Dios mios! Dios mios! !Por favor, que no…que no!” Juanita stepped back from the doorway and slip her back along the wall clasping her cross that hung around her neck.
“It was some sort of fight. We found a stolen truck a mile down from where we found the body. He was under the Nicollet bridge. Gun shot wound to his upper abdomen. I’m very sorry Ma’am, very sorry.” He now knew why after so many years of doing this, how it hardened his dad.
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“Daddy’s home, sweetheart,” he softly caressed her cheek. She stretched, pushing his hand away and turned over on her stomach. He patted her back. He sat down on the side of the bed and laid his head in his hands. He wished to God he could forget the frightful night. Forget about Eddie and Al. They had just pushed him too far. Eddie had put a knife to his neck and said he’d tell Josie where he getting all the money for her gifts, groceries, and rent if he didn’t give him a bigger cut of the money they were getting from Al. He lifted his head and could see through the lighted crack in the door his wife pacing the kitchen, wanting answers, wanting these late nights to end. They would, he promised. He just wanted them to have the “good life”—buy Josie pretty jewelry and shiny patent leather shoes for Maleeka. He looked at the light the crack in the door had cast on the curtain. It reminded him of the spotlight from the 7th Street Tower, now, invading his home, stopped, holding its ray still, to point its crooked finger at him.
Bargain Bin
She picked up the dirty pink, ceramic elephant looking at a piece of masking tape wrapped around its trunk marked two dollars and fifty cents. She set it down and fingered the fuzzy, lime green ric rac that lined the edges of the lamp shade. It was in pretty good shape so the tape on its cream base showed five bucks. Why did all this junk smell the same, she wondered. Dust must permeate into the fibers of all old things, she reasoned. She wasn’t quite sure why she was there. She certainly wasn’t there to buy anything.
It was a cold November day, no snow, but lots of wind. The clouds just seemed to roll right over the sun; they made sure the sun wasn’t permitted to warm the brisk air. She usually took Highway 95 home from the beauty salon in Uptown, but for no apparent reason that day, she took a two-lane country road. That’s where she saw the sign, Fox Den Antiques, “Where one man’s junk is another man’s treasure.” The store was in a large metal garage, the type where tractors are usually stored. The large garage door was down, but the wind tried its best to break in, rapping at the tin. She shivered hearing the wind whir through the cracks in the door. She noticed a basket of postcards. “Aloha from the shores of Honolulu…” she read. She looked around to see if anyone would notice her reading the back of the card. What’s the point? She knew what it said. “How are you? Things are great—couldn’t be better, and having so much fun.” That’s what they all said. She laid the postcard back in the basket, thumbing through the others, not seeing the beauty along the coasts, but feeling the loneliness inside.
She knew how those trips really were. “Darling, why don’t you take my credit card and go shopping, no limits.” I’d buy my baby the world, right?” He’d bat her on the butt and wink at his associate. “Go on. Oh, and hon, my meeting will run a little late tonight, so treat yourself to a feast. The hotel has great room service, I hear.” Again, he’d share a knowing look at his partner to match their devious smiles. It didn’t take her long to figure out where she fit into his world, or rather where she did not.
Above a shelf, she noticed the depression glassware: goblets, pitchers, plates. Some were peach, some pale pink, others green, just like the set her grandmother had given her mom. She traced the rim of the green pitcher with no intent, just feeling, trying to remember what happened to it all after Mom died.
“Oh!” She looked down and a little boy with messy, matted hair chewing loudly on a bright pink piece of bubble gum had rammed right into her. He had lost his balance, fell, and was lying across her shoes.
“I’m so sorry,” his mother said, not looking up at her. “Tommy, I told you to be careful,” she scolded, pulling him back up and pushing him down the aisle.
She wondered if her boys thought of her. They came home for Christmas and two weeks in the summer, but even then, she saw them briefly. It had been the “set-up” since they were five. By birth, they were her boys, but there were no ties, no emotional bond just the economic strings that their dad provided to keep them there, giving them the “best education.” She wished she would’ve cut those strings years ago.
She had been walking down the aisle daydreaming, trying to forget her world of expensive trinkets that she still owed money on, touching the dusty treasures at the Fox Den. At the end of the row was a coat rack filled with various specimens from many decades. There was a navy blue, naval peacoat with its stripes still on the shoulders and a thin, mid-thigh leather coat, with a wrap-a-round belt. She didn’t see a price on either. The little boy, Tommy, poked his head between the coats and stuck out his tongue. He was really quite cute and he thought he was funny, but she couldn’t bring herself to smile. It hurt too much to see children, reminding her of her own that she never got the chance to know.
She threw a fake fur shawl around her shoulders wishing she had purchased this one instead of the $8000 mink coat she left in her Lexus. What mistakes she had made. At first Roger took care of her bills, but after the newness of the affair wore off, he said she’d have to take care of her bills. He’d pay for her penthouse, so they’d have a “posh” place to screw, plus a monthly stipend, but all her credit card debt were up to her to pay.
She looked at Tommy’s oversized jean jacket as he played with the fringes on a Mexican poncho, then disappeared between the coats. She sighed, wishing she too, could disappear.
“Saturday Night Fever. God, Andy Gibb was hot,” she said aloud as she lifted the record album from the box of records on the floor. Slowly she ran her fingers across its surface, leaving two clean tracks in the dust. To be young again, she thought. She would have done things differently, no doubt about it. Oh, she had the life, she would never deny that, but the loneliness. She felt so degraded. After knowing what she knew now, she’d give up her diamonds, the Lexus, and all her designer clothes to be back in her mobile home with her little boys. She used to call it the ‘tin crap on wheels,’ but now, it was the only home she wanted to go home to.
She walked over to the table with all the jewelry in plastic trays and the tagboard sign labeled, “Bargain bin.” Light blue, plastic bead necklaces, chunky, red bracelets, rhinestone clip earrings with the faded gray metal surrounding the stones were thrown together in the tray. The plated silver which had worn off the rhinestone earrings leaving just the ugly tarnished metal, reminded her of how she felt: stripped of all beauty, overused and no luster left at all. She looked down at her ten caret total diamond weight bracelet on her left wrist and her emerald tennis bracelet on her right. What did they prove? That she was damn good in bed and could pick a rich bastard! A rich bastard, that’s all he was. He didn’t lover her, never did. Oh, but he told her he did; she stirred things in him Ellen never aroused. “You’ll be my special lady,” he’d say. She wasn’t anybody’s “special,” she knew. If she left, he’d find somebody new to screw and he’d support her, too. She picked up a tag from one of the trays that had fallen off one of the plastic necklaces. One dollar it read. She wrapped the tag around both her bracelets she slipped off, and set them in the tray. They meant nothing to her and it felt good to just throw it away. She knew it wasn’t significant because she could race out to buy two more just like them, but maybe Tommy’s mom would find them and that would make her smile.
Her pager beeped. Damn, it was five-thirty, she saw on the Busch beer clock on the wall. Roger was probably wondering where the hell she was. She was supposed to be home, so he could get a quickie before he actually went home to Ellen. Before she walked out the side door, a white wooden jewelry box caught her eye. It looked like one she had when she was a little girl. She opened it and a little ballerina with a pink tutu popped out. She wound the music box and set it back on the shelf. The ballerina pirouetted and she was lost in her own thoughts listening to the simple notes of the song. She wished her life wouldn’t have gotten so complicated. Why did she choose to sacrifice her pride, prostituting her body for a little glitz and glamour when the things she longed for and treasured were what she had to start? Someday, she’d walk away, she promised herself she would. But for now, she had enormous bills to pay and she had become accustomed to her high-society lifestyle. She needed Roger, even though it was just to fill her pocket book, not to fulfill her life. Her pager beeped again. She quickly closed the box and left the garage, heading off to meet Roger.
Living in Gray
(Prompts italicized came fromPoe's "The Raven")
Once upon a midnight dreary while I pondered weak and weary, I held a flask touted to be a youth potion. Would it work? Would I feel spry, spunky and spirited? I stared at my wrinkled hands and wished for them to be smooth. I slammed the potion all in one gulp. I waited. Nothing happened. My bladder nudged me. Ah yes. Time for the hourly trip to the little girls’s room. I remember powdering my nose decades ago as my young gentleman caller waited. Had I taken too long?
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping.
“Are you alright in there?”
“Yes. I’ll be right out.” I remember feeling in a daze. Again my life had faded gray for awhile. What happened? Who stole the minutes from me? I walked down that fated hallway familiar, yet stark. No pictures, no color, no wallpaper to add flair—just white walls on each side. I entered the bathroom scared wondering if the potion will kick in or if again, I will lose more life and come out almost dead or worse. And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
I awake very foggy not knowing even who I am. A beautifully adorned room: velvet drapes, marble fireplace surrounded with slate, books—so many books I’ve never seen, and dark wallpaper in hues of burgundy and forest green. I sit up slowly remembering the last action: turning the knob to my bathroom door. Now, I look down. My body is youthful and shapely. I am draped in black velvet with satin gloves. My hair is up and a strand of pearls bedorns my neck. I am dreaming such a beautiful dream. I barely move afraid to awake from my slumber.
I notice a hallway, deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing what that tunnel held. I knew not to tempt myself and certainly to avoid the hallway. I like where I am immersed in rich colors. A wine glass sits on the cherry wood table beside me. I indulge. I savor the fruity flavor and fell how it burns my throat.
“Aaaaaaah!” I screamed and look down at my feet and I see the white walking Reebok’s I had on in my last awake moment. What is this? Some mental trip? Where am I? I try to stand, but I’m trembling and my legs buckle at the uncertainty of my location. I pray someone kind has me captive. Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
“Are you OK? Should I get help?’ Awake I grab the silver bars next to the toilet. I begin to sweat—cold horrible sweat. I know I must be dying.
“Mrs. Venton, are you OK? I tried buzzing for gosh, almost 45 minutes and you wouldn’t answer. Can you open up? I’m so worried. It’s way past time for your medication. You know what the doctor says about missing your intakes. Mrs. Venton? Lydia?”
“I….I….I’m ok, dear. I must have….f…f….fallen asleep. I will be right…” my voice trailed off unable to continue. Wake up! I scream inside. What is wrong with you!? Slowly, I open the door. And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming.
“Get away! You wretched bird! You’ve haunted me my whole life mocking me, making me remember and forget! I hate you! Leave me along!” I scream at the large crow perched on Mary’s body where her head should be. Three hospital workers grab my arms and legs. The young nurse has my head.
“There, there, Mrs. Venton. You will be just fine. Ah, there. You’ve had your medicine. You will be your old spry, spunky, and spirited self in no time! My what pretty satin gloves you’re wearing. Have you had these long? I…”
Her voice faded into a hum as the meds oozed through my veins. The rich colors fade. Now, all I see is gray.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Memoir
A Teacher's Plea (My Pet Peeves Essay)
My class discussion begins: a lovely, thoughtful question asking 9th graders if teenagers can really be in love. Hands fly up and the energy is charged like a puppy woken up from a nap. The debate begins. “No, they can’t. We’re not ready for babies and bills.”
“Not babies! Just being in love…ya’know feelings of commitment. I know several teenagers who really are in love.”
“My aunt and uncle met…” the conversation continues, but my sense of smell is a blinking red light. A horrible egg smell seems to rise from the masses.
“Sick!” “Ben!” “Wasn’t me!” he says laughing.
This is my pet peeve—kids who fart in class. What, can’t you hold it? You like the smell? You feel that sick? Why must flatulence be a topic a high school teacher must address? I had one such student my second year of teaching. Johnny Gonzales—I will never forget his name; I’ve lost several nose hairs because of him.
A room full of twenty-six 6th graders, full of energy as it was, and I saw this student for two classes: grammar and literature (4th and 6th hour). Every day without fail, twenty minutes into class, a horrific smell would waft across the room—or worse?—a honk would disrupt our activities, and not one from the busy street out front. Giggles, of course, immediately followed and it was hard to get the students back on track. So, I wondered what to do. Do you call home for flatulence? Do you write a referral for continued class disruption? I decided that a note to Mrs. Gonzales would be the route:
Dear Mrs. Gonzales, I’m quite embarrassed to write this and I wouldn’t do so if it wasn’t a sincere problem. Johnny comes to both my classes each day and lets out several toots. He must not be feeling well as this has persisted for over 2 weeks. Could you visit with him about his flatulence? Thank you, ~Mrs. Davis
Dear Mrs. Davis, the envelope said with a smily face. This was a good sign, I thought. I opened the letter chuckling: We have talked to Johnny and he knows how disgusting farting is—and how rude it has been to do so in class. We have decided that taking Beano in the morning will help. Let us know if this continues. I know how embarrassing this must have been to write the note, but we appreciate it! We don’t want our son to be known as a farter! ~Mr. And Mrs. Gonzales
Several weeks went by and Johnny was doing just fine. . . until a certain Tuesday. Before school on this day, Johnny bounded up the steps to my class and raced into my room, “Mrs. Davis! Mrs. Davis!” He panted and hollered my name. “I didn’t take my Beano this morning!” Big, panicked eyes—he wanted help.
“You’ll be fine, Johnny,” I said fighting back my laughter. “If you feel a little…ah…gurlgly in class, just head out, OK? You don’t even have to ask to leave. OK?”
“OK. I can do that,” he left less panicked but still had his lips pursed.
Class came and 30 minutes had passed and nothing from Johnny but comments about Tom Sawyer. But then…the big, panicked eyes. I discreetly pointed towards the door for him to excuse himself. He jumped up, quickly walked. But as he opened the door, he hung onto the nob and pushed his rear into the hall and let one fly, a honker of all honks! Johnny felt better and looked relieved only to turn back into class to face all of us in hysterics. He too, was doubled over in laughter. How do you get back to Tom and Huck from this?
Is there an innate desire in boys to fart? Is it their animal call? It doesn’t impress girls, so do they do it to impress their buddies? The College of Education at any university, at least to my knowledge, does not address boogers, farting, or other bodily functions. Apparently it is assumed students don’t do this or that no one will care? I’ve never been in a class where ‘ripping it’ goes unnoticed. Honestly, go to the bathroom, learn to hold it, or take Beano! All of these work, so figure it out. Do your butt barking in the halls and leave the classroom free of flatulence!
Chante Souvent du Verde (Sing Often of Green)
I am colored…light blue and faded into pink; a sunset seems to grow from the skyline. I am this mystery, a mix of hues. Emotions squeezed from an ominous, grey-black cloud, I remember the day I became the oak tree struck by lightning. I wanted a light blue, cloudless sky overhead. I was not Michele, pretty and pink, I was now tough, charred, and angry. Age 25, 3 teenagers nested in my branches. Knots knarled and branched wanted to remain winter: brittle and lifeless. I fight to keep cold the ground of my life. But spring came and green grew. At times I feel a termite, decaying to the core; but through it all I remain myself: strong for the battle. Wood can fight fire when wet with tears. I scream with anger—my 1 child dead.
I pound the soil wanting answers.
I search the sky for signs of life.
Black soars and circles-----not the life I wanted to appear.
I sing to forget.
I smile to breathe in happiness. …It works and my grey gloom lifts; fog blankets the earth and light blue again colors me.
Nature provides my sanity—it’s my life’s shelf. My roots are colored green, deep, South Dakota born breathed with pine’s purpose. I stand tall now in winter with my needled branches providing protection and comfort. Now that I’ve found roots on Briarwood Ave., Colorado blue spruce is the perch I’ll settle upon. I am the mosaic Bonjour on my front door, dreaming of vacations never spent; its letters as blue as the Seine River. I’ll stand on those shores some day and feel light blue upon my toes.
I sing to soothe.
I sleep to revive.
I laugh to show love.
I love, I love, I love.
Ceramic, smooth to touch, Grandma’s Lincoln red roses, dahlias, and four o’clocks bloom on the vase of my life. Her Catholic mantra fills in the cracks of my vase, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” I’ve had to repeat this day in and day out at times—my vessel must hold more water than it seems. Its made for enjoyment, yet is wrecked easily; I’m colored bold as orange ice cream and white as this paper. Pen stains it and I live for its drawings. Letters create the words I live by; the alpha and omega and the budding spring---they teach me. Summer’s schnook wind whispers solace, fall brings fireworks, and my winter is now snowmen in scarves. …For now, my skies will have a hint of light blue.
------------Inspired by Zora Neale Hurston's essay: "How it Feels to Be Colored Me"
Random Autobiography
I was the Mother’s Day gift my dad teased my mom she wouldn’t get.
May 8th—I was early to make her a mom.
Michele with “one L”—
have never been able to find my name spelled right on a pencil, sticker, or a pen.
I still look though.
Once I protected my sister and 2 friends from a Doberman pincher. A deep man’s voice yelled from my throat—who was that brave 11-year old, anyway?
Once I jumped off a cliff, my buddies shot off fireworks and sparks ignited. A federal offense to start a fire in a national forest, I knew.
I rolled, tumbled, cut and bleeding, stomped out the fire in my Hirachi sandles. Fined $500 after we called the fire department. Jeff wouldn’t let us pay for it. I respected him for that.
Once I raced down this 200-ft. steep road in my neighborhood—racing to beat the neighbor boys. My dad and I built this rocket to be fast with huge tires and an old kitchen chair for a seat. I won and loved being first.
I’ve loved many times, dreaming of weddings, but feel my groom of 11 years is my luckiest dream come true.
I’ve made chore charts, grounded teenagers Becca and Eric, for messy rooms, soon realizing I better clean my own if the rule was to work. I soon changed the rule. Teenagers not my own, but their mom I am—ten years later.
Laugh so hard, so often. I can’t wait for the next funny moment. Once I spit red Kool-aid all over my birthday guests because I was laughing so hard.
Grace is not my middle name as once I dropped a peach margarita down a woman’s back, tripped and threw a whole tray of food across the restaurant; what an artistic display guacamole and enchilada makes.
Twice I’ve been a mom, but only see the smile from one child.
Once in class, had a student get a rubberband stuck on his head, shades of purple, red, and white pulsed across his face. I’ve never seen a rubberband fly across the room quite like that one.
Once I had a student hide in a cupboard trying to scare me…the cabinet locked and I laughed so hard while we screamed and laughed from inside.
Once I had a senior…a senior! get stuck behind a pole in my class. Pushing one way while another student pulled, we did get him out. I wondered what I would say if we didn’t.
Once I had a student scream in pain from the back of the room. Looking up I saw a stapler hanging from his ear. Trying to wrestle a stapler—yanking it off his ear, is what he did, not me. 10 seconds later, another boy turned green, truly, and I ran out the door with him to find a trash can. Coming back, another student was heaving in the aisle and I realized my classroom was an infirmary and I was done teaching that day.
When we lost Chloe, students sent cards—truly hundreds—wishing me and my family well wishes. Jeremy and I would sit on the couch laughing and crying at their messages. I would not have survived without them. Teenagers bleed and cry right along with us, despite what the news proclaims about them.
Daily I am thankful for my profession.
Daily I am exhausted by students’ energy.
Daily I walk my dogs Tucker and Wyatt and feel their love through their sad and sweet eyes. I must have been a dog as I often use silly voices to tell others what they have to say.
Sisters so close, we finish each others’ sentences and a mom that dresses just like me.
A dad that will do anything for his daughters and has become Jeremy’s mentor.
A mother’s day gift I was. Wanting to be a mother again, someday; my life began as a gift and teaches me that life will always be a surprise.
“This I Believe---With Pinball Poignancy” submitted to the NPR "This I Believe" essays: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4538138
“Pull up your britches…no harm done…put on your smile…”—phrases I heard often in my childhood. They rattled in my head dropping like a gumball into the silver tray; these words dropped into my beliefs, my core, my inner cavity.
Scraped knee, tears streaming, a tight hug, a band-aid and then the “britches” comment. It was time now to be brave and stand the 7-year-old tall I was. This harnesses me as if strength were suspenders holding me up. I helped raised three teenagers not my own, survived two deaths of parents, and then encountered the saddest loss—our little girl. Grief is allowed I learned, but bravery must prevail. The work ethic of "digging in" even in sorrow carries me and I believe in its power.
Broken glass at dinner, spilled milk seeping across the red linen, Christmas tablecloth, my parents quickly get up to remedy the mess and then say the words that I now say to my son, to guests, to family. “No harm done” is true and resonates the value of being together and the replace-ability of material goods. Arguing with my mom, pillow damp from teenage tears, these words also comforted me and the “I’m sorry” became so easy to say. “No harm done” allows for mistakes in life and is always followed by forgiveness. I believe my ability to look past people’s unkind ways, accepting them is a treasure that started from a simple gesture over spilled milk.
I remember breaking up with my first “serious” boyfriend, heart-broken and my mom telling me to “Put on a smile” as I walk down the hallway at school the next day. “Just be nice and you’ll feel better.” The drama of high school and college friendships became easier as I learned my mom was right; smiling, finding humor in relationships instead of finding faults became second nature. I believe my smile teaches kindness and creates a lifestyle that doesn’t take oneself too seriously.
Three simple phrases turned into priceless mantras about being brave, being empathetic, and being humble—a resiliency that is like a pinball bouncing through me. My parents’ patient words seem simple and I believe truly formed me. I will pull the spring-loaded lever of life to impact this to my child and hopefully these words will rattle and settle within him.
Baseball
Learning to play baseball fit him like his light-tan glove--comfortable, easy, natural. He loved knowing the difference between "going to 2" or being "the cut-off" as a ball soared over his head behind 1st. "Beautiful, Carter!" was a bark his coach yelled that sprang onto his chest bouncing into my soul. The hours listening to coach commands lulled and lifted my spirits; June baseball at age six transported me beyond just the 1-week absence from school.
As summer peeked around my high school's halls, hot weather was her backpack and I knew the heat was coming. Teaching is strange; we lose and gain ourselves every 9 months. This summer, seeing her pending hours as unwanted homework, I dreaded greeting her in the hall. Yet sitting in a camping chair, sweet smell of grass like basil to spaghetti, watching Carter bat, my breaths took in the aroma. I realized summer had cooked up some solace.
Rounding first, he slid into second, adjusted the batting helmet, and shot Jeremy, Melissa, and me a front-toothless grin. I should have worn my track shoes and run a lap for every smile; I too could have earned Cold Stone. What I did do was capture a few swings of the bat, throws to first--digital phots sent to grandparents not able to be there. An hour turned to two truly felt like twenty minutes and vanished a school year of to-do lists, grading mountains, and seemingly endless meetings.
"Mom! Mom!" I blink out of tranquility. "Bo wants to be just like me," Carter says with a shoulder swagger I've never seen. Conjure back the to-do list and add: work on a little humility.
Soul Map
I mapped my heart today, not corollaries and veins,
But how I am filled, bleeding emotions and air-giving life,
I feel tears inside comforted by a giggle,
Pictures of silly days, family draped around each other.
Christmas moments amidst candy canes.
I mapped my heart today, strange to see its picture,
What would it say to see itself?
Does this look like it does in its mirror?
Teach to live each day as passionately as I feel it beating,
Knocking to remind me to truly live…and believe.
Oak's Strength
What is wood is solid, unbending
a place to set books and sit tired bones
Black was the color of one day where I
wood move.
Hands clasped, we filed into "our" pew,
Laughing through tears,
"2 parents dead by 16," Becca said, "I'd say
I own this pew now."
We sat on worn wood, soft to our
fingers as we played with the crumpled kleenexes.
I notice Eric, age 19, his body starting to fail him--
sadness now strong over spine.
He grabs the edge of the pew--
for stability, for comfort,
The wood stood tall,
lifted him, at least inside.
He quietly grieved, then with
hand on rail,
his head lifted back above the oak.
This day I saw wood's purpose:
giving strength.
She Embodies Christmas
I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,
I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day;
yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,
I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,
I feel tricked yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,
I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret. I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.
Poetry Hides
...In the tears that I strangle so they won’t fall,
In the race my feet never run, waiting in Reeboks,
In the plants drooping over ceramic pots screaming to be noticed—
“Water me, dammit,” they demand.
...In my son’s crooked smile as he says, “No mama, I can do it myself.”
In my husband’s hands hard-working, firm and often close-fisted, holding in his pain,
In my laughing lines framing blue eyes
In the pen I hold tightly as I stare blankly at the dust bunny peeking from under my fridge,
In Carter wrestling-dribbling-arms surrounding-pushing-knocking-me-over-“I love you
Mama” time,
Poetry hides in peculiar places taunting, whispering, and loving.
Take a moment to find it.
Grandpa Hurley
March 14, 2005
Sparkling blue eyes gave the message that each of us grandchildren are important. You found a way with asking questions to show us how special we are. Table-top conversations turned into hours of wondering and remembering memories of your life and how they relate to ours. Thank you for all of those precious moments.
Gentle commandments, “Jeremy, the lawn could sure use a mow,” “I have a fence post that needs to be dug out, you got a half hour?,” as you adjust your black rimmed glasses above a smile. Half a day latter and promises of an ice cream cone: I thank you for sharing your boyhood stories, determination and persistence of getting jobs done.
Rocking from toe to heal you made each song and story we ever told meaningful. We will never forget you telling your stories and singing your songs. Taking the time to share your wisdom to college dorms, two dollar bills at Christmas time, hand written “I love you’s”, and poetic ministries will stay with us with each of our passing days. Embrace that tells you that you are one of my children, you and grandma taught us children how to love: two stories weaved from Grandma’s mouth to yours complete each others thoughts, a hardship that has found the funny moment, a name remembered, a place recalled, the long looks, helping each other with laughter. Thank you for showing us respect, humor, and how to love.
We will always see you standing at the edge of the farm gravel road or the walk-way waving good buy until we greet you walking up to heaven’s doorway.
Labeled?Jumbo Size Kosher Pickles
Long lines formed, awkward middle schoolers, pretending
To be older than we felt,
Bonnie Bell LipSmacker in my pocket—strawberry.
It felt like the first day of school, donned in new clothes--
Sweatin’ it in stiff blue jeans from
Summer heat, yet we were in the mood for fall.
Physicals were required, doctors waited inside,
“Urine sample?” “Yes, in my sack, here.”
Students would fidget and wish the process to be over.
We gabbed and gossiped, looked at faces we didn’t know from other schools:
“He’s cute.”
“She should’ve shaved.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
Bits of conversations surrounded our stickiness.
A boy, Tom Heald
Sam’s Club-size pickle jar,
No brown-paper sack surrounding his specimen,
Snickers, jeers-- “Ya been saving it all summer?”
Red-faced and freckles dark brown,
A student of West Middle School, no longer
Has a name, only a place---
“Not here, go away, freak.”
This person stripped of humanity, holding his life in
Glass, see-through as he felt,
Yellow and aged in a moment,
Did he wish to melt away? S
tart the day over?
I reapplied the gloss, tried to smile his way to say,
“It’s ok; they’re jerks.”
He didn’t notice—anyone.
What I Have, I Must Not Forget
Monday, 22 May 2006
I have… pain that whispers continually,
a house we don’t own yet, but one that is ours,
a son on earth and a daughter in heaven
a window that takes me somewhere else.
I have… a love for salt and yet hate disagreements— feels like salt on wounds.
I have… two dogs that are pinballs inside our house
and fireflies inside the night that’s my soul.
I have… a mom who smiles even when she’s sad,
I have the same smile.
I have… a 4-wheel drive that longs for speed and riveting roads,
I have to teach in the weekly moments of my days,
but often wish for more teachable moments.
I have… a love that makes me feel at home
even though he no longer has a home, but ours.
I have laughter that is loud and seeks for humor…always.
I have… what I do and remember that what I don’t have--- is probably for the best.
Green Fuel
Darker than the first leaves sprouting out of limbs, yellowed spots hardened,
crisp and crinkled, I am surrounded. Shaking in the wind, rattling like
the poisonous snake’s tail hiking in tall grasses trying to soak up the
last of summer’s sun, I hike unaware. Dog pants, tail wags--
whether an hour run or a whole day; Wyatt never tires
unlike my legs. Panting, humming, taking in nature, a
Monarch flitters by and lands on a pink yarrow. I
pause to capture the image; the digital image
remains as the butterfly takes flight. This
solace fills my soul; I am absorbed in this
hike forgetting the city, to-do lists, and
worries. Nature fuels me with its green.
Geometry for an English Teacher
Scribbling, doodling, wondering, wandering, I fill my pages with words. Boxes—3 dimension,
triangles and spheres, the margins is an easel for brainless walks with my pen. Creating
stories, dialogue that feels real, intense images— Scratched off and thrown away. My
poem feels finished, but my fiction feels forced. I write to bleed and cry and scream,
at people and sorrows too deep and too real to approach. It’s an outlet, an island,
an escape I take; focus on the feelings, yet not getting too close to the ink that
flows out of my pen.
A Black and White Vacation
stacking, flipping pages, scanning words,
writing notes, skimming, asking,
laughing at words,
watching the story play in my head,
escaping, relaxing, going some place else,
I soar into words and come out
a villain, a drug dealer, an artist—
in love… with reading.
Blue Vinyl Smile
Blue synthetic leather, rippled and cold to my fingers, the gold letters plainly spell “Photos.” I flip through the pages laughing at the 70’s styles: bell bottoms, butterfly sleeves, and blonde flipped hair. Smiling faces seems to dance between the vinyl pages—a childhood of strong family ties from South Dakota to Louisiana. I wonder if my happiness quota had been filled up too soon; my sadness in my adult life tends to drown me. And yet, sitting on my couch today, espresso brown leather album smooth to my fingers still show pictures filled with smiles. Where are all my tears?
----------------------------------------------------
Three teens sitting on the Cameron’s couch, shocked, mouths opened as we explained that Social Services had called and explained that due to “your father’s drinking and neglect of the children, we are putting your siblings in foster care.” My husband’s face drained of color. We made phone calls: aunts in Michigan, grandma in Arkansas and one in Arizona, uncle in Colorado, and even wealthy family friends in South Dakota. No luck and certainly no use. “Sorry, this is a mess your parents created.” “This is terrible news, I’m sure, Jeremy, but it is truly out of your hands.” “The kids will be fine and they know where they can find all of us.” These were not the sentences we thought we’d hear. Smiling I say to my husband of just a year and 2 months, “Well, I’m always up for an adventure.”
----------------------------------------------------
“We decided that even though it will be the biggest challenge of our life, we want you three to move in with us and try to end this circle of alcoholism. We want you all to have a future and know that you’re loved.” We meant those words. We really did. Smiles and tears, our stomachs ached from the stress, yet I smiled and hugged. Why didn’t I scream and run?
----------------------------------------------------
Smile is defined as “a facial expression characterized by turning up the corners of the mouth; usually shows pleasure or amusement” and “To express cheerful acceptance or equanimity” (WordReference.com). Why then, do I smile so often? Three teenagers move in just a year after marriage—I smile. Husband’s two parents dead 4 years into our marriage—I smile grasping shoulders, handing out tissues. Three more family members, my grandfather and both Jeremy’s grandparents—more smiles as I write poetry reflecting on their life and memories. And the saddest, my unborn baby born at 31 weeks. It took a while for me to smile, but I do. I smile at students’ silly antics in class, smile for the fact that Carter is alive, I am alive, I am alive; I have to remind myself sometimes when my alarm rings. “Cheerful acceptance” is not how I feel, yet I smile.
----------------------------------------------------
Hamlet tells us, “that one smiles, and smiles and is a villain.” Wickedness does seep between the upturned lips. At times my rage is so great, I lose who I am and smiles become sleep which becomes dreams. This anger, this unanswered why screaming in my brain comes out in my writing at times:
“Metal Remains”
I dream my fingers are knives,
Corruption upon my skin
They scratch and tear, yet
Only redness remains,
I want to bleed to
Feel the pain on the
Inside be released… A
nd yet these fingers, soft
And gentle lie waste in
My bed, strapped they remain,
Paralyzed with fear and needing freedom.
I stare at nubby, white ceiling
Not knowing the future,
Take a big bite and let its jagged fumes pierce,
it taunts me.
Getting out of bed, I would pummel it,
cottage cheese would remain,
Instead, barren and cold, the grey trays and food uneaten are all
That comfort me.
When old women say, “It smells of snow,” trying to chit chat,
Teeth clenched, I dream again
Fingers with blades.
Leave me rotting, “TV remote?” they ask.
“Why would I want to escape this paradise?” Sarcasm is now my voice.
Family huddles outside my room,
“He isn’t a religious man,” I hear,
“Should we call a priest? Does he have friends?”
Asks a neighbor, I smile and imagine my flesh hardening to metal,
forgetting the questions people ask,
it’s really none of their business.
My wish is granted, Transformed and gone,
Cuts, chops, and chasms I can create.
Yet, I never imagined the
Feeling without a soul, still smiling--
It is cold, bitter as a penny.
----------------------------------------------------
Angus Trumble, author of the The Brief History of the Smile, explains that the smile is first captured in Greek sculptures, “their mysterious smile animates them, gives them life and breath” (McCaughey 1). As I imagined molting into metal, I still smiled and life did remain.
----------------------------------------------------
Today I wonder about the wearers of smiles; Mona Lisa smiles yet her inspiration remains a mystery. Retracing my steps on this Tuesday in January, I recall a conversation that pulled on my tear-strings, yet out came a smile. My friend belly round, babe inside, due in six short weeks explains that her OB appointment was terrible yesterday. My insides shake, yet I give constant eye contact and slow nods. “I lost a pound. Pregnant women don’t lose weight! The baby has grown, but the ultrasound technician struggled to get the measurements. I told them about you, Michele, and how scared I am.” “I’m glad you did and it’s ok. Keep in touch with your doctor and go with what your instincts tell you. They’re right.” My smile was small, but sincere. I won’t go into the pain or sorrow, but am here for a friend. My smile does not bring pleasure to me, but to its intended.
----------------------------------------------------
My answer drops before me typing black and white on the page. Smiles. Smiles that laugh and console, love and lie, live and die. I know why I smile and mostly it’s for others.
----------------------------------------------------
Singing “Snapshot” loudly in my uncle’s Ford, we turn the corner on a cool, fall day and my sister and I slide across the vinyl seats. Cotton slips easily and so does the day: melodies float under our laughter and I see my reflection in his rearview mirror, smiling. Teethy grin, smiling, happy days spent with family. I guess my photo books tell the story I want to keep. The sad stories have their own album.
----------------------------------------------------
Ashes
Kept in an urn, 3 inches tall,
Hopes are cold to the touch.
Wicker-weaved dreams dropped in the handled box,
Evergreens and rain embrace in the storm,
Their lullaby wounds my heart,
Bleeds pink on the day my daughter was born.
Precious Little One
Unwrapping the pink calico and lace bag,
the pink satin ribbonslips through my hands,
I know what’s inside, my treasure, my sorrow,
God’s gift to us as He has her now,
I remember the past week in flashes,
a video of bittersweet—lemonade that seems toquench your thirst,
yet sits in your jaw bone making you thirstier.
“ I want her to have a pretty name, mom,” Carter said between sobs,
“ Rose, mom, can we name her Rose?”
“ Of course we can, how about it for her middle name?”
“ Yeah mom.”
The sonogram moves over my tummy, no sound but the loud fuzz like
the radio not on a station,
we should hear the heartbeat,
we don’t…and never do.
The letters and cards offer prayers, love, and questions we all will never have answered,
Mrs. Davis, I love you, get better, come back,
we miss you,
simple phrases that caress my ache inside;
I cherish my students and wish everyone had them in their world,
our flowers and cards perch on every table and counter—
thank you we say, sadly,we would rather our surfaces were bare.
We watch the screen, there she is: perfect spine, toes, hands, lungs, and yet
there’s blackness where her heart should be beating…
Beat, dammit! Lord, why is this happening! Beat, dear God, make her heart beat!Stillness.
Blackness has never made me so sad.
We cleave to each other, our sobs echo in the hospital room that is as big as our apartment,Nothing matters,
except that our little girl is no longer alive,
She remains within in me, seems alive,
yet she’s gone.
I need to see Carter.
There she lies, yellow and pink daisies and a red, red rose—
red as her lips, pink asher-upturned nose—
it’s Jeremy’s, it’s Carter’s, it’s mine
—it’s just perfect,
my dad’s hands seem to cover her body;
he signs the cross on her forehead,
sisters’ words comfort,
their eyes cry with ours,
my mom is our rock, making hard phone calls,
cleaning, washing, and loving—
Jeremy, Carter,and I are so blessed to have them in our lives.
The chaplain comes,
Jeremy and I cry and pray,
Chloe wrapped in several blankets,
Why, Lord?
Why did you take her Home so soon?
Jeremy makes the sign of the cross on her forehead and we
cover her head, goodbye, our precious,
I know, we will survive, and she will be loved,
“ And now we have an angel, mama.”
“I didn’t know what to say or do, but I knew I could get in the car and drive here, so that’s what I did,”Eric arrives, a wonderful diversion: shopping, eating out, and watching Carter entertain his uncle.
Small hand and footprints black,
they look like they’re fresh,
pressed as if she could wiggle and breathe,
these inkprints and memories are all that live on.
I love you, precious little one, my daughter, Chloe Rose.
I close the flowered bag, wipe my tears, and sigh,
Thank you God for taking care of my child,
I pray that you will hold her close and love her until I can myself.
A Child's Message
Carter climbs up next to “Miss Katie” after he asks
to hold Kassidy,
“ Of course,” she smiles,
“ I’m so glad she’s healthy,” he adds then,
“ I’m kinda’ like her big brother. I mean,I know Charlie is really her big brother,but I could be one too.”
“ Absolutely, that’s exactly right.”
Through tears we all know this child is blessing.
Life turns like a leaf in the fall,
Green, strong, waving in a breeze, then veins of gold sneak through,
-----this life has fallen.
Miracles such as this one in Skyridge astound me.
We lost what was to be our little miracle a short 3 ½ months earlier,
but we came back.
We came back with love, with hope for her future…and ours.
Carter taught me an important lesson;
I lock it inside hoping that I can find it whenI feel summer turning to fall,
He’s giving such sincere love, glad for Kass’s health,
he found his purpose in her life and a message for me:
Life is circular and purposeful;
open your eyes.
My class discussion begins: a lovely, thoughtful question asking 9th graders if teenagers can really be in love. Hands fly up and the energy is charged like a puppy woken up from a nap. The debate begins. “No, they can’t. We’re not ready for babies and bills.”
“Not babies! Just being in love…ya’know feelings of commitment. I know several teenagers who really are in love.”
“My aunt and uncle met…” the conversation continues, but my sense of smell is a blinking red light. A horrible egg smell seems to rise from the masses.
“Sick!” “Ben!” “Wasn’t me!” he says laughing.
This is my pet peeve—kids who fart in class. What, can’t you hold it? You like the smell? You feel that sick? Why must flatulence be a topic a high school teacher must address? I had one such student my second year of teaching. Johnny Gonzales—I will never forget his name; I’ve lost several nose hairs because of him.
A room full of twenty-six 6th graders, full of energy as it was, and I saw this student for two classes: grammar and literature (4th and 6th hour). Every day without fail, twenty minutes into class, a horrific smell would waft across the room—or worse?—a honk would disrupt our activities, and not one from the busy street out front. Giggles, of course, immediately followed and it was hard to get the students back on track. So, I wondered what to do. Do you call home for flatulence? Do you write a referral for continued class disruption? I decided that a note to Mrs. Gonzales would be the route:
Dear Mrs. Gonzales, I’m quite embarrassed to write this and I wouldn’t do so if it wasn’t a sincere problem. Johnny comes to both my classes each day and lets out several toots. He must not be feeling well as this has persisted for over 2 weeks. Could you visit with him about his flatulence? Thank you, ~Mrs. Davis
Dear Mrs. Davis, the envelope said with a smily face. This was a good sign, I thought. I opened the letter chuckling: We have talked to Johnny and he knows how disgusting farting is—and how rude it has been to do so in class. We have decided that taking Beano in the morning will help. Let us know if this continues. I know how embarrassing this must have been to write the note, but we appreciate it! We don’t want our son to be known as a farter! ~Mr. And Mrs. Gonzales
Several weeks went by and Johnny was doing just fine. . . until a certain Tuesday. Before school on this day, Johnny bounded up the steps to my class and raced into my room, “Mrs. Davis! Mrs. Davis!” He panted and hollered my name. “I didn’t take my Beano this morning!” Big, panicked eyes—he wanted help.
“You’ll be fine, Johnny,” I said fighting back my laughter. “If you feel a little…ah…gurlgly in class, just head out, OK? You don’t even have to ask to leave. OK?”
“OK. I can do that,” he left less panicked but still had his lips pursed.
Class came and 30 minutes had passed and nothing from Johnny but comments about Tom Sawyer. But then…the big, panicked eyes. I discreetly pointed towards the door for him to excuse himself. He jumped up, quickly walked. But as he opened the door, he hung onto the nob and pushed his rear into the hall and let one fly, a honker of all honks! Johnny felt better and looked relieved only to turn back into class to face all of us in hysterics. He too, was doubled over in laughter. How do you get back to Tom and Huck from this?
Is there an innate desire in boys to fart? Is it their animal call? It doesn’t impress girls, so do they do it to impress their buddies? The College of Education at any university, at least to my knowledge, does not address boogers, farting, or other bodily functions. Apparently it is assumed students don’t do this or that no one will care? I’ve never been in a class where ‘ripping it’ goes unnoticed. Honestly, go to the bathroom, learn to hold it, or take Beano! All of these work, so figure it out. Do your butt barking in the halls and leave the classroom free of flatulence!
Chante Souvent du Verde (Sing Often of Green)
I am colored…light blue and faded into pink; a sunset seems to grow from the skyline. I am this mystery, a mix of hues. Emotions squeezed from an ominous, grey-black cloud, I remember the day I became the oak tree struck by lightning. I wanted a light blue, cloudless sky overhead. I was not Michele, pretty and pink, I was now tough, charred, and angry. Age 25, 3 teenagers nested in my branches. Knots knarled and branched wanted to remain winter: brittle and lifeless. I fight to keep cold the ground of my life. But spring came and green grew. At times I feel a termite, decaying to the core; but through it all I remain myself: strong for the battle. Wood can fight fire when wet with tears. I scream with anger—my 1 child dead.
I pound the soil wanting answers.
I search the sky for signs of life.
Black soars and circles-----not the life I wanted to appear.
I sing to forget.
I smile to breathe in happiness. …It works and my grey gloom lifts; fog blankets the earth and light blue again colors me.
Nature provides my sanity—it’s my life’s shelf. My roots are colored green, deep, South Dakota born breathed with pine’s purpose. I stand tall now in winter with my needled branches providing protection and comfort. Now that I’ve found roots on Briarwood Ave., Colorado blue spruce is the perch I’ll settle upon. I am the mosaic Bonjour on my front door, dreaming of vacations never spent; its letters as blue as the Seine River. I’ll stand on those shores some day and feel light blue upon my toes.
I sing to soothe.
I sleep to revive.
I laugh to show love.
I love, I love, I love.
Ceramic, smooth to touch, Grandma’s Lincoln red roses, dahlias, and four o’clocks bloom on the vase of my life. Her Catholic mantra fills in the cracks of my vase, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” I’ve had to repeat this day in and day out at times—my vessel must hold more water than it seems. Its made for enjoyment, yet is wrecked easily; I’m colored bold as orange ice cream and white as this paper. Pen stains it and I live for its drawings. Letters create the words I live by; the alpha and omega and the budding spring---they teach me. Summer’s schnook wind whispers solace, fall brings fireworks, and my winter is now snowmen in scarves. …For now, my skies will have a hint of light blue.
------------Inspired by Zora Neale Hurston's essay: "How it Feels to Be Colored Me"
Random Autobiography
I was the Mother’s Day gift my dad teased my mom she wouldn’t get.
May 8th—I was early to make her a mom.
Michele with “one L”—
have never been able to find my name spelled right on a pencil, sticker, or a pen.
I still look though.
Once I protected my sister and 2 friends from a Doberman pincher. A deep man’s voice yelled from my throat—who was that brave 11-year old, anyway?
Once I jumped off a cliff, my buddies shot off fireworks and sparks ignited. A federal offense to start a fire in a national forest, I knew.
I rolled, tumbled, cut and bleeding, stomped out the fire in my Hirachi sandles. Fined $500 after we called the fire department. Jeff wouldn’t let us pay for it. I respected him for that.
Once I raced down this 200-ft. steep road in my neighborhood—racing to beat the neighbor boys. My dad and I built this rocket to be fast with huge tires and an old kitchen chair for a seat. I won and loved being first.
I’ve loved many times, dreaming of weddings, but feel my groom of 11 years is my luckiest dream come true.
I’ve made chore charts, grounded teenagers Becca and Eric, for messy rooms, soon realizing I better clean my own if the rule was to work. I soon changed the rule. Teenagers not my own, but their mom I am—ten years later.
Laugh so hard, so often. I can’t wait for the next funny moment. Once I spit red Kool-aid all over my birthday guests because I was laughing so hard.
Grace is not my middle name as once I dropped a peach margarita down a woman’s back, tripped and threw a whole tray of food across the restaurant; what an artistic display guacamole and enchilada makes.
Twice I’ve been a mom, but only see the smile from one child.
Once in class, had a student get a rubberband stuck on his head, shades of purple, red, and white pulsed across his face. I’ve never seen a rubberband fly across the room quite like that one.
Once I had a student hide in a cupboard trying to scare me…the cabinet locked and I laughed so hard while we screamed and laughed from inside.
Once I had a senior…a senior! get stuck behind a pole in my class. Pushing one way while another student pulled, we did get him out. I wondered what I would say if we didn’t.
Once I had a student scream in pain from the back of the room. Looking up I saw a stapler hanging from his ear. Trying to wrestle a stapler—yanking it off his ear, is what he did, not me. 10 seconds later, another boy turned green, truly, and I ran out the door with him to find a trash can. Coming back, another student was heaving in the aisle and I realized my classroom was an infirmary and I was done teaching that day.
When we lost Chloe, students sent cards—truly hundreds—wishing me and my family well wishes. Jeremy and I would sit on the couch laughing and crying at their messages. I would not have survived without them. Teenagers bleed and cry right along with us, despite what the news proclaims about them.
Daily I am thankful for my profession.
Daily I am exhausted by students’ energy.
Daily I walk my dogs Tucker and Wyatt and feel their love through their sad and sweet eyes. I must have been a dog as I often use silly voices to tell others what they have to say.
Sisters so close, we finish each others’ sentences and a mom that dresses just like me.
A dad that will do anything for his daughters and has become Jeremy’s mentor.
A mother’s day gift I was. Wanting to be a mother again, someday; my life began as a gift and teaches me that life will always be a surprise.
“This I Believe---With Pinball Poignancy” submitted to the NPR "This I Believe" essays: http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=4538138
“Pull up your britches…no harm done…put on your smile…”—phrases I heard often in my childhood. They rattled in my head dropping like a gumball into the silver tray; these words dropped into my beliefs, my core, my inner cavity.
Scraped knee, tears streaming, a tight hug, a band-aid and then the “britches” comment. It was time now to be brave and stand the 7-year-old tall I was. This harnesses me as if strength were suspenders holding me up. I helped raised three teenagers not my own, survived two deaths of parents, and then encountered the saddest loss—our little girl. Grief is allowed I learned, but bravery must prevail. The work ethic of "digging in" even in sorrow carries me and I believe in its power.
Broken glass at dinner, spilled milk seeping across the red linen, Christmas tablecloth, my parents quickly get up to remedy the mess and then say the words that I now say to my son, to guests, to family. “No harm done” is true and resonates the value of being together and the replace-ability of material goods. Arguing with my mom, pillow damp from teenage tears, these words also comforted me and the “I’m sorry” became so easy to say. “No harm done” allows for mistakes in life and is always followed by forgiveness. I believe my ability to look past people’s unkind ways, accepting them is a treasure that started from a simple gesture over spilled milk.
I remember breaking up with my first “serious” boyfriend, heart-broken and my mom telling me to “Put on a smile” as I walk down the hallway at school the next day. “Just be nice and you’ll feel better.” The drama of high school and college friendships became easier as I learned my mom was right; smiling, finding humor in relationships instead of finding faults became second nature. I believe my smile teaches kindness and creates a lifestyle that doesn’t take oneself too seriously.
Three simple phrases turned into priceless mantras about being brave, being empathetic, and being humble—a resiliency that is like a pinball bouncing through me. My parents’ patient words seem simple and I believe truly formed me. I will pull the spring-loaded lever of life to impact this to my child and hopefully these words will rattle and settle within him.
Baseball
Learning to play baseball fit him like his light-tan glove--comfortable, easy, natural. He loved knowing the difference between "going to 2" or being "the cut-off" as a ball soared over his head behind 1st. "Beautiful, Carter!" was a bark his coach yelled that sprang onto his chest bouncing into my soul. The hours listening to coach commands lulled and lifted my spirits; June baseball at age six transported me beyond just the 1-week absence from school.
As summer peeked around my high school's halls, hot weather was her backpack and I knew the heat was coming. Teaching is strange; we lose and gain ourselves every 9 months. This summer, seeing her pending hours as unwanted homework, I dreaded greeting her in the hall. Yet sitting in a camping chair, sweet smell of grass like basil to spaghetti, watching Carter bat, my breaths took in the aroma. I realized summer had cooked up some solace.
Rounding first, he slid into second, adjusted the batting helmet, and shot Jeremy, Melissa, and me a front-toothless grin. I should have worn my track shoes and run a lap for every smile; I too could have earned Cold Stone. What I did do was capture a few swings of the bat, throws to first--digital phots sent to grandparents not able to be there. An hour turned to two truly felt like twenty minutes and vanished a school year of to-do lists, grading mountains, and seemingly endless meetings.
"Mom! Mom!" I blink out of tranquility. "Bo wants to be just like me," Carter says with a shoulder swagger I've never seen. Conjure back the to-do list and add: work on a little humility.
Soul Map
I mapped my heart today, not corollaries and veins,
But how I am filled, bleeding emotions and air-giving life,
I feel tears inside comforted by a giggle,
Pictures of silly days, family draped around each other.
Christmas moments amidst candy canes.
I mapped my heart today, strange to see its picture,
What would it say to see itself?
Does this look like it does in its mirror?
Teach to live each day as passionately as I feel it beating,
Knocking to remind me to truly live…and believe.
Oak's Strength
What is wood is solid, unbending
a place to set books and sit tired bones
Black was the color of one day where I
wood move.
Hands clasped, we filed into "our" pew,
Laughing through tears,
"2 parents dead by 16," Becca said, "I'd say
I own this pew now."
We sat on worn wood, soft to our
fingers as we played with the crumpled kleenexes.
I notice Eric, age 19, his body starting to fail him--
sadness now strong over spine.
He grabs the edge of the pew--
for stability, for comfort,
The wood stood tall,
lifted him, at least inside.
He quietly grieved, then with
hand on rail,
his head lifted back above the oak.
This day I saw wood's purpose:
giving strength.
She Embodies Christmas
I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,
I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day;
yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,
I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,
I feel tricked yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,
I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret. I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.
Poetry Hides
...In the tears that I strangle so they won’t fall,
In the race my feet never run, waiting in Reeboks,
In the plants drooping over ceramic pots screaming to be noticed—
“Water me, dammit,” they demand.
...In my son’s crooked smile as he says, “No mama, I can do it myself.”
In my husband’s hands hard-working, firm and often close-fisted, holding in his pain,
In my laughing lines framing blue eyes
In the pen I hold tightly as I stare blankly at the dust bunny peeking from under my fridge,
In Carter wrestling-dribbling-arms surrounding-pushing-knocking-me-over-“I love you
Mama” time,
Poetry hides in peculiar places taunting, whispering, and loving.
Take a moment to find it.
Grandpa Hurley
March 14, 2005
Sparkling blue eyes gave the message that each of us grandchildren are important. You found a way with asking questions to show us how special we are. Table-top conversations turned into hours of wondering and remembering memories of your life and how they relate to ours. Thank you for all of those precious moments.
Gentle commandments, “Jeremy, the lawn could sure use a mow,” “I have a fence post that needs to be dug out, you got a half hour?,” as you adjust your black rimmed glasses above a smile. Half a day latter and promises of an ice cream cone: I thank you for sharing your boyhood stories, determination and persistence of getting jobs done.
Rocking from toe to heal you made each song and story we ever told meaningful. We will never forget you telling your stories and singing your songs. Taking the time to share your wisdom to college dorms, two dollar bills at Christmas time, hand written “I love you’s”, and poetic ministries will stay with us with each of our passing days. Embrace that tells you that you are one of my children, you and grandma taught us children how to love: two stories weaved from Grandma’s mouth to yours complete each others thoughts, a hardship that has found the funny moment, a name remembered, a place recalled, the long looks, helping each other with laughter. Thank you for showing us respect, humor, and how to love.
We will always see you standing at the edge of the farm gravel road or the walk-way waving good buy until we greet you walking up to heaven’s doorway.
Labeled?Jumbo Size Kosher Pickles
Long lines formed, awkward middle schoolers, pretending
To be older than we felt,
Bonnie Bell LipSmacker in my pocket—strawberry.
It felt like the first day of school, donned in new clothes--
Sweatin’ it in stiff blue jeans from
Summer heat, yet we were in the mood for fall.
Physicals were required, doctors waited inside,
“Urine sample?” “Yes, in my sack, here.”
Students would fidget and wish the process to be over.
We gabbed and gossiped, looked at faces we didn’t know from other schools:
“He’s cute.”
“She should’ve shaved.”
“This is so embarrassing.”
Bits of conversations surrounded our stickiness.
A boy, Tom Heald
Sam’s Club-size pickle jar,
No brown-paper sack surrounding his specimen,
Snickers, jeers-- “Ya been saving it all summer?”
Red-faced and freckles dark brown,
A student of West Middle School, no longer
Has a name, only a place---
“Not here, go away, freak.”
This person stripped of humanity, holding his life in
Glass, see-through as he felt,
Yellow and aged in a moment,
Did he wish to melt away? S
tart the day over?
I reapplied the gloss, tried to smile his way to say,
“It’s ok; they’re jerks.”
He didn’t notice—anyone.
What I Have, I Must Not Forget
Monday, 22 May 2006
I have… pain that whispers continually,
a house we don’t own yet, but one that is ours,
a son on earth and a daughter in heaven
a window that takes me somewhere else.
I have… a love for salt and yet hate disagreements— feels like salt on wounds.
I have… two dogs that are pinballs inside our house
and fireflies inside the night that’s my soul.
I have… a mom who smiles even when she’s sad,
I have the same smile.
I have… a 4-wheel drive that longs for speed and riveting roads,
I have to teach in the weekly moments of my days,
but often wish for more teachable moments.
I have… a love that makes me feel at home
even though he no longer has a home, but ours.
I have laughter that is loud and seeks for humor…always.
I have… what I do and remember that what I don’t have--- is probably for the best.
Green Fuel
Darker than the first leaves sprouting out of limbs, yellowed spots hardened,
crisp and crinkled, I am surrounded. Shaking in the wind, rattling like
the poisonous snake’s tail hiking in tall grasses trying to soak up the
last of summer’s sun, I hike unaware. Dog pants, tail wags--
whether an hour run or a whole day; Wyatt never tires
unlike my legs. Panting, humming, taking in nature, a
Monarch flitters by and lands on a pink yarrow. I
pause to capture the image; the digital image
remains as the butterfly takes flight. This
solace fills my soul; I am absorbed in this
hike forgetting the city, to-do lists, and
worries. Nature fuels me with its green.
Geometry for an English Teacher
Scribbling, doodling, wondering, wandering, I fill my pages with words. Boxes—3 dimension,
triangles and spheres, the margins is an easel for brainless walks with my pen. Creating
stories, dialogue that feels real, intense images— Scratched off and thrown away. My
poem feels finished, but my fiction feels forced. I write to bleed and cry and scream,
at people and sorrows too deep and too real to approach. It’s an outlet, an island,
an escape I take; focus on the feelings, yet not getting too close to the ink that
flows out of my pen.
A Black and White Vacation
stacking, flipping pages, scanning words,
writing notes, skimming, asking,
laughing at words,
watching the story play in my head,
escaping, relaxing, going some place else,
I soar into words and come out
a villain, a drug dealer, an artist—
in love… with reading.
Blue Vinyl Smile
Blue synthetic leather, rippled and cold to my fingers, the gold letters plainly spell “Photos.” I flip through the pages laughing at the 70’s styles: bell bottoms, butterfly sleeves, and blonde flipped hair. Smiling faces seems to dance between the vinyl pages—a childhood of strong family ties from South Dakota to Louisiana. I wonder if my happiness quota had been filled up too soon; my sadness in my adult life tends to drown me. And yet, sitting on my couch today, espresso brown leather album smooth to my fingers still show pictures filled with smiles. Where are all my tears?
----------------------------------------------------
Three teens sitting on the Cameron’s couch, shocked, mouths opened as we explained that Social Services had called and explained that due to “your father’s drinking and neglect of the children, we are putting your siblings in foster care.” My husband’s face drained of color. We made phone calls: aunts in Michigan, grandma in Arkansas and one in Arizona, uncle in Colorado, and even wealthy family friends in South Dakota. No luck and certainly no use. “Sorry, this is a mess your parents created.” “This is terrible news, I’m sure, Jeremy, but it is truly out of your hands.” “The kids will be fine and they know where they can find all of us.” These were not the sentences we thought we’d hear. Smiling I say to my husband of just a year and 2 months, “Well, I’m always up for an adventure.”
----------------------------------------------------
“We decided that even though it will be the biggest challenge of our life, we want you three to move in with us and try to end this circle of alcoholism. We want you all to have a future and know that you’re loved.” We meant those words. We really did. Smiles and tears, our stomachs ached from the stress, yet I smiled and hugged. Why didn’t I scream and run?
----------------------------------------------------
Smile is defined as “a facial expression characterized by turning up the corners of the mouth; usually shows pleasure or amusement” and “To express cheerful acceptance or equanimity” (WordReference.com). Why then, do I smile so often? Three teenagers move in just a year after marriage—I smile. Husband’s two parents dead 4 years into our marriage—I smile grasping shoulders, handing out tissues. Three more family members, my grandfather and both Jeremy’s grandparents—more smiles as I write poetry reflecting on their life and memories. And the saddest, my unborn baby born at 31 weeks. It took a while for me to smile, but I do. I smile at students’ silly antics in class, smile for the fact that Carter is alive, I am alive, I am alive; I have to remind myself sometimes when my alarm rings. “Cheerful acceptance” is not how I feel, yet I smile.
----------------------------------------------------
Hamlet tells us, “that one smiles, and smiles and is a villain.” Wickedness does seep between the upturned lips. At times my rage is so great, I lose who I am and smiles become sleep which becomes dreams. This anger, this unanswered why screaming in my brain comes out in my writing at times:
“Metal Remains”
I dream my fingers are knives,
Corruption upon my skin
They scratch and tear, yet
Only redness remains,
I want to bleed to
Feel the pain on the
Inside be released… A
nd yet these fingers, soft
And gentle lie waste in
My bed, strapped they remain,
Paralyzed with fear and needing freedom.
I stare at nubby, white ceiling
Not knowing the future,
Take a big bite and let its jagged fumes pierce,
it taunts me.
Getting out of bed, I would pummel it,
cottage cheese would remain,
Instead, barren and cold, the grey trays and food uneaten are all
That comfort me.
When old women say, “It smells of snow,” trying to chit chat,
Teeth clenched, I dream again
Fingers with blades.
Leave me rotting, “TV remote?” they ask.
“Why would I want to escape this paradise?” Sarcasm is now my voice.
Family huddles outside my room,
“He isn’t a religious man,” I hear,
“Should we call a priest? Does he have friends?”
Asks a neighbor, I smile and imagine my flesh hardening to metal,
forgetting the questions people ask,
it’s really none of their business.
My wish is granted, Transformed and gone,
Cuts, chops, and chasms I can create.
Yet, I never imagined the
Feeling without a soul, still smiling--
It is cold, bitter as a penny.
----------------------------------------------------
Angus Trumble, author of the The Brief History of the Smile, explains that the smile is first captured in Greek sculptures, “their mysterious smile animates them, gives them life and breath” (McCaughey 1). As I imagined molting into metal, I still smiled and life did remain.
----------------------------------------------------
Today I wonder about the wearers of smiles; Mona Lisa smiles yet her inspiration remains a mystery. Retracing my steps on this Tuesday in January, I recall a conversation that pulled on my tear-strings, yet out came a smile. My friend belly round, babe inside, due in six short weeks explains that her OB appointment was terrible yesterday. My insides shake, yet I give constant eye contact and slow nods. “I lost a pound. Pregnant women don’t lose weight! The baby has grown, but the ultrasound technician struggled to get the measurements. I told them about you, Michele, and how scared I am.” “I’m glad you did and it’s ok. Keep in touch with your doctor and go with what your instincts tell you. They’re right.” My smile was small, but sincere. I won’t go into the pain or sorrow, but am here for a friend. My smile does not bring pleasure to me, but to its intended.
----------------------------------------------------
My answer drops before me typing black and white on the page. Smiles. Smiles that laugh and console, love and lie, live and die. I know why I smile and mostly it’s for others.
----------------------------------------------------
Singing “Snapshot” loudly in my uncle’s Ford, we turn the corner on a cool, fall day and my sister and I slide across the vinyl seats. Cotton slips easily and so does the day: melodies float under our laughter and I see my reflection in his rearview mirror, smiling. Teethy grin, smiling, happy days spent with family. I guess my photo books tell the story I want to keep. The sad stories have their own album.
----------------------------------------------------
Ashes
Kept in an urn, 3 inches tall,
Hopes are cold to the touch.
Wicker-weaved dreams dropped in the handled box,
Evergreens and rain embrace in the storm,
Their lullaby wounds my heart,
Bleeds pink on the day my daughter was born.
Precious Little One
Unwrapping the pink calico and lace bag,
the pink satin ribbonslips through my hands,
I know what’s inside, my treasure, my sorrow,
God’s gift to us as He has her now,
I remember the past week in flashes,
a video of bittersweet—lemonade that seems toquench your thirst,
yet sits in your jaw bone making you thirstier.
“ I want her to have a pretty name, mom,” Carter said between sobs,
“ Rose, mom, can we name her Rose?”
“ Of course we can, how about it for her middle name?”
“ Yeah mom.”
The sonogram moves over my tummy, no sound but the loud fuzz like
the radio not on a station,
we should hear the heartbeat,
we don’t…and never do.
The letters and cards offer prayers, love, and questions we all will never have answered,
Mrs. Davis, I love you, get better, come back,
we miss you,
simple phrases that caress my ache inside;
I cherish my students and wish everyone had them in their world,
our flowers and cards perch on every table and counter—
thank you we say, sadly,we would rather our surfaces were bare.
We watch the screen, there she is: perfect spine, toes, hands, lungs, and yet
there’s blackness where her heart should be beating…
Beat, dammit! Lord, why is this happening! Beat, dear God, make her heart beat!Stillness.
Blackness has never made me so sad.
We cleave to each other, our sobs echo in the hospital room that is as big as our apartment,Nothing matters,
except that our little girl is no longer alive,
She remains within in me, seems alive,
yet she’s gone.
I need to see Carter.
There she lies, yellow and pink daisies and a red, red rose—
red as her lips, pink asher-upturned nose—
it’s Jeremy’s, it’s Carter’s, it’s mine
—it’s just perfect,
my dad’s hands seem to cover her body;
he signs the cross on her forehead,
sisters’ words comfort,
their eyes cry with ours,
my mom is our rock, making hard phone calls,
cleaning, washing, and loving—
Jeremy, Carter,and I are so blessed to have them in our lives.
The chaplain comes,
Jeremy and I cry and pray,
Chloe wrapped in several blankets,
Why, Lord?
Why did you take her Home so soon?
Jeremy makes the sign of the cross on her forehead and we
cover her head, goodbye, our precious,
I know, we will survive, and she will be loved,
“ And now we have an angel, mama.”
“I didn’t know what to say or do, but I knew I could get in the car and drive here, so that’s what I did,”Eric arrives, a wonderful diversion: shopping, eating out, and watching Carter entertain his uncle.
Small hand and footprints black,
they look like they’re fresh,
pressed as if she could wiggle and breathe,
these inkprints and memories are all that live on.
I love you, precious little one, my daughter, Chloe Rose.
I close the flowered bag, wipe my tears, and sigh,
Thank you God for taking care of my child,
I pray that you will hold her close and love her until I can myself.
A Child's Message
Carter climbs up next to “Miss Katie” after he asks
to hold Kassidy,
“ Of course,” she smiles,
“ I’m so glad she’s healthy,” he adds then,
“ I’m kinda’ like her big brother. I mean,I know Charlie is really her big brother,but I could be one too.”
“ Absolutely, that’s exactly right.”
Through tears we all know this child is blessing.
Life turns like a leaf in the fall,
Green, strong, waving in a breeze, then veins of gold sneak through,
-----this life has fallen.
Miracles such as this one in Skyridge astound me.
We lost what was to be our little miracle a short 3 ½ months earlier,
but we came back.
We came back with love, with hope for her future…and ours.
Carter taught me an important lesson;
I lock it inside hoping that I can find it whenI feel summer turning to fall,
He’s giving such sincere love, glad for Kass’s health,
he found his purpose in her life and a message for me:
Life is circular and purposeful;
open your eyes.
Poetry
New Day Born
Sage-covered desert awakens, pink lamp above its
tabled edge,
Freshness of morning, dew upon my blue-sneakered
toes,
Overhead soaring the hawk screams, boasting;
She’s satisfied--mouse in claws,
Wind circles between green cactus,
Seems gravity has pulled its water out, now
Dew upon the wind
Tickles my face;
I breathe.
She Embodies Christmas
I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,
I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day; yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,
I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,
I feel tricked, yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,
I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret.
I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.
A Friday of Blue
Blue danced across the ballroom,
sky blue feathered boa around her neck,
…she tilted her head back, eyes closed and seemed to
drift into the night’s breeze. Face with no emotions; a body
made to dance.
Yet, soon blue became the shoe that rubbed your ankle raw;
emotions tethered to the balloon, the rock skidding on the pavement,
Blue was like the hard gum stuck to the underside of a desk
…forgotten
lumped and chewed, now hardened beneath the surface
wedged on wood. The feathers drift on the floor, Blue’s body
slumped in a chair. Too tired to continue.
Muscles sore from movement,
Memories made, now digital
Friday comes and the routine of the week screams drudgery, but
she’s too tired for fun. Grab the boa and get on with it! you say,
Blue am I, grey clouds have rolled in, she replies;
Face with no emotions; a body made to dance…
will have to wait ‘til Saturday.
Stoning Washed Clean
Darkness surrounds me I wonder where I am:
Energy at first seems static, but as my eyes adjust I feel its history—
Tumbling in the Mississippi, thrown upon its shores,
Used for scrubbing pains inflicted, seeped upon one’s sleeve,
This stone I’m in has a history to tell
and seems to be in motion as it sits upon my hand.
Lashing stings my soul;
I wish to feel it on my skin, this rock won’t let me know its pain,
Too painful, too deep, too real.
250 years ago tumbled and tossed aside, yet not forgotten,
Returned to, her flesh beaten upon its skin, why her? why?
it wondered and still does.
The questions inside make my head spin, reel, and I fall dizzy
full of emotions rotten I feel.
Darkness suffocates me I can’t get out,
the walls are closer and I push.
Nothing…
Again I push, the cold slick surface seems to snicker,
Evil finds a home everywhere.
Light blinds me and my eyes sting now from the white,
I see circles of yellow and white,
Blinking to focus, yet
Nothing.
Lungs suck in the air finally there,
the rock didn’t spare any breath for me and I can’t breathe in fast enough.
Eyes adjust and I am rubbing my hands together.
Smooth like the surface, yet warm and familiar,
clean and free.
Guiltily, I roll the rock between fingers
and feel the need to bathe.
Shallow Roots Can Be Seen
“You can eat your BMW’s and Polo clothes!” muttering under his breath,
he zips his Hemp backpack with dancing Dead bears and Rusted Root patch,
$120 Northface coat, somewhat hidden by dreadlocks,
Walking irony—no war slogan on t-shirt waving finger at soccer mom’s in minivans,
He parties—
drops $100 easy without a thought of homeless, gang wars, or his gas hog SUV parked outside. I’d hate to be so naïve, locked into beliefs that were shallow,
incapable of seeing the reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t like my hair?” he questions as I obviously stared too long.
“Don’t like mine?” I fling my rebuttal running my fingers through my $120 highlighting.
I catch my reflection only seeing that I need an appointment soon.
I note it in my Palm.
Black roots, the devil, I think.
My nemesis for unraveling: schedules, meetings, social events—
nothing matters if I have roots. The less apparent they are, the better.
I watch him leave, lighting up a cigarette;
I stand in line for my 2nd Starbucks shaking my head as he leaves:
What a lost generation, I think.
Storm
In the forest---
Shadows… Mischief…
Rocking, the trees sway,
Life undone, unruly.
The wind whips the soldiers’ barren branches,
Cracking, one limb breaks.
Mischief? I ask…
Nature unleashed?
Anarchy…
Shadows… In the forest.
All the world is a Happy Meal
The bag encompasses your world, beliefs that hold your thoughts,
Happy moments salted and sprinkled throughout life—the fries
that accompany your meal,
Relationships met within boxed places, these chicken nuggets
Create the meaty moments—friendships to share with others.
Nourishment flowing oranges squeezed to quench life’s burdens.
When the meal is complete, many are not fulfilled, hungry for more—yet remembering in his hand the toy that can entertain for at
least a moment.
All the world is a Happy Meal
Holding in life, logic, and love
Throwing away moments unnoticed I move through life in a fast-food lane.
Relationships remind me that without ketchup on my fries, my life is nothing. The salt and sweet of life dunks me in living.
Creativity stacked on the table, my fries salted and structured as a skyscraper,
I wonder why I can easily knock them down.
When the meal is complete, many are not fulfilled; hungry for more—yet remembering in my hand the toy that can entertain for at least a moment.
Odor of Death ~ Customs die with a Saxon
Shadowed, gray eyes
Heart heavy knowing dead leaves are falling to bury him,
Tracks of a wolf circle in his head,
Black mud is his dreams—
He sleeps and humbly seeks death.
New stone, secret laws he doesn’t understand,
Roman coins—the visual for the face of Woden dying within him,
Bells toll for the end of the pagan rites.
Divine horror he feels holding the crude, wooden idol,
Still warm from its recent whittle,
He too, will die,
The world will be a little poorer when this Saxon has died.
Money, Gone, Lost
He comes in the mail demanding for it—
You got it?
Avoiding the phone, he asks?
Where is it?
I won’t fix that window or the warm fridge, he says,
Because I need it, to fix it.
Why daddy not goin’ to work, mamma?
Why you not answering the phone?
Why are we hiding in the closet?
Is it a monster? Is it a ghost?
No, baby,
it’s just the devil dressed in green
He’s slipped out the back door hiding in our new cars, new house, and lovely things.
We used to have him around, but no more.
No more.
Poetry Collector
Bagged in black, white, or blue,
The ol’ adage applies: one person’s trash is another’s treasure.
Burly arms bulge as he heaves the
Hefty wondering what’s inside.
Tin cans not recycled and papers unread,
Old food uneaten smushed onto milk cartons pressed against bills and notices never opened. The objects he can guess by a shake or a feel,
He watches and listens, collecting and trashing
The things we don’t want—something wasted he knows.
Some days he rips a small hole, digging for cool bottles or interesting letters that spark his pen, Shapes and colors hidden beneath plastic wishing to be found, washed, and written about.
This is what he does.
Trash and recover, then write.
Don’t you wonder what you’ve thrown away that may end up on his kitchen table?
Dead Vine… Grows
(Character metaphor for Billi Jo from Out of the Dust)
Sweet and tart—Billi Jo Speckled face like a polka-dotted strawberry,
Heart-shaped sorrow,
Billi Jo wishes for her chubby fingers—fruit gone from winter’s first frost,
Wilting under summer’s heat-----
Growing still the same.
Creates life and bittersweet for her dad,
Like the small leaves on the top, this strawberry-like girl ripens.
Homeless on 15th
Newspaper stretched, blanket on the dirt of streets,
Shoes black, worn, no laces, tips of the tops no longer black,
Asleep he lies as if in the Hyatt comfortable with no troubles, his
wares neatly lay out on his “dresser.”
Steps instead make up this man’s boudoir 2 blocks from the Capitol.
Poetic justice some think, he’s not been a good citizen—no job, boozed too much a
I’m sure, they say,
Justice is in stately columns with courtrooms close by, but for one Chinese man,
America’s Jury and Judge are blind like their sister Justice holding her scales—empty,
yet tipped in favor, not his.
Two black duffles—the contents—would answer our questions:
Jim Beam, Smirnoff, Boones Farm, and a Colt 45?
Or pictures of a family smiling behind a birthday cake, the clothes speak of
decades lapsed,
For now, I walk by and wonder. I throw a $5 bill and it lands next to the umbrella.
I hope no one steals it; I hope it will buy him a hot meal.
Butterfly
Go inside a butterfly,
warm inside, darkness blankets it.
Feeding its growing body
emerging, she eats its way out,
unafraid.
Starts her journey looking for food,
wormlike body moving smooshes together
like a bendy straw, and then lengthens
like the child zippers the straw long,
This catepillar eats and eats
making it strong.
Does it collect its food by colors to spray
upon its wings?
Spinning another cocoon the caterpillar
surrounds itself.
"Costume change," it says with a wink,
"I'll see you this spring."
Sassy she opens her wings
brilliant orange, black and red,
A siren's song to our eyes.
Two wings gently flap: does she know where
she's headed?
Soulful actor I know; she flew past me twice,
landed on my paper just to remind me:
She has arrived.
Sage-covered desert awakens, pink lamp above its
tabled edge,
Freshness of morning, dew upon my blue-sneakered
toes,
Overhead soaring the hawk screams, boasting;
She’s satisfied--mouse in claws,
Wind circles between green cactus,
Seems gravity has pulled its water out, now
Dew upon the wind
Tickles my face;
I breathe.
She Embodies Christmas
I see a gypsy tree: white lights against forest green, she dresses with 200 earrings,
I smell cinnamon, the scent of homemade goodies and apple cider on a snowy day; yet, she teases us—it’s only red candles,
I hear jingles like bangles on wrists dancing; it too, simply a mirage—a quiet cd plays,
I feel tricked, yet welcome the distraction from just an every-day,
I taste her sweet potion: hot chocolate topped with tiny marshmallows—sweetness is her secret.
I think I’ll become a gypsy and bring Christmas everywhere.
A Friday of Blue
Blue danced across the ballroom,
sky blue feathered boa around her neck,
…she tilted her head back, eyes closed and seemed to
drift into the night’s breeze. Face with no emotions; a body
made to dance.
Yet, soon blue became the shoe that rubbed your ankle raw;
emotions tethered to the balloon, the rock skidding on the pavement,
Blue was like the hard gum stuck to the underside of a desk
…forgotten
lumped and chewed, now hardened beneath the surface
wedged on wood. The feathers drift on the floor, Blue’s body
slumped in a chair. Too tired to continue.
Muscles sore from movement,
Memories made, now digital
Friday comes and the routine of the week screams drudgery, but
she’s too tired for fun. Grab the boa and get on with it! you say,
Blue am I, grey clouds have rolled in, she replies;
Face with no emotions; a body made to dance…
will have to wait ‘til Saturday.
Stoning Washed CleanDarkness surrounds me I wonder where I am:
Energy at first seems static, but as my eyes adjust I feel its history—
Tumbling in the Mississippi, thrown upon its shores,
Used for scrubbing pains inflicted, seeped upon one’s sleeve,
This stone I’m in has a history to tell
and seems to be in motion as it sits upon my hand.
Lashing stings my soul;
I wish to feel it on my skin, this rock won’t let me know its pain,
Too painful, too deep, too real.
250 years ago tumbled and tossed aside, yet not forgotten,
Returned to, her flesh beaten upon its skin, why her? why?
it wondered and still does.
The questions inside make my head spin, reel, and I fall dizzy
full of emotions rotten I feel.
Darkness suffocates me I can’t get out,
the walls are closer and I push.
Nothing…
Again I push, the cold slick surface seems to snicker,
Evil finds a home everywhere.
Light blinds me and my eyes sting now from the white,
I see circles of yellow and white,
Blinking to focus, yet
Nothing.
Lungs suck in the air finally there,
the rock didn’t spare any breath for me and I can’t breathe in fast enough.
Eyes adjust and I am rubbing my hands together.
Smooth like the surface, yet warm and familiar,
clean and free.
Guiltily, I roll the rock between fingers
and feel the need to bathe.
Shallow Roots Can Be Seen
“You can eat your BMW’s and Polo clothes!” muttering under his breath,
he zips his Hemp backpack with dancing Dead bears and Rusted Root patch,
$120 Northface coat, somewhat hidden by dreadlocks,
Walking irony—no war slogan on t-shirt waving finger at soccer mom’s in minivans,
He parties—
drops $100 easy without a thought of homeless, gang wars, or his gas hog SUV parked outside. I’d hate to be so naïve, locked into beliefs that were shallow,
incapable of seeing the reflection in the mirror.
“Don’t like my hair?” he questions as I obviously stared too long.
“Don’t like mine?” I fling my rebuttal running my fingers through my $120 highlighting.
I catch my reflection only seeing that I need an appointment soon.
I note it in my Palm.
Black roots, the devil, I think.
My nemesis for unraveling: schedules, meetings, social events—
nothing matters if I have roots. The less apparent they are, the better.
I watch him leave, lighting up a cigarette;
I stand in line for my 2nd Starbucks shaking my head as he leaves:
What a lost generation, I think.
Storm
In the forest---
Shadows… Mischief…
Rocking, the trees sway,
Life undone, unruly.
The wind whips the soldiers’ barren branches,
Cracking, one limb breaks.
Mischief? I ask…
Nature unleashed?
Anarchy…
Shadows… In the forest.
All the world is a Happy Meal
The bag encompasses your world, beliefs that hold your thoughts,
Happy moments salted and sprinkled throughout life—the fries
that accompany your meal,
Relationships met within boxed places, these chicken nuggets
Create the meaty moments—friendships to share with others.
Nourishment flowing oranges squeezed to quench life’s burdens.
When the meal is complete, many are not fulfilled, hungry for more—yet remembering in his hand the toy that can entertain for at
least a moment.
All the world is a Happy Meal
Holding in life, logic, and love
Throwing away moments unnoticed I move through life in a fast-food lane.
Relationships remind me that without ketchup on my fries, my life is nothing. The salt and sweet of life dunks me in living.
Creativity stacked on the table, my fries salted and structured as a skyscraper,
I wonder why I can easily knock them down.
When the meal is complete, many are not fulfilled; hungry for more—yet remembering in my hand the toy that can entertain for at least a moment.
Odor of Death ~ Customs die with a Saxon
Shadowed, gray eyes
Heart heavy knowing dead leaves are falling to bury him,
Tracks of a wolf circle in his head,
Black mud is his dreams—
He sleeps and humbly seeks death.
New stone, secret laws he doesn’t understand,
Roman coins—the visual for the face of Woden dying within him,
Bells toll for the end of the pagan rites.
Divine horror he feels holding the crude, wooden idol,
Still warm from its recent whittle,
He too, will die,
The world will be a little poorer when this Saxon has died.
Money, Gone, Lost
He comes in the mail demanding for it—
You got it?
Avoiding the phone, he asks?
Where is it?
I won’t fix that window or the warm fridge, he says,
Because I need it, to fix it.
Why daddy not goin’ to work, mamma?
Why you not answering the phone?
Why are we hiding in the closet?
Is it a monster? Is it a ghost?
No, baby,
it’s just the devil dressed in green
He’s slipped out the back door hiding in our new cars, new house, and lovely things.
We used to have him around, but no more.
No more.
Poetry Collector
Bagged in black, white, or blue,
The ol’ adage applies: one person’s trash is another’s treasure.
Burly arms bulge as he heaves the
Hefty wondering what’s inside.
Tin cans not recycled and papers unread,
Old food uneaten smushed onto milk cartons pressed against bills and notices never opened. The objects he can guess by a shake or a feel,
He watches and listens, collecting and trashing
The things we don’t want—something wasted he knows.
Some days he rips a small hole, digging for cool bottles or interesting letters that spark his pen, Shapes and colors hidden beneath plastic wishing to be found, washed, and written about.
This is what he does.
Trash and recover, then write.
Don’t you wonder what you’ve thrown away that may end up on his kitchen table?
Dead Vine… Grows
(Character metaphor for Billi Jo from Out of the Dust)
Sweet and tart—Billi Jo Speckled face like a polka-dotted strawberry,
Heart-shaped sorrow,
Billi Jo wishes for her chubby fingers—fruit gone from winter’s first frost,
Wilting under summer’s heat-----
Growing still the same.
Creates life and bittersweet for her dad,
Like the small leaves on the top, this strawberry-like girl ripens.
Homeless on 15th
Newspaper stretched, blanket on the dirt of streets,
Shoes black, worn, no laces, tips of the tops no longer black,
Asleep he lies as if in the Hyatt comfortable with no troubles, his
wares neatly lay out on his “dresser.”
Steps instead make up this man’s boudoir 2 blocks from the Capitol.
Poetic justice some think, he’s not been a good citizen—no job, boozed too much a
I’m sure, they say,
Justice is in stately columns with courtrooms close by, but for one Chinese man,
America’s Jury and Judge are blind like their sister Justice holding her scales—empty,
yet tipped in favor, not his.
Two black duffles—the contents—would answer our questions:
Jim Beam, Smirnoff, Boones Farm, and a Colt 45?
Or pictures of a family smiling behind a birthday cake, the clothes speak of
decades lapsed,
For now, I walk by and wonder. I throw a $5 bill and it lands next to the umbrella.
I hope no one steals it; I hope it will buy him a hot meal.
Butterfly
Go inside a butterfly,
warm inside, darkness blankets it.
Feeding its growing body
emerging, she eats its way out,
unafraid.
Starts her journey looking for food,
wormlike body moving smooshes together
like a bendy straw, and then lengthens
like the child zippers the straw long,
This catepillar eats and eats
making it strong.
Does it collect its food by colors to spray
upon its wings?
Spinning another cocoon the caterpillar
surrounds itself.
"Costume change," it says with a wink,
"I'll see you this spring."
Sassy she opens her wings
brilliant orange, black and red,
A siren's song to our eyes.
Two wings gently flap: does she know where
she's headed?
Soulful actor I know; she flew past me twice,
landed on my paper just to remind me:
She has arrived.
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