Safe Deposit

When my father died my mother and I had the task of going to the bank to retrieve the "important" papers from the safe-deposit box. My father had always been the one to handle those things so I went along to go through everything and make sure we got all the insurance papers and whatever else might be of value. We took our box down the long hallway to a little room and set it on the counter. My mother just stared  at it, she didn't really want to look, it was too real. If we found the insurance policies, etc. that meant he was really gone and we had to move on. Inside the box there was a collection of stocks from companies that no longer existed, their passports, his discharge papers from the army, birth certificates and the like. Nestled in the insurance policy jacket, knowing the only reason my mother would find it was in case of his death was a note, it was dated some years prior and said simply.

                       M-
                               I have always loved you.
                               And if it really possible to continue to,
                               then I really will.
                                                                -D                       

Talking to Grandpa

My best non-human friend Buster died a year or so ago after a long drawn out illness, he was almost 18 years old.  On his last day we knew it would not be much longer for him. He was not in pain but he had stopped eating or drinking. That morning he followed me around from room to room and would lay at my feet. Every time I reached down to pet him he would look up at me, purr and smile (yes smile). I have had other cats but they were just "cats". Buster was a little person in a cat suit. I don't care what anyone says Buster and I had a relationship. 

A few days after he was gone I was feeling very sad and missing him. I was talking to my son about how much I was hurting. He told me how much he missed Buster too but that it was okay because he was in heaven. I asked how he knew that and he told me "Grandpa told me".  This threw me for a huge loop as my father had died two summers before.  I said "Grandpa told you, what do you mean?" He said "Well I was feeling bad about Buster and Grandpa said not to worry cuz he had found his way to him in heaven and they are together now and everything is alright" I am seriously freaking out at this point but trying to remain calm. Maybe this is just a childhood fantasy phase that will pass. Or is he like that kid from Sixth Sense only "I talk to dead people" or is this some new psychosis I have to keep tabs on or should I sign him up for his own cable show ala John Edwards, "The amazing Kid who converses with the hereafter"? I asked him if "other" people talked to him too, thankfully no, just Grandpa. I am torn between worrying and immense sadness at the loss of my Dad and that he doesn't talk to me, if he could. 

With tears threatening, in my calmest "tell me all about it" motherly voice I ask him about talking to Grandpa. He says he talks to him a lot that Grandpa tells him stuff. "Like what kind of stuff?" I'm thinking the worst put the cat in the microwave crazy talk. "Like about heaven and sometimes when I'm at school I'll ask him what 100 times 100 is and he tells me or sometimes when I am scared at night he tells me it's okay to be scared but I don't have to be cuz he's there, you know stuff like that" and he shrugs his shoulders so nonchalantly like "hey it is no big deal that my dead Grandpa talks to me"  I have no idea how to respond to this. "What does he tell you about heaven?" He smiles "He says it's nice and now Buster is there it's better". My brain can not wrap itself around this. Why does he think Grandpa talks to him? Does Grandpa really talk to him? Stranger things have happened right?  I just say "That's great honey, I'm glad Grandpa talks to you". I don't want him to feel weird about it.

I asked him recently if Grandpa still talked to him. He said "not so much anymore". I can't decide if that is a good or bad thing.  Has he passed through this phase or has some unseen door closed?

The Tick

My friend M hates bugs ,all bugs, any creepy crawly, slithery thing.  This is a tough, smart, take no crap from anybody single mom, but bugs are her undoing. They can send her screaming like a, dare I say it, little girl doing that skittering baby step run with her hands fluttering about her shoulders going "oohhh, icky, icky. I like bugs, if I am outside and they are outside where they belong. If they venture inside they are subject to the wrath of Jojo. But this is about M. She hates ticks the worst. Those vampiric little beasties that gorge themselves on you blood until they are bloated green globules, thankfully they usually only get to that point on animals.

M and her daughter B had spent the day before at the park with her sister and her kids, they ran around in the woods and the tall grass. The next morning as M is taking a shower and washing her hair she feels something behind her ear. She knows it is a tick and she starts to freak. She yells to her daughter. "Hurry up and get dressed we have to go to Auntie's quick". Her sister lives in the same building and she was going to  make her pull the tick off, she is afraid to try because she if afraid she'll leave the head behind and that is grosser than the whole tick plus there is just no way she was going to touch it, or even look at it for that matter. Her daughter asks "Why" and M, hyperventilating at this point knowing the little blood sucker is feasting on her. "cuz Mommy has a tick and we have to go make Auntie pull it off." B says "okay Mommy but can I see the tick" So M leans down brushes her long hair aside and shows here the back of her ear, " See right there behind my ear" B accepts this and runs to get dressed quickly.

M is getting her stuff together, calls her sister to tell her of the emergency and that she is coming down when B comes back. She is dressed and ready but she says "Mommy can I look at the tick again?" M lets out an exaggerated sigh, she wants wants to be gone and have the thing removed but she says " Sure honey, look" and again shows it to her. B looks at it and stands back and looks at it again and says " Mom, I don't think that is a tick " to which M says "why?" There is  a note of hesitation in B's voice "cuz it's pink".  Thinking B must be mistaken she says" What do you mean, of course it's a tick" and B replies " No Mom it looks like a sticker, it looks like one of my pink heart stickers" . Steeling her will against what she know is going to make her gag. She pulls the offending creature off of her and looks at it. It is in fact a small pink heart sticker.  You gotta watch out for those, their dangerous little buggers you know.

Sparky

I very rarely feel cute. I sometimes feel smart or sexy or adorable or downright dangerous but very seldom cute. I am of the age when cute seems to no longer apply, but thankfully still too young to be a "cute old lady". I work with a bunch of twenty-somethings who tip the cute meter heavily in their direction.  It is odd to have such good friends and realize I am darn near old enough to be their mother.

I work in a customer service business and was standing waiting for a customer to make his way to the counter. He popped his order on the counter and said "Are you feeling sparky today?"  I wasn't quite sure what that meant but I jiggled my head back and forth with my bright red/orange hair, my multitude of dangley earrings swinging to and fro and said "Do I look sparky today?" in my best little girl voice. He smiled at me and said "You look damn good, I know that much!" I wasn't quite sure how to respond, it was so unexpected so I just laughed and said "Thanks".  Did I mention he was old enough to be my Dad? It wasn't creepy or lecherous, it was like he was feeling good, thought I looked good and took  a chance that I wouldn't think he was a big ol pervert and just said it. Probably made his day as well as mine.

I would have much preferred that some hunky 30 year old had deemed me "damn good" but such was not the case. Sadly, I must face the fact that I am no longer within the radar sights of 30 year olds. I have moved on to "older" and "looks pretty good for her age". But for one moment of one day when some sweet old guy though I was a hottie, I felt cute again.

Slugs

Do you ever feel like a big ol' slug? It usually happens on Sundays.
 
I forced myself to turn off Trading Spaces: Inside out at 11:16 Saturday night. I really wanted to see Hildy's house in Paris but I knew my parental duty must come first and yon wee one is usually up at the crack of dawn. I have to drag his skinny behind out of bed on a school day at 6:50 but on the weekend he is up at 6:00 sometimes 5:30.  He says his brain just wakes him up because he has lots of playing to do on the weekends.
 
We tried the "I don't care what time you get up but you are not coming into this bedroom until 7:30" Well then he would just stand in the door way "Mom!! Mom!!! will you get up already I am staaaarvvvinnggggg!!!!!! But this morning as I  turn my head to read the glowing red numbers I realize it says 8:17. OH MY GOD, he must be dead!! I race to his bedroom and there he is still fast asleep flung among his blankets like a stuffed animal. He is perpendicular to the bed and the only thing visible are his legs from the knees down. Those look like his knees, I am pretty sure it is he. I lightly tickle the bottom of his foot to make sure he is still breathing, his healthy kick tells me that he is. To what do I owe this reprieve? I wonder. Maybe the boy finally just ran his battery down too far. I am disappointed to realize if I had known I was going to get to sleep in so late I could have stayed up to see the glory that is Hildy's house and see what Doug is like in real life.
 
I stumble to the kitchen to make my coffee. I assume my husband is out running because he is no where to be found. While my coffee is brewing, strong and dark I try to clear my head. It feels as if someone has stuffed it with cotton batting.  My eyes don't feel like they will open all the way. I go to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face but all that does is make my face cold and pink it does not make me more awake. I try the coffee, mmmmm "Damn fine coffee.........and hot" (Twin Peaks anyone?)I stare at the newspaper waiting for the caffeine to kick in so I can actually read it.
 
I realize Son still isn't up and it is now 8:50. I flush the toilet, turn on the hair dryer, close the door really loudly, stomp around in my slippers trying to make enough noise so he will wake up on his own. He does not, I give up and go back the couch and wait some more. Eventually he comes stumbling out of his bedroom dragging his blankets behind him and drops into his usual spot on the couch. He yawns and rubs his eyes and says "I'm still really tired". He also has a case of cotton head. We had no plans for the day, no soccer games or birthday parties or trips to the zoo so we could lounge for a while, you know, till we "wake" up.
 
My husband comes home from his run showers, eats, changes clothes to mow the lawn. All the while Son and I remain inert on the couch watching Sponge Bob Square Pants and the Fairly Odd Parents and whatever else is on Nickolodeon because we are too lazy to find the remote and change the channel. My husband makes a few vain attempts at conversation but he gets frustrated at our noncommittal grunts and gives up. While my husband goes about his day Son and I remain couch bound. The world moves around us but we are motionless, except for an occasional trip to the bathroom. We remain like this for most of the day. We just can't seem to shake the bed head.  My husband drifts in and out of our lair occasionally inquiring "Aren't you going to do anything today?" I thought we were doing something just not something useful or important or requiring anything but the most basic level of consciousness.
 
After a few hours of this the guilt is starting to come.  I should not allow Son to watch this many hours in a row of mindless TV.  I make a concerted effort to find the remote and change the channel to Animal Planet. He barely seems to notice.  Now it's educational,  guilt assuaged.
 
Sometime in the late afternoon, I have drifted off and am having a nice little cat nap involving me and some friendly dolphins with pink saddles. I hear a crash followed by a bellow. Son has tried to reach the soda on the coffee table without rising from the couch and has fallen off and whacked his head. While I try and quiet his cries by reaching my hand towards him and patting the air in his general direction and say soothingly  "there, there honey you'll be okay, you should probably just relax till your head stops hurting" I realize just how long we have been here, we have not eaten, bathed or brushed our teeth.  I am a big boneless, squishy, amorphous slug. I feel as if my muscles have liquefied and my bones have melted and I am unable to move them in any coherent fashion. Try as I might, I can't seem to get my butt off the couch I think someone has coated the bottom of my jammies with super glue. This can not go on.
 
With great resolve and determination I rise from the couch, in small stages. First I raise my head and put my feet on the floor. Then I rest my elbows on my knees to stop the ringing in my head from sitting up (not to fast, just at all after so many hours of inertia). Slowly pushing off my knees I stand. Hurray I am vertical!!!!! I decide what I need is a shower. This accomplished, I actually do feel more or less human. I force Son to take one also, this is accompanied by much protest and whining until I snap and say "do you want to spend the rest of the day sitting on the couch in a big ol' time-out?" Dumb question." How is that different than the way I spent the rest of the day so far.?"  "It will be punishment, it won't be fun" To which I get the eye roll and "whatever Mom." 
 
We finally enter the world of the completely awake just in time to make dinner after which my husband is ready settle down on the couch to "relax" for the evening. Son and I join him. My what a day we have had! Hey everyone needs a slacker day once in a while.

Pocket Change

What do you have in your pockets?
 
Monday: two pennies, the aglet from a shoe lace,a gum wrapper and the broken top half of a ball point pen.

Tuesday: flimsy fake Discover card from the mail, three rocks (two actual rocks and a piece of concrete), two blue pipe cleaners, 4 tiny fuzzy pompoms (blue, yellow, orange and pink) from an abandoned art project and an earring back(?)

Wednesday: two more pennies plus a nickel, a broken toothpick, a yu-gi-oh card ( Hysteric Fairy), paper clip, blue glittery super ball, cherry jolly rancher wrapper and one green die.  And that's just one pocket

Thursday:Thread from "Bluey" his favorite blanket, a small stick, 3 green, two pink, one brown, one orange and a purple "purler" bead (anyone with small children in day care will know what those are), a small square white bead with the letter "a" on it, a folded up scooby-doo coloring page to be finished at a later date.

Friday: More letter beads, this time "q", "t", "o" ,"w" and a "p" (qwopt - of course!), a black piece of stretchy elastic about 3" long, the sticker from an apple and a power rangers fruit snack package with one slighty melted, squishy gummy thing still in residence.

Saturday: Shorts with no pockets. Where did he stash his treasures?

Sunday: A very big day, cargo pants-lots of pockets. Perfume sample from the Sunday paper- Taboo, Neo-pet card (Yellow  Shyru) from some long ago Mcdonalds Happy Meal, the summer pool schedule from the community center,  the pink eraser from a pencil-but no pencil, a bottle cap, tire off a hot wheels car, piece of red ribbon (his favorite color) the spring from a ball point pen stretched to about 5", the head to a lego guy and a battery.
 
These are the treasures I found in my seven year olds pockets one week. I have an old kitchen cannister that I put all these treasures in and when it is full maybe we will take them out and try and figure out why these things are the ones that he deemed worthy of saving. Yet he passed by the pink glass bead that was on the floor in the bathroom for a week and the three sea shells and blue feather I left on the table to see if they would make their way into his pocket of treasures but they never did.
 
I was at the post office picking up the mail from work one day and there was $.87 due. I reached into my jacket pockets and I had my ever present "folding dollars" (to be explained in a later post), a pokemon card (squirtle), three paper clips, two grape jolly ranchers, a pack of Cherry Rush bubble gum, a green marble,  a  hot wheels car ,two small rocks and a red power ranger action figure that try as I might she would not take it trade. I had no actual pocket change, well there was my "folding dollars" but I couldn't spend those. I have been infected by my seven year old, his penchant for picking up the bits of flotsam that he encounters on his daily journey has become my own. At least my "pocket change" is more interesting than it used to be.
 
So, what's in your pockets?

Anonymous

Most of us want to be noticed. We spend a lot of time on our clothes or hair so that people won't miss us. They will notice my bright pink shirt or the beautiful necklace I have on or my custom made "happy monkey" shoes. We want to pass by and have people look because we feel good about ourselves and it shows. Its not that we want to be, or feel we could ever be one of the "beautiful people". But we are content with ourselves, at ease in our life and our bodies, however imperfect they may be. I have a friend who is morbidly obese. She is going through the steps to have gastric bypass surgery that could save, or at least prolong her life. She probably will not live to see 50 without it. The road that took her to this place was long, frustrating, fraught will peril,pain and despair. She must make this new journey to regain her life. She wants it for so many reasons. She wants to be able to ride a bicycle again. She wants to go hiking with her husband, shop at the mall without having to stop and rest so often. She wants to take her dogs for a long walk, play catch with her nieces. She wants to take back control of her life and her health from this bulk that she has been hiding in for so many years, pushing people away, hiding inside her safe haven of fat. I was talking to her recently about all the changes that can take place after such surgery. Not physical changes those are a given. Changes in relationships. Many marriages end after one has gastric bypass. They rediscover themselves and can't "fit" the same role they used to have in the relationship. It is like finding someone you thought was lost and maybe your partner liked it better when you were hiding. The thing that she said she was looking forward to the most, being anonymous. She wants to walk into a clothing store (one for "normal" people). Go to a movie theater and not wonder how big the seats are. Go to a restaurant and order extra butter without the barely concealed sneer of the skinny blonde waitress "sure that's what you need more of". With great guilt I admit I also have thought this. She wants to be anonymous. To go anyplace, every place and have nobody notice her. She is not anonymous now. People notice, gawk, stare, small children point and giggle or ask their moms "why is that lady so fat" (I have heard this). In a world where we are all trying to be noticed what she want more than anything is to be invisible. An interesting perspective.

Butterscotch Kisses

When I was a little girl there was an old couple, the Rydmarks, that lived next door. I used to love to spend time visiting them. They would tell me stories and I would help them bake cookies or peel carrots. It was like having an extra set of grandparents. Everytime I was at their house, just as I was getting ready to go home Mr. Rydmark would say "don't forget your kiss" and he would slip a butterscotch kiss into my hand. That sweet buttery little piece of heaven wrapped in crinkly yellow cellophane. I was telling my son, who was 3 or 4 at the time, about the Rydmarks and the butterscotch kisses Mr. Rydmark always gave me. He thought about it, looked at me a little confused, cocked his head, and said "butterscotch kisses?". I explained to him what they were. He remembered once I described them. There was a long pause and he said "oh, I thought you meant he had butterscotch lips". Because in his world this was possible. Sometimes I wish I could remember when having butterscotch lips was within the realm of possibility.

Exit

Examine, explain, example, explore
Circling with my pencil, on the floor.
My mothers fingers counting every heart beat.
"Don't try to feed him, he can't really eat"

That's what the nurses said
Don't bother with dinner, he's mostly dead.
He needed that meatloaf, potatoes and corn,
And when he was done, the pride he'd worn

"Look Dad, I ate all my dinner."
Victorious, in his last hours still a winner.
He talked about finding the stairway to heaven.
Exalt, exude, exist, I'd neatly circled seven.

"Come here, front and center" he beckoned to me,
He looked small and broken, like a fallen tree.
That paper wrapped skeleton barely touching the bed,
I wish I could remember the things he said.

I remember the whiteness and smell of that place.
He held my hand and smiled with simple grace.
I kissed his forehead and rubbed his cheek.
This ornery strong man, sunken and weak.

Extinct, expose, exclude, excite,
His skin like chalk dust, smooth and white.
I told myself "Be strong, don't cry",
I had never seen someone I loved die.

I watched my brother pass to some other shore,
When her fingertips couldn't hold him anymore.
She truly believed if she counted this way
Somehow she could keep him from dying that day.

extol, exclaim, extrapolate,
Words searches and counting heartbeats, these I hate.

Mildly dysfunctional

Every family is somewhat dysfunctional, some profoundly so. I have a friend who grew up in a house full of fear. Fear of retribution, mostly for being born, but that story is for another day. The dysfunction in my family was emotion. Showing true emotions or talking about the emotional implications of our actions and words. We discussed world affairs and history and writing and reading and art and beauty and all the things that smart cosmopolitan families talk about. My father was a newspaper man for 40 years, he knew everything and what he didn't know my mother knew. I could ask him to edit a story, explain a war, how an engine worked or help me spell obstreperous but I couldn't ask him how it felt when his oldest son was diagnosed with cancer. We didn't talk about feelings unless it related to something outside ourselves. I remember my father talking about his love of dance. He loved the fluid motion of their bodies the way they seemed to float just above the floor, effortless flight that took your breath away. The perfection of their bodies the way light played on the curves of their muscles and made them seem magical. He could understand the magic, the power or dance, music, art, photography and words to evoke emotion. In this way he was accessible to me. He was open and loving, he never hesitated to put his arms around me and tell me I was his "golden girl" and that he loved me. He taught me so many of the things that make me who I am, things I hope I have the courage and the words to teach my son. In other ways he was closed to me, always distant. This is why I turned to writing. I was free to feel whatever I wanted without thinking, I could let my true emotions out. I could tell my journal how scared, happy, sad, lonely, depressed, insecure, conflicted I was. I could pour out all those things I wanted to tell my father, that he couldn't hear, because he couldn't share. He grew up in a time when men were "strong and silent". You did what you had to do to provide for your family and you taught your children the lessons they needed to learn to get through life. I always thought it odd that for a man who was so open to emotion in the world was so closed to it in his family. The place where he should be the safest, he was so guarded. He couldn't see what we needed from him was the freedom, permission if you will, to be emotionally available, honest, open. If he was always strong and sure and never let his weaknesses show, how could we?.........More later

The right words

I will never have the power of words that I want. I want to touch, inspire, provoke, entertain. I want to use words to stake my claim on my place in the world, in my own life. I don't know the words that will set me free. They seem simple and uninspiring. They elude my fingers at the keyboard. I stare at my hands and want them to take the initiative and speak their own story, like maybe my fingers will know the way to the truth I want to speak. If I open my mind and try not to think about it too much will the words find their own way from my heart? I read others, a lot, and I am deeply inspired and awed and feel like I should just pack up my pens and paper and take up knitting. I have always wanted to write and I have always been afraid of it. I have always kept my writing to myself, with a few rare exceptions. I can not risk rejection if I don't let anyone see it. I can tell myself I am good at it. I can believe that I have a steak knife not a butter knife with which to "cut" my work. I can tell myself I know the right words and I can believe it because there is no one to say "I don't think so" But how can I inspire or provoke or entertain if I don't share? How can I gauge my effectiveness in conveying my life if I won't let people in? This is what I struggle with. The need to be good at it and the need for people to see it and the need to keep it to myself. If I risk nothing I can not lose. So I will begin to offer up these things that I have always held closest to me, my words. And hope that I have not been wrong. That sometimes I do get it right and sometimes I do know the right words.

Flirting in a bar

We met in a bar, thrust hand to hand. "Hello" we smiled and I went away. Like a magnet I was drawn back to him. That face, the ease with which he laughed his funny laugh. We swapped stories and jokes and pretended to have "meaningful" conversation. We flirted and smoked and drank from each others glasses and he loved me. We tied cherry stems with our tongues (I was much better at it) and I was Irish. Others faded and left I barely remember seeing them or the room. We wrapped ourselves around each other and spent time in a world of our own creation right there next to the popcorn cart. They turned on the lights and four hours had evaporated and we said "Good Night"

The language I used to know

Whistled songs and tunes I can't remember. Snatches of music send signals to my brain, memories of long ago when I knew how to sing. I knew what music felt like. I didn't know the different kinds of music, only its language. Some seemed soft and made me sad. Others made me want to sway like pussy willows in the breeze. Some music scared me, it hissed and screamed at me and made me afraid to be alone. I tried to close my ears. I could feel the screeching, pounding pulse of it in my stomach, invading my body. There was happy music too that made me want to dance and felt like cool summer days. It caressed me, held me with its gentle tune and promises of love and happiness. Music still touches me deeply. I can still feel it coursing through my veins. But now I know what sounds caress and what instruments scream. I know the words they sing. They are seldom real and often cruel. I liked music better when I was a child. When I knew its language but didn't understand the words.

I Will Follow

Where you lead I will follow.
Anywhere you want.
Except,
the darkest caverns
where spiders dwell in
webs thick with dark moisture.
Where eyes stare out of the darkness
into my soul.
Except,
into the forest, dense with
underbrush.
Where snakes wait to wrap themselves
around my ankles and drown me
in quicksand.
I'll follow where you lead.
Except,
into the hot barren desert
where sand burns a pattern
into my searing feet.
Where the sun beats inscessantly
scortching my brain, my skin, my life.
Where you lead, I will follow.
Anywhere you want.
Except...........
Hey, wait!!

Fishing #1

Clouds reflected on still waters.
Shattered by a baited hook.
She fishes from him
here.
In this favorite spot.
Hoping,
somehow he could catch
the line
to say
he misses her too.
A gentle tug, awareness
of what she can no longer
have.
She reels in
the hook empty again.

Fishing #2

She fishes for him
here.
In his favorite spot.
Wishing
she could cast a line
through time
to him somewhere.
Reel him in
for just a little while.
Borrow him from
the other side
just long enough
to say
"I Love You"
"Goodbye"
"I wasn't ready"
"I won't forget"
The water's too cold.
The wind too strong.
Time allows
no second chances.

Fishing #3

She fished for him
here.
In his favorite spot.
Wishing
she could cast her line
through time.
The water is still
with reflected clouds.
She sees his face,
shimmering, changing,
then gone.
With a swirl of gentle waves.
She knows he was here,
for her.
Because this is where
he was most alive.

Fishing #4

The river runs wild.
But in this spot
he used to fish.
The waters are still
with reflected clouds.
She stands alone
on the river bank.
What kind of bait
to catch a soul?
She fishes for him
here.
Where he was most alive.
Shattering the clouds
with her baited hook.
Hoping.
He'll catch the line.

An Appendage

Like the arm
you can never get comfortable
when trying to sleep
with my fist against my mouth
so you won't hear me scream
"When did we become leftovers?"
too little to save
too much to throw away?
my head used to fit perfectly
under your chin
now it seems I don't fit
in the bed
the tangle of sheets confuses me
I've put my pillow on the floor
we can no longer share
the same blanket, curled tightly
around your feet, my nakedness
is cold beside you, beneath your gaze
a look, not like I was invisible
like it wouldn't matter if I were
like the appendix you never think about
until it's got to go
I have to leave
I wonder if you'll miss me
or if I'll leave a scar