The Grinch At The End of This Story

Once upon a time, someone I know was having a very bad day. In fact, it had been a rotten week, and a rotten month, and come to think of it, when had anything ever really been a good at all?! He couldn’t remember. And so, because holidays can illuminate our prickly branches, and because the opportunity was sitting right there amongst the branches like a shiny wrapped present for the taking, my friend threw the Christmas tree, who for the record, was not being much help, down a flight of stairs.

Throwing the tree, stubborn as it was, didn’t fix anything, in fact, it broke more things, including the fragile ornaments shaped like children’s hearts, but for all of three seconds, my friend was focused on something other than his terrible, horrible, no good, very bad life. 

For the rest of the season however, he was secretly known as The Grinch. 

What can one say? 

CindyLoo Who calls it like she sees it. 

She hasn’t learned nuance, yet. 

But they are only alike to a point.

In the end, the heart of the Grinch grew.

He was a totally changed Who. 

In the case of my tree-tossing friend, he simply hasn't come to the end of himself... yet. 

whitney

I woke up with a name clearly formed in my head: Whitney
Oh, I think I remember... wasn't the girl who sat behind me in Pre-Algebra named Whitney?
Whitney Bowles...
Bolles?
I am picturing her vaguely but perhaps she is an amalgamation of the many faces that never solidified into friendships throughout my ever-changing educational landscape. Perpetual new kid didn't lend itself to perpetual friendships, at least, not before social media came along to shrink the world a bit.

"I will have to try to look her up when I get a second. I wonder how she's doing and if everything is okay. I wonder why she's in my head".

Six hours and a lot of busy-ness passed by before the memory of the lodged name reoccurred to me. I had been busy packing suitcases for our short trip to lake country.

'Oh yeah, I was supposed to look her up. I'll get right on that...just as soon as I get the car loaded'

Four hours of driving later, I had still not typed her name into a search bar or searched my groups online for a potential member named Whitney who may need an extra dose of encouragement or something. I'd forgotten again, It was the kind of thing that would probably surface time and again until I at least gave a cursory effort at making sense of waking with a specific name in mind.

We unloaded the car and decided to grab a quick bite before all three local restaurants closed for the night. 10 PM is for city slickers. 

"Hello, my name is Whitney and I will be your server tonight."

What the actual heck?

...and so, I made sure to 'people' with Whitney. I made jokes and asked to hear more about the little personal details she let drop- her 5 year old son TJ, her long commute to this job...later, I prayed for her. And I will pray again for her every time this little puzzle dances across my mind, which to be honest, is pretty constant at the moment. That I should pray is the only thing that makes sense in the whole scenario. God must want me to love on and pray for Whitney and now I know where to find her. What's so mysterious about that?

 Everything.

light and proselyte

The book sat in front of me as I maneuvered between phone and computer screens. Seven spreadsheets were open in individual tabs and I moved information from sheet to sheet, trying to whittle the seven down to two coherent reports.

One group would be accepted into a pilot program, the other would be politely informed that we'd had far more applicants than we planned to accommodate. 

If irony exists, it may well be found in this remaining detail: the pilot program was for people who feel rejected. My job now was to reject the rejects as well as to reject all notions of rejection. . 

Besides, last night had been the kind that turned into This Morning without warning- one or two quick tasks had turned into hours of fine tuning. 

And so, I had made the coffee extra strong this morning

I found a sliver of resolve in the bottom of my third cup of tar. I would finish these reports and re-start my day anew after a shower. 

The phone rang as I scavenged the second floor for a clean towel. 'All I need is one' I muttered to myself as I kicked a mountain of used, damp towels towards the washing machine. We'd only returned home late yeaterday from a week and a half long road trip. There'd been no time to do laundry yet. Even when there is time, it is often the chore we most neglect. 

I could hear my husband speaking with the caller, his tone alarming me that once he'd hung up, I wasn't going to like whatever had been said. 

After twenty years, a woman knows her husband and  after that much time, a man has a pretty good guess about his wife. 

We were both right, I didn't like it. His parents would be dropping by in half an hour and we- which is to say he- had blown our chance of escape by answering the phone. 

Now hiding behind the LazBoy until they went away would only make them angry. 

Dear Jesus. 

Sometimes the shortest prayers are most concise. 

I spent the next 29 minutes cleaning everything- first a whirlwind of tidying the house, then an overdue shower. I was still contemplating what to wear when the doorbell rang. 

I finished dressing and sloshed downstairs to hug my inlaws; gingerly, so as not to wet them with my dripping hair. 

I took a chair at the dining room table where my father in law was sitting. I tried not to notice him chipping away at a splotch of teal blue paint on the table. 

The table had been theirs before. Nice furniture has always been important to them, as are family heirlooms.

 They'd left the table with us in their haste to move to the mountains a year and a half ago. We'd given them some money for it and other items we would use, money to hasten their move.

Nice furniture is nice, don't get me wrong. I try to keep things nice, to the best of my ability. It is an ability, however,  which at my best, is still pretty lacking. It is not that I don't value the blessing of useable items. It is that I value more giving my children the freedom to create and explore, to learn hands-on, to enjoy extra glitter. 

I had painted cowbells for the boys' football Booster club before our mandatory 'evacucation' because I value showing my kids that I support them.  

The paint had been the result of an unfortunate failure to read the bottle's entire label. 

I don't fret over most paint spills and splotches at our homeschool table because acrylic cleans up fairly easily.

 The bright peacock blue, it turned out-as designated in small white print on the label- was not acrylic however, it was enamel. 

Sitting at the table, my father-in-law and I did not represent diametrically opposed people so much as two vastly differing philosophies. 

He is a self- made man and I'm a do-it-yourselfer. 

The line between: a spider's silk, fathoms and fathoms wide. 

We both value education and the spiritual plane, we both read books and think on things a bit deeply. When we share space, we are kind and respectful and an unspoken agreement hovers between us: Just because one of us is right doesn't mean the other has to be wrong. 

But even more quietly, we each believe the other to be the most wrong. Absolutely, fundamentally, inexcusably wrong. 

The older I get, the more I appreciate contrast.

Crandall seemed to realize all at once that he was  scraping the paint and quietly flicked the specks from his fingers. He slid his phone over the splotch and laid it on top, as if to hide it from someone, or perhaps to cover an embarrassment . His? Mine? Ours. 

And then he cleared his throat and turned to the nearest grandchild. 

"What's new with you? What are you learning in school?" 

Before the visit ends, we will all have been put in the spotlight. Or on the spot.

I don't believe the inevitable rounds of questioning are meant the way it often feels. I really believe he just wants to hear what's new, and so he goes around the room for individual reports on the latest in each person's life.

One of the first books he ever recommended to me was 'The 7 Habits of Highly Effective People'. He's into corporate leadership. The questions are just his go to reflex in a crowd. I think. My crowd reflex is to find the furthest wall and help to hold it up. 

We all have our ways. 

My turn rolled around. He didn't bring up the paint. In years past, when both our edges were less smoothed, he may have said something like  "Been doing some art?" or something not so very subtle or soft. 

And in turn I would have probably left the room. 

He said "What about you, doing anything creative these days?" 

And there was dignity in the question. 

He'd seen me making a few notes and glancing at the work that I had postponed to take my shower. He deduced I was probably up to something- again. 

There have been times I might hear his question and the dialect translate  "Do you actually do anything?" but this time, I saw a glint of light and realized it may be the proverbial door of opportunity creaking open.

 I launched into my answer with genuine enthusiasm.  

I should mention that I am always looking for that glint of light. This would not be my first attempt at sliding a little thought-bait onto the hook with Crandall. And please, no talk about hiding my candle under a bushel, no! 

I've never had a problem letting my light shine out in the open and Crandall has never had a problem blowing it out with gusto.

He knows what I'm about and I know the parts he can't reconcile himself to. Any steps he takes in my direction will only be because he wants a closer look for himself; a look at those things that make me strange. 

And so- I showed him first the "adulting" books we were using for homeschool this semester and explained the idea was to cover those little things we tend to learn about the hard way in a fun way. 

He chuckled over the book of adulting stickers with mini-life lessons printed as achievements. His favorite: 'I Knew When To Say When!' 

I moved on to the book sitting atop my project pile. The greeter at my proverbial door of opportunity. Perhaps I could just manage to wedge my little toe between the door and jamb before it closed...

 

I explained the project and the book's premise of not fitting in with traditional church culture; I mentioned the irony of having to send rejection letters to those who already feel rejected.  

"That is an interesting subject. It is really quite interesting." he said. 

And I could tell he meant it. 

A memory flashed then, of a time when we had all visited the same church together for several weeks in a row. My, how I had believed the door may be opening then. 

We are spared so much by our inability to see the future. I am certain of it. 

The church we attended was-still is- growing very rapidly. To get a seat, one must show up early. To get seats for seven, one must say a prayer and cross their fingers for good measure. It was not unusual for us to split between two or three pews. But on this Sunday, we had managed to fill one entire pew as a family. Until after  'hand shaking' time, that is. 

Thinking there was an empty space, a gentleman slid into the spot where my eldest son had been sitting. Turning around from greeting the folks in the pew behind him, Crandall noticed the newcomer and proceeded to poke him in the shoulder rather gruffly. "I'm sorry but you've taken my grandson's seat. Could you move?" That was the beginning of a hot tempered exchange whose details I have purposely dulled in my memory. It was embarrassing. Not how one is supposed to act in church, you know. 

There are many ways to misfit. 

Shortly after this, like the very next Sunday, activities at my in-laws masonic lodge became increasingly demanding- they needed to be at this function then that dinner and just like that, they've never looked back or bothered with trying to find a pew big enough to hold all that we bring to church with us on Sunday mornings. 

Hearing that he found it interesting, and hearing what might be a question mark in his voice, I further explained that I relate to the author in an intellectual way. That neither he nor myself- nor a whole slew of people it turns out- emote in church with hands raised high and decorum abandoned. I said that we didn't check our brains before approaching God. 

An understanding nod. He's an engineer. He likes solutions.

I told him the book wasn't released yet but that when it became available, I would send him a copy. I explained that was part of my role in the project: word of (big) mouth.

He replied in true Crandall form: "That's very interesting. It's definitely a true issue.  And you're doing all this for free."

It wasn't a question. 

Though it did sound a bit like "Let me guess..." 

At least this many years in, we have a pretty good guess about each other.

I confirmed his supposition and took him a step further, explaining that each of the people who'd written in are a part of my family. They don't belong to an author's fan base, rather we all belong, together. 

There's no way I would accept admission to a place that ought to be free. It wouldn't even be the same thing to me, if it were in any way about compensation. 

A nod. Bemusement? Perplexion? He had expected as much-  typical from me. 

Time changes us, yet we are always, ever ourselves. 

I told him that if he wanted to get a feel for what the author has to say before the book releases, he should check out the related podcast where we discuss these things but also other things- fun things, like toast and goats and deal breaker questions. I told him listening was really like the having the book broadcast on-air. 

We went on to talk about his work with Shriner's hospitals (which I countered with highlights from Tebow & CURE; one of my favorite counterpoints with him but that's story for another day); he shared about his fancy degree, complete with a bronze medal, bestowed on him by that grand poobah brotherhood. 

During lunch at the Mexican buffet, he pulled up pictures on his phone of their recent tour through Mexico City and all the tequila they'd drunk there. 

I don't know, maybe he feels his religion serves him well enough. Things our human hearts desire: fun, good works and  high esteem all served on gilded platters. It feels important to wear a fancy tall hat. 

Light helps us see contrast. Sometimes it takes distance or an extreme degree of darkness before we can detect its presence, but the thing about light is this: even the smallest pin prick can pierce the darkest expanse. It can expand to fill the void around it or be channeled into laser precision, removing cancerous growths from deep beneath our skin. 

On his phone, the link to a radio show for misfits sits waiting to be clicked. 

"Send that to me." he'd said. "I'll forget how to find it elsewise."

And so I did, followed by the author's friendly welcome to come, sit with us and dine.  

It is but a tiny flicker, but imagine if it helps this man to see! 

This man, father of my husband, perpetually seeking "Light" looking up to see that all along, the Answer has been seeking him, too.  

whole

When I first saw the bowl-with-a-hole-already-right-in-the-very-bottom, I made an agreement with myself that I would not offer to adopt it until



 a.) I had first put my broken vessel  to use and

 b.) I had figured out how to accentuate the bowl's natural blemish.

I only kept half of the deal with myself but figured inspiration would set in by the time the bowl arrived in the mail or I would simply use the bowl in its already beautiful natural state instead of trying to turn it into an object lesson for my classroom of one.



I thought I might attempt to seal the hole- perhaps with a clear epoxy I've used in the past. I would prove its usefulness despite the natural handicap it had been created with.



As the days ticked past, I occasionally found myself humming "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea." and one day last weekend, without any particular song in mind, I queued up my Paul Wright playlist. It was only a short trip from 'My Everything' to '...inside my bowl, there is a hole, that only you can fill...'

(Actual Lyrics: ..."Inside my soul, there is a hole, that only You can fill")



Hole in my bowl,  in the sea,  in my soul.

Sea Soul Bowl



There's a log in the bottom of the sea...

There's a log in the hole in the bottom of the sea...

There's a log...

from my eye

in the hole

in the bottom

of the sea



::Time Out:: 



There was a time many years back when the song 'Ocean's Floor' by Audio Adrenaline found me. I clung to its reassurance of clean slates and new mercies sung over and over to my broken spirit.
Around that same time, I was given a ring by my sister,  a simple silver band inscribed FORGIVEN. She wanted me to remember that we can all be forgiven, and also that we can all  forgive.

One stormy night, that ring was taken from me and flung far into the rain-drenched night by a  person who wished to make it clear that I was not forgiven, not by them. Nor would I ever be.



::Time In::



The bowl arrived and I started to think about how some holes have purpose. If you clog them, the results aren't nice. Drains, for instance. Tracheas. My desire was not for the bowl to hold water, or candy or even air. I wanted it to hold a story.



And so, I knotted and knitted those various strands of thought and song together and filled the bowl with a reminder: a forgetful blue sea with a chasm of forgiveness at the bottom.

Who is a God like you, pardoning iniquity and passing over transgression
for the remnant of his inheritance? He does not retain his anger
forever, because he delights in steadfast love. He will again have
compassion on us; he will tread our iniquities underfoot. You will cast
all our sins into the depths of the sea. Micah 7:18-19

 

I may add more sea elements as time allows-- perhaps a big ol' fish swallowing Jonah. Me and that guy have a lot in common.  

**UPDATE** Bowl of Forgiveness, now with more sea. 

 

Island Sketches: Julie

Julie tucks a stray curl the color of cinnamon and ginger, behind her ear as she finishes filling in the deposit slip.

Island sketches: Tom

Tom bikes to the Minute Clinic pulling an empty toddler trailer behind his faithful old Townie. His teal scrubs show no signs of exertion, even though the morning is hot and tropic. After his shift, he will pick the typhoon twins up from the day camp being held at the old school.

It is the last day of  junior surf camp. All week, the added steps of putting surf gear away and removing as much sand as it takes to comfortably ride home has added an extra half hour to the boys' pick-up routine. 

Just time enough to pull the clinic shades for a power nap and wake in time to stop by Julie's for his usual. 

Julie closes at four, but she doesn't leave until Tom stops by, even if he's running late. She always has a smoothie on standby for him and a little something to eat. Tom is always appreciative, even when the smoothie has spinach.  

Islanders know all about Tom's naps and we take special care not to disturb him when he's fortunate enough to grab one. 

Between endless clinic shifts and caring for Dax and Dylan, his plate is full-to-overflowing. And that's before you factor in the heartbreak.

It's no small wonder he hasn't taken to drinking. 

Again.

 Pretending not to notice naps is easier than pretending not to notice the island's only licensed nurse practitioner hungover the clinic reception desk or slung over Bennie's bar on a Tuesday at 10 in the morning. 

We've left those days behind us, and that's where we'd like them to stay, especially during jellyfish season. Tom is especially good at treating those stings; some homemade remedy Pow-wow Pete taught him long ago. 

When Tom is off duty, the shifts are filled with interns whose only real helpful knowledge is how to get in contact with Tom and where to find a magazine while you wait for him. 

"Real" doctors never come out to the clinic and the hospital is thirty miles down the single lane umbilical cord connecting the island to civilization .

This week's worth of naps have Tom looking almost rested. If one didn't know better, they might even think Tom was happy behind those sparkling eyes. But, if you know about Tom's naps and you know about Tom's smoothies, then you also know enough to realize that Tom will probably never be happy again.

Not the way he used to be, anyway. 

investments

Our hands brushed as we tucked our daughter into bed
between us. 
He pulled away quickly as if burned, despite a lack of spark.
 
Exasperated sigh; me.
Our bodies have touched, remember?
They've been intertwined.
Look at the child between us.
How do you think those get here?

These were only thoughts.
We have been stuck fast in a No Speaking zone for weeks.

No Touching Zone, too.
Obviously.

Down with sixty second hugs,
We laughed at the couple who did not know how. 

'Always kiss me goodnight'
Pretty, plastic platitude.

I understand not wanting to touch.
I need those walls, too.
Bites always forthcoming.  

Please, do, just stay over there
In your corner
Pouting.

Jimmy Wayne, baby.
Stay gone.

The touch was accidental
This is all so typical.

First it's loud bravado
 and then a falling back,
victimized by yourself,
the blame is shifted to me.

He makes a list of all the things I am not;
tells me to just leave.

I am not:
a good mother
a godly person
genuine

I think of me that same way, too. 
Spend my life trying to change it.
If those are the reasons we fail,
it is far too late for rescue.

'It sucks to lose your investment', he says
I agree though our currencies differ.

Promises were made
Tee shirts worn
Trip upon trip was taken

Renew those vows
Merge accounts
These bracelets made of hope and rope-
We'll never take them off.

I look at my naked wrist which has accidentally burned him
He is saying 'Our hate is mutual'
But only he has spoken.

"I can't imagine building a life with you."
(now that we are twenty years in )

Good things, spoiled
should we have attained them:
Trips with bickering;
a home spilling over with fight..

What is truly lost?
Time, perhaps.
The plot?
A belief in happy endings.

If  this is
at last
The End.

Until the last apology,
I cannot see myself out.
Time and tomorrow will tell.
As always

We wait.
(because there was potential)

storage

It costs four hundred and fifty dollars per month to keep your wife in storage. That's how much Aunt Muddy charges for rent at the old family house Grandma Jody left her. It's a bargain really, at more than a third your current rent. The hidden cost comes in the form of your wife being back in proximity to her family. She will be with them every waking minute, obviously.

The last twenty years of running interference is almost immediately bankrupted when she calls to make the arrangements. No one says 'I told you so' or that they've been expecting this call for the last two decades, but you can feel the needle from three states away.

Your wife seems oblivious to the prick as she packs her books.  Why does she need all those books? So many books. She wasted no time, did she? The first box may have even been packed before she called Aunt Muddy.
She ought to be upset at what they've got to be thinking about her. She ought to have more pride than that. But she doesn't care, she just keeps packing and humming random snatches of songs that don't go together, like she's happy or pretending to be or something. Someone needs to kick her jukebox.

It's about time, really. Your wife wanted to leave since you first got together. You've been telling her so forever. This is not shocking, she's just finally proving you right.

Take all the blame. Tell her she can tell them it was your idea, that it's all your fault. You might as well, they're going to think so anyway. Telling her that should remove all the hesitation she's hiding behind that infernal whistling. She has only stayed this long because of not wanting to go back to them and hear all those told you so's. She's been trying to save face, but all that's over with now.

Just listen- you can already hear those old biddies, talking all over each other and cackling to the roof beams; trying to cheer her up.

It will be nice not to have to worry about all of that anymore.

Out of sight, out of mind.

broken

The listing read "Stitch me back together." It was a hand-turned vessel, made from grapevine, that had cracked under pressure.  It caught my attention. I am drawn to finding beauty in broken things because I am a broken thing. If we were to have a show of hands, I'm probably not the only one.

So it was that I adopted this broken vessel as a kind of self-portrait.

When it arrived, I discovered 'FRAGILE' apparently means something like 'Please shake til glass breaks' in post office speak. The test tube had shattered. While it retained its shape, it would not retain water. What's more, it was not keen on leaving its cozy wood lodgings; it was stuck. The two vessels were broken individually and together. 

Yesterday, I finally found a chance to sit alone with 'myself' and consider the broken vessel. 

Before contemplation: 

I started to use gold paint with kintsugi in mind, but rather quickly had a different inspiration.

After contemplation: 

Faults hold worlds only appreciated by drawing near.

I wanted the shattered glass to find redemption, too. I fashioned a small candle from a trimmed wick and the scrapings of soft wax from a candle. I let my little light shine. 

You'll notice that the light is most visible where the vessel is most splintered. 

When the flame was extinguished, a beautiful, relaxing smoke curled up and up for the longest time. I do love that smoky scent. I could burn incense here too, if incense smelled good. 

I am eagerly awaiting the next package from my woodworking friend, Brock. It is a bowl with a hole already in it! 

Though most of his work does not come pre-blemished, you should check out his wares.

But I call dibs on the misfits. 

popcorn

The corridor smelled like burnt popcorn as I walked to the back of the children's wing to pick up my daughter. A memory was startled loose that slowed my steps. I had forgotten the burnt popcorn. I continued to smile and greet other parents passing by and took my place in line to claim my child. I fished to the bottom of my bag for the key ring I kept my child security fob on  and wondered to myself if there was anything else I had forgotten.

The acrid smell followed us back down the hallway and out into the sunshine. It climbed into the car with us and buckled its seat belt. Only then did I realize Marlow had been given a coffee filter filled with just-slightly charred popcorn to take with her from an apparently failed snack break.

"Nice of them to ask." I grumbled.

I didn't really mind her having the snack. I just felt grumbly all of a sudden.

After a few quick errands, we unloaded the car and got out of our scratchy Sunday best. How I longed for the days when Sunday also meant a nap. Back then also included night service, I reminded myself, in an effort to balance my feeling of loss.

I set my computer up in my makeshift office which is also the water heater closet and went downstairs to brew half a pot of coffee. If I make a whole pot, I will drink a whole pot- even after it has started to grow thick and cold. If I brew only half a pot, I will wish there was more after the last cup, but the drought will force me to drink much-needed water. My inner supply rationing neurosis won't allow me brew two half pots in the same setting, unless we have visitors. We almost never have visitors.

 I returned to the tiny closet with my oversized mug and enjoyed the quiet moment. It would only be a moment. That's how quiet time works for adults. A big game of  Hide-and-Don't-Speak that only lasts until children are alerted by the sound of silence. It is the same absence of noise that startles the parents of a toddler at play.

 They'll be knocking- or better yet- barreling in- any moment with various questions and deep conversation that cannot wait another minute. It is like a required opening ritual before I  may commune with my own thoughts.

No matter how many diversions one offers in advance, a sacrifice of zen will be required. 

A snack offering must  be made, as well as a dozen or more frenzied sit-down-only-to-be-called-here-to-"Look-At-This-Mom-No-Come-Here-To-Look-At-It"-stand up genuflections before I am granted audience with myself. 

Five minutes before I'm discovered, fifteen max between interruptions, not to mention the laundry, this is why I only write short stories.

In the Water Cave, as my kids have dubbed my little sanctuary, I procrastinate by straightening up.  The window in the closet is what invited me to carve out space in  here to begin with. Through it I can see our front yard and the cars rushing by on their way to the beach.I can see the sky and across the street, a swath of marsh dotted with boat docks.

A scattering of art supplies and stacks of old magazines crowd my paint splattered desk, which is just a slab of discarded shelving stretching along the wall, underneath the window. On the wall behind me is a gallery of art work, mostly the children's.

To the right, a shelf of favorite books is kept company by a scattering of trinkets and toys that I have collected. A vinyl Snoopy stands on a volume of collected works by C.S. Lewis. A small latching jar filled with buttons and bottle caps bookends On Death and Dying and my Thornton Wilder selections,. A Lego figure guards the Old Bay seasoning tin, now filled with bookmarks of varying design: an old discount shoppers card, a ribbon, an actual paper book mark from a library four moves ago.

I type a title then procrastinate thirteen more ways before returning to the keyboard with intent.

The water heater on my left is home to magnetic poetry and a magnetic dress-up Mr. Rogers, complete with Trolley and characters from the Neighborhood of Make-Believe. I busy myself straightening Mr Roger's sweater and shoe collection, I will the groupings of poetry words to inspire me to write about something else. They do not. 

 There is also a real live turnip affixed with googly eyes, but I will tell you about it some other day. I must stop this procrastinating now.

I've known I'd visit this memory since the popcorn scented hallway this morning. Even now, as the words fall one in front of the other, I'm not sure why or what it is I want to say. I don't want revenge. I don't want confrontation.
 
I would prefer the edges of my sharp cornered memories remain padded with blurred details, but I am now forced to add definition to the popcorn memory, new layers and sensations. I consider whether there are more things I will remember, more things that will spring out of nowhere and without warning.

There is no reason why he did it. He was different; a boy on the spectrum who liked blood and the macabre. He was older than me, bigger.

I don't expect to make sense of the thing.

We'd been shooed from the doors to the meeting room a dozen times or twenty. I remember thinking that a board meeting somehow involved sitting on a board while voting in that mysterious aye and  nay fashion. I thought the board must be special like Christmas presents- kept hidden until they were sure we wouldn't see it. They must need to keep whether they voted to keep the board or to get a new and better board secret from us kids. 

Board meetings certainly did cause boredom.

And so, our diversion was popcorn. I do not believe even the sadistic boy intended to burn it. Microwaves were still a fairly new technology. The bag was tossed in, time and temperature were set. I doubt instructions were read. 
I remember all of us gathered in the Fellowship Hall, the same room used for Children's Church on Sunday mornings. Windows provided the only light as we waited for the parents and for the popcorn and for the microwave to ding.

He said something like 'Watch this" then grabbed me by the face. One, two three times, four- he slammed my head into the oven door repeatedly. I feel as if the back of my head caught the oven's handle but I also distinctly remember crashing against the flat glass door where one might peek to see if their cake was baking evenly.
I cried out just as smoke poured from the microwave door, rolling a bitter stench swiftly into the sanctuary. 

The smoke detector began to sound its alarm, the alarmed parents rushed to investigate. In the chaos, what has happened to me is combined with  what has happened with the popcorn; just a cacophony of unattended kids,  grown restless and rowdy. The frantic search for a fire, to assure that nothing is aflame, drowns out the assault he's just made on my skull. The popcorn is dealt with first. Of course, no one is to blame. The popcorn just threw itself into the microwave, a miracle of popped kernels has occurred here today. No one claims responsibility for the popcorn or why I'm crying. She's probably just a scaredy baby, a tattle teller, too. 

The offending bag is taken outside and the room begins to empty. Why am I still crying? I tell my parents that I was pushed into the stove door.  

He may have been made to apologize, but I do not recall remorse of any kind. We are 'Family of God.' We do not rock boats. Lord knows, they have their hands full enough with that boy, something new every time they turn around. The incident will now be treated like an accidental collision, or a mutual offense where no one was really hurt. No harm, no foul. 

That is all. I see him online sometimes, smiling in pictures on his sister's social media. She and I connected a few years back when we discovered we'd both moved to the same big city a few hours from home. Though I've been tempted to say something to him, I have no idea what I want to say. I believe he would laugh. 

One day, without either of us going into details, his sister tells me she's had to work at forgiving him too, he's hurt her 'in many ways.'

It is what it is; all that it ever will be. 

He is a jarring memory that persists even as other memories - memories I'd rather keep- sneak silently away. 
~~
  Out of the blue, she tags me in an old photo of one of her childhood birthday parties. I don't remember it- at all; not the presents, the cake, the theme or ever, ever - no matter how hard I stare again and again at that photo- ever having been in that place. All I recognize are the faces of my friends and the outfit I am wearing.

What else have I forgotten? And why can't I just forget about him? 

cloudless day (or eulogy for a funeral I cannot attend)

I think of telling you about these little writing jaunts. I promised myself  that once I reached ten entries, I would mention it. Technically this is the tenth, but only the eighth if we don't count drafts.  I am mentally negotiating over whether I meant published entries or not.

Either way, eventually, it is something I am compelled to do.  I am afraid, believing that the moment I do, time will slip away from me and I will be idle for another decade. Ten entries will sit, gathering dust and random spam comments until one by one I revert them to draft and blanch from shame.
The things I write out loud taunt me, you know.

I don't want to make an unintentional promise. Now-- I laugh at myself. As if you are sitting on your hands, eager to read me or disappointed that I haven't made any recent contributions.  I don't think that way about myself at all. If anything, I've been waiting on something worthy of sharing to strike me, to pour spontaneously from my hands. I will never think that way about myself, that I have written something worthy.  And yet, it is important to me to write for you. Not about you. Not dedicated to you. Just, because there is a you. Because right now, there is still a you.
I live with this heart murmur that threatens "Tomorrow could be cloudless."

I feel this way about my dad, too.  Also, everybody.

A while ago, my dad had complications- a blood clot traveling towards his heart. They did this major procedure that could kill him. We all gathered around his pre-op bed. He didn't hand us each an envelope or say profound things, despite the significant odds that these moments could be final ones. I know his message to me is to be found in that brave silence but I hate the idea of deciphering it wrong. His life is his message. It is both enough and not.

A small fire of panic spurs me onward - write that letter, say that thing, do all the things, and do them at once.  I am less afraid of leaving than of being left without instructions. I am less afraid of appearing unmoored than of leaving with my life unspoken.
I mutter prayers that go "Please let them all stay." 

And you. You have been a puzzle from the start. We are complicated friends but I like it that way.

I do not know your age, I do not want to, lest I try to start calculating odds. If I used to, I have made a point to forget. This clock is already ticking too loud.

I have forbidden you to die, but you are stubborn and will someday get the last laugh, I know. Unless of course, I do. I will not be invited to the funeral. I may not even know that you have gone.
We do not dwell so closely as that. We cannot.

How strange it is to cherish a gem whose facets aren't all showing, to leave the rest in stone.
To leave the rest alone.

You are the newspaper to my Silly Putty. I cannot fit the entire page, but the segments I do pick up are fascinating. You have given me songs and stories, and stretched my mind into interesting shapes.

You are tolerant of my clingy imprinting; you encourage hypothesizing.
You are original content, facts and opinions in black and white.
I am a backwards comic strip, a ball of silly, fresh hatched.
 
You were not the first to hear my voice, but  you were the first without cause to coddle. You encouraged me to keep talking. More importantly, you taught me to listen.

Slowly, somewhat because I probably really ought to be seeing a counselor, and somewhat because I think I am suffocating, I have peeled my hand away from my covered mouth and allowed myself to breathe words again. You'll notice these entries lack pictures. This isn't a scrapbook procrastination. 

Working my fingers across the keyboard like bellows, I fan that little panic flame, sending smoke rings to the sky.

I hope you can decipher them. 

hero

You cannot just write yourself into the story as a hero,especially not your own story. You have to live as a hero first. You must be brave. You must do the things you'd like to read about yourself. You must do them at once. You only have today.  

dream

I woke myself with a cry. Deep gasping breaths and tears pooled in my eyes; I was awake but kept my eyes closed. My pillow was damp but not in the usual,  only-one-side-from-deep-sleep-drooling way. Instead, either side of my face was met with cool wet spots where tears had streamed and cooled under the ceiling fan's Medium breeze.

I lay motionless as thoughts and sensations rolled over me like fog mingling with tide at sunrise. Still groggy, I couldn't decide if I was underwater nor if the snatching of such deep and audible breaths was entirely necessary. Perhaps subconscious me was leaning into this thing a bit much. As a person who frequently denies myself freedom of expression, especially that of crying in front of others, I cannot deny I am disturbed by this subconscious self- mutiny. I wake to find you guys not only crying, but dramatically so? And you're going to give her permission to hyperventilate like that? C'mon Brain! This is not us. A tiny mental post-it note to consider calling my counselor friend gets tacked to the mental mirror over the sink... the dripping, crying, pull-yourself-together sink. 

Vestiges of the dream hover over the fog. They roll in and out throughout the day.

 I'd had ‘Charleston’ in an embrace and it was a rather violent dance we were engaged in. Thrashing might be a better word. My distinct impression is that it was a do-or-die necessity, that I had charged him so as to take the lead of his barreling anger. I feel as if I was running interference, but also shoving an answer key in his face. I do not like the answers I finally realized I knew. They are too simple for anyone to die over, even to cry over.

Some of the memories lift throughout the day; the guiding narrative has sifted out leaving only clumps of vivid images in the bottom of my sieve. Arrange all those chunky bits, what does it spell?  Yes, she was there. And fading to the background is certainly not realistic, not for her. But I can't hold on to a thing that is determined to fly off. I must assess that which I am left holding. And in the dream, I was holding on to him, tightly, as to restrain him, violently dancing him about to show I knew his playbook. Successfully? That remains to be seen.

I know this much, it was "that" kind of dream. The day is almost over and it has lingered with me all day, convincing me it is made of different stuff than all those ordinary dreams that can't even last through the first cup of joe.  The kind I have sometimes that are significant in real life a little later on. I believe omen is too strong a word, for as I have mentioned, only a vague sense of 'Uh-oh' remains. But, oh that uh-oh! Who knows how ugly it will be. I feel it will be unlike any of the other storms we've weathered in the past two decades. I am unnerved and writing this to hypothesize that I believe there may be violence. I do not hope for it, indeed I fear it. But I am curious over past dreams that seemed to hold warning. Dreams that were un-shootable messengers.

 Making a note now is, perhaps, equivalent to a parlor magician's trick of jotting down all the possible answers to his inquiry and tucking them in various pockets, then offering the  coordinates of the correct answer with the illusion that it is the only scrap of paper tucked about his body. I could be wrong and nothing of note will occur. This-I hate the word premonition- will have been the dream's fault and can easily be unpublished. Only a small interaction may occur, but I could then point and say "I knew it." Or something really bad will occur and.... and that's just the thing... what use is it to me really? I'm not being ungrateful. I am thankful for the opportunity to steel my nerves and knees against the incoming storm surge. But, as with all times past, a hazy dream of confirmation does little in the way of instruction. Expect attack, perhaps.

If I were a general at war, these dreams would be a carrier pigeon with opposing messages on each leg:
Left Leg: "The Enemy Approaches"
Right Leg: "The Enemy Retreats"
Nice to know pigeon, but what should I do?

One conclusion I have definitely reached- perhaps twice today- is that you cannot proactively shoot someone because of a dream you had. People won't understand.

Another is to be ready. Such an open-ended ready has required a lengthy and eclectic list: moving away for the month of August, faking my death, learning to punch. I have a fair supply of matches, though I always feel better whenever I buy another box more. I think of the Appalachian Trail and that grandma lady who hiked it in a shower curtain... I've got family in the hills, I could survive. They'd let me bring the kids and stay awhile. I've walked this forsaken island before, toting one of 'em on my hip and the other two on either hand. I've got a fourth child now, and a cat, but the other three have grown enough to help. Everything is gonna be just fine.
I busy myself with the easy scenarios, not yet ready to consider the toughest one of all: staying put and standing my ground, letting them talk to me.  Just the thought of attending that pageant once more takes my breath away.

Here's to hoping that's the only thing that does.

~~~

I am not afraid to die.
It is the heat that radiates from their hatred threatening to undo me.
It is so hot, those sweltering lines melt my face, blur my vision
and make me unable to hide my smile. 

gang activity

Our town is an old one. One of the oldest in Florida, actually. People come here because our clocks are stuck at twenty years past the current decade. The pleasures here, like the people, are simple.

An ice cream cone and "Putt-Putt" golf are the only seaside diversions you'll find, unless you are an alcoholic, in which case you're gonna like this place plenty.

Our Putt-Putt is the official kind, one of the last handful remaining in the country and one of only two in the entire state.That official status means tournaments come to town at least once a year, bringing a fair count of at least sixty tourists and their dollars to our sleepy little red-ink town. Pretty remarkable, when you stop to think about it. I mean, we don't have anything. The other one is in Oddlando, who has at least one of everything. Just think, little old us, keeping up with big, fancy them.
Our DayGlo orange bumpers have held their own for decades against seaside elements and hurricanes; the white iron obstacles standing sentinel through of the abandonment of generations of summer children and locals alike, who grow up and learn to drive themselves across the bridge to Anywhere But Here.
The course is pretty basic. We don't have fake animals or any props at all, really, just the scorecard stands in between each hole. And the holes are slightly- ever so slightly- out of order, but you really can't tell, unless you came to nit-pick. Which you might be surprised to find, that's all some folks want to do once they get here. But for all we lack, we've got 36 holes, a long history and something no other Putt-Putt in the country can brag about: we've got Murphy.
Murphy was probably at the grand opening in 1957. No one really knows his age, but we all treat him with the respect due to elders, because he's definitely eld. Murphy does odd jobs around the course as needed; he changes light bulbs, sweeps the inevitable sand dunes from the Astroturf greens and hauls the ice cream tubs from the monthly cold truck into the walk-in freezer. He's a strong eld man. 

bachelor pad

I was away for two nights.
Hopping in the shower upon my return, I noticed the hand soap in our shower stall.
I wrapped a towel around myself and poked my head into the bedroom where he was reclined.
"Tell me you didn't resort to this."

I held up the  pump of Pink Himalayan hand soap.
"I did." he said. "I couldn't find the shampoo."
I pulled the shampoo from hiding in clear sight.
"Oh" his reply followed me back to the shower.

I sloughed away the weary miles and considered the differences between us gals and guys that some deny exist.  I pondered marital roles. I felt slightly more valuable, for this moment at least, to this man  now reunited with his shampoo.

I breathed a prayer of gratitude that I have  married a man who at least takes a shower when I am not around.

Blessings abound... if you know where to look.

phone calls

:: incomprehensible  screeching over the line::

"It's her." said my date's mom, as she handed him the phone.
He walked into the other room, trailing his half of their conversation behind them like a cord.
"It's none of your business who it is." he informed the receiver, before his voice faded into the other room.
And then we went to dinner.
~~~
"I don't know. I'll ask. It's not that big a deal, okay?"
He hung up and turned his attention my way.
'Did you take him to see Santa?'
I had. And I hadn't known it was sacred ground. I just thought we were having fun. Kids like Santa and I was babysitting this kid. I didn't have any of my own. It turns out Santa is a special thing that parents do with their kids. I was dating his parent, not his actual parent - oopsie daisy.

 

shower prayer (or Why I Am In There So Long Muttering Odd Things)

I'd been in the shower for three days, and still I wasn't clean.
I looked through the fogged shower glass  to the alarm clock beside my bed. Okay, twenty-seven minutes to be exact. Still, twenty-seven minutes alone in my head can be an eternity... and I had yet to do anything but stand under the spray of hot water.

I decided then to speed things up by taking a man's shower.  That is to say, I'd skip the loofah and hair conditioner and use the woodsy-smelling green bottle of 3-N-1, instead of the three lilac scented pastel bottles meant to be used successively.  The combination was meant to unlock a woman's secret beauty according to the happy spokeswoman on their paid advertising blocks during television's insomnia shift.

Ha! (had that been aloud?) With no secrets and no beauty to unlock, I should be able to knock this shower out with a one-two punch: hair, body, out!  I had things to do, important, pressing things and I needed to finish them right away. Just as soon as I remembered what they were. Maybe they'd come back to me if I slowed down and shaved my legs.

"That's not very manly." I told myself
"But it's fine"  I answered me "because I'm not actually a man and I'm skipping other things."

Onward, upward. "Always start with shampoo." Momma taught me that. "In case the water runs cold, at least your hair will be clean." There was a time when water heaters weren't so automatic. And I guess this is true however far back you care to stretch it.  

Okay, God. Here we are. Just you and me. I don't know what to say. I don't really feel anything.
I'm not unhappy. I'm not fighting the urge to cry. I just am, you know what I mean? Ha! Yes, you do- of course you do, you're the one who said "I AM"  I mean... well, what do I mean ? I don't know. I just feel like I should talk to you but, you already know me, you know what's going on and I don't feel like I have anything to report. So, here I am wanting to talk but without a whole lot to say. It all feels so...obvious.

"Fo-cus, fo-cus, fo-cus" I work a lather in my hair to the rhythm of my own friendly reminder."One thing at a time." God, if only I could have you unscramble this brain of mine. You must want me like this- but why? How does it possibly glorify you that I forget pretty much everything and get sidetracked mid-sentence?

Here we go. I know what I need to do- it's all I know to do, God. Please forgive me for being so casual...and naked...in your presence. We have to take baths down here, it's ungodly when we don't.
No, no I don't think I'm funny. I hadn't planned that. Okay, well, it did make me chuckle a little.

I've just got to start or we are never going to get through. Gosh, that sounds like Wonka in the elevator, doesn't it?  Is saying Gosh kinda like calling you Josh? Why am I like this?!

"Our Father..."

God you are my dad, and you are their dad, too... you're not just mine, you're ours. How curious that the people I just pictured are from so long ago.  I realize you love them, too... as much as you love me. Help me to be a better sibling to the ones you know I'm struggling to love. You know who they are. More importantly, so do I. I don't have an excuse- I just need help. Thank you.

"Who art in Heaven..."
Why do I still pray in King James? It's weird but it gives me the frame to hang my own modern words. It's funny how every time, this prayer is different even though it is exactly the same. Maybe that's why you said 'pray like this' instead of 'pray these words'. I'll have to go re-read that passage, but I'm pretty sure that's how it is phrased... ah "Who art...who is...God you are in Heaven, which means that you are in a fixed place where I can find you. You aren't hiding from me. You are here- there, I mean- well,  here too. And you are way up there-high in the sky, although I'm not sure that's scientifically correct...or theologically sound... but still we got that imagery from somewhere and it stuck, but, you know, I realize it means that you can see further down the road from so high- so, please give me the directions I need to get to where I'm going. God, I have no idea where I'm going...and I'm so very hard of hearing.

"Hallowed be thy name"
Yes, I honor you- I am thankful and also so sorry for not being more thankful. Thank you for the daily bread you faithfully provide. I know I'm skipping ahead now, but thank you. I ask for your help being a better, more cautious steward. Help me to pass on what you've provided. I feel as if I'm becoming accustomed to living out of abundance and....and I'm confused a little. I mean, I believe that you will provide and that you will fill the bread basket to flow over into the baskets of others if we are diligent to share... man I wish that didn't sound like so much like a prosperity gospel bit... but, I really do believe that you'll give to me so that I can give to others even if I got that idea from a wolf on t.v.- which I probably did but I can't remember now. I don't want to lose sight of that. That you gave it so I could share it, not spend more of it on fluff and stuff.
  I haven't been looking to give very actively this last little stretch...as you well know- I haven't been doing anything well at all for this last little stretch... but, I don't know. I feel like not living out of  guilt is ideal but I also feel like I kind of need that guilt as motivation. Just help me please- to be more aware and to meet the needs of others.To give more thought when I am spending and to show more discipline than I have been.  Show me where I can make a difference whenever I next turn on my phone- a goFund me or stated need- if you don't mind- just bring something to my attention.

"Thy kingdom come..."
I mean, your Kingdom is coming or it's here and expanding according to some beliefs, or it's gonna be here soon or maybe later- but, well, we don't really understand the Kingdom on our own. You tried to explain it to us and we know that it is different than here- we know things have to operate differently to be of the kingdom, so please help us-- me, I mean- teach me to be a citizen of your Kingdom. God, this may be heresy, I don't know, but help me to live my life for the Kingdom even if the only definition of Kingdom is how we live our lives here on Earth-  I'm not saying that's what I think- I just mean, help me to understand how to live right now and not so much with an expectation of a payout in streets of gold in the future. You know how difficult all that is for me to even picture. Streets of gold? It doesn't appeal to me anywhere near the beauty of kindness and restored lives, healed bodies and homelessness no more. I want to love others. And I always mean to do just that. And I do okay with friendliness toward strangers. I can hold big ideals of unity and forgiveness up to the light and cast rainbows all about the room. But the actual meanies-- those who smirk and say "You HAVE to forgive me because that's what you Christians do." those are the difficult ones and I know, those are the only ones you're really going to count.  Letting go of..well, the thing... those things... that we have talked about, that you see me re-visit again and again in my mind... I don't know, I just keep searching for the meaning, for that one loose thread that's supposed to tie it all together and make my story an open and shut fable, complete with moral take-a-way. Even when I already know it doesn't work like that.Help me to allow the villains in my story to become beloved friends.

No one is going to remember me soon, do you realize that? I mean- you're God. Of course you do. I love how I'm always stating the obvious to you. I'm sorry. I'm not trying to be flippant, just real.  I mean- after my parents, I can't think of anyone who will care for a memory of me. My grandparents are all already gone. My siblings get along fine without me.  My teenagers aren't banking many cherished moments in my company these days and my husband- well, you see everything. I think he'd miss me but not all of me. Not the parts that confound him. Which is fine, because I don't understand me either. I don't know-all I mean is no one really needs me now. There won't be a gaping hole. And even if there were, those fill in within a lifetime, if not sooner.
 News of my death will set amongst my family members like the news of their deaths have set with me: melancholy for a moment and then that relentless marching forward. We are always marching forward. Granny taught me to to crochet, right? But all I've got are a bunch of half squares and random chains of yarn to show for it. What good was passing it on to me if it never turned into a heart felt gift for a newborn baby? Where are all those granny square booties she made for us at these days, anyway?
I'm not planning to leave any sort of major legacy- I have no blueprints to change the world. No money.  Sometimes that leaves me feeling... indifferent? Pointless. I don't know. I am spiraling quickly into Ecclesiastes territory: all is vanity, what's the point? Help me to make the time you grant me count... or help me to care less about what it all means. Either way, be thou my vision. I don't even know that song but- okay. Yes, it fits and I guess I understand why someone wrote it into one. Help me to enjoy this life and make it count for whatever reason you gave it to me, even as I lack an understanding of what that reason is. 

Sometimes I wonder what a brain not exposed to King James English and old hymns sounds like. 

"...Thy will be done..."
That's just the thing, isn't it? Your will is the Kingdom and it can't be here until we are different. I mean- that's what I feel I've learned. Imagining having to share Heaven with 'them'  helped me see that better. Like, if we hide from people in the grocery store, how can we expect to enjoy  holding hands and singing hymns in heavenly robes, right? It's still awkward...and hard to do. Sometimes, so hard really. And typically I only get past one or two individuals. Sometimes the same individuals I tried to imagine sharing Heaven with before.  There are some I still can't even imagine sharing space with at this point. But I think realizing my limits there helps me to understand. If  we can't be loving here, we aren't ready for Eternity together. I see that.

I wonder if I wrote something on my blog about how Facebook is like the Kingdom of Heaven would that be a little like blasphemy? The Facebook Kingdom? For Thine Is The Facebook? "What Facebook Taught Me About Heaven? Bleh. I don't want to write anything spiritual. I am not Seeds From The Sower. Gag me with a Guidepost.

Why do I want to write when I also have nothing to say? I wish it would leave me alone or I could harness it and ride to someplace good. I have nothing nice to say... no clever stories waiting to get out. Why this preoccupation? Why do I always spin my wheels on pointless stuff when I really need the energy elsewhere?Soap. Peanut Butter. Blogging. Coffee For Lunch. I can be so...

Still...there it all is. Old flames and bullies- people who hurt us or remember embarrassing things about us...the people we were happy to leave behind are no longer out of sight or mind anymore. Being on social media really has been an exercise in facing the past and the future as the people we have been and are becoming.

I just shampooed my hair. Why am I doing it again? I know the bottle says I can, but I didn't intend to. This was supposed to be a quick shower.

"Forgive us our debts as we forgive our...."
Wait. Wait. I don't know if this would be wrong or not- I'm not sure of the verbatim wording you used  and I'm not trying to change your words, but if I could... please, please do not forgive me my debts as I forgive my enemies. Cause I'm severely lacking there. Lord knows- I mean- you know-how some of those things that I want 'closure' on are just excuses to keep certain stories as part of my identity.  Those stories help explain how I got to this place in time, or that one... but if I am no longer the girl who was wronged at the end of the story or--and this just happened recently--if I realize it was me who actually owns the blame, well,  who will I be then? I dread a bigger scoop of this mode of just being... of numbness... not sorrow or joy... just breathing, blinking, auto-pilot me. If the stories that brought me here are erased by Grace, how do I avoid becoming more blank?
Can I just ask you to teach me to forgive folks according to your measure of forgiveness for me? The difference being that you are the litmus of forgiveness rather than my ability?  Would that be allowed or maybe it doesn't work that way. I'll have to go back and read that passage again too,  but maybe that's what you wanted us to realize as we prayed it in the first place- that we are going to need help if the portions we give match the portions we get. I need help because the wounds are bigger than the Band-aids in my pocket, they outnumber them too. But I can't....cannot... proceed without your forgiveness. If you won't have me, where could I go? Oh, where could I go... dang this mental jukebox. Seriously, it's a little ridiculous, don't you think?

 And also, this is why I don't write devotionals. I'm probably a wolf myself-deceiving myself and your sheep. I don't write them because I've quit reading them. I cringe at the idea of telling someone else what to think about God. I am just learning how to spell your name, myself.

I rinse my razor and go to the next leg. "I'm on my last leg" I mutter with a smirk. Why does that always amuse me? I'd once called it out as a reply to someone waiting for the bathroom and it continues to re-surface from shower to shower. It really lacks context to be funny. It would only be truly funny if I was one legged or if I died after saying it. Still, I insist on being amused. And this is me, talking back to myself.
"It's funny."
'Not really.'
"I'm still gonna smirk."

"For Thine is the kingdom and the Glory..."
I know I'm missing some parts. It's okay. It's all yours, it belongs to you, it's all you. I've got to get out and get busy. 

I have no idea what I'm doing here. Sometimes I feel like you're teaching me. My teenagers frustrate me and then I realize that I'm pretty much still at that exact same stage- a spiritual teenager. The same girl I've always been is present and accounted for, only more sneaky and better at disguising huffs and puffs as "getting older".

 I shut down the stream and wrap a towel around myself. I have not said 'amen'. I am thinking about the article online a friend shared, about Amen being some old Egyptian god and unsuitable for closing our prayers. I shrug it off, figuring that even if it were true, God knows our limited understanding in these matters. I don't say 'amen' because I am not finished praying- I never really am. Maybe I am just droning on to myself. A crazy person who talks to herself and has become convinced she's talking to God. Sometimes hearing from Him, too. How would we know the difference? Sheesh. I AM a piece of work, Sam-I-Am.

I use the bar of soap at the sink to clear a place on the fogged mirror like my dad taught me to do a long time ago. I wonder if it was a scouting thing like the sand to clean pots and pans or from some other adventurous chapter of his life.

There I am. I look me in the eyes. It unsettles me to hold my gaze as I think/pray, so I  force myself to stop the mental chatter. I wait for a lightening bolt moment, but there is none of that. I am me and that's that. That's all there is to it. I look away.

I begin rearranging the vitamins on the bathroom counter so as to politely break eye contact with that girl in the mirror. Waiting on an Aha! reflection in the mirror is a waste of time, but I wouldn't want to hurt her feelings by affirming there's nothing to see. Straightening up is important and a good excuse to be on with it.

 I move the Colloidal Silver to the side and think back to earlier in the day when my daughter told me she had a lip sore. "I need to get something for it. " she'd said " Something liquid maybe, that will make it go away rather quick, before it grows out of hand. " I had quietly rolled my eyes. I knew she wanted the silver, but couldn't bring herself to ask for it directly. She was afraid I'd say 'No', the unlikelihood that I would deny her access to medical care never figuring into her equation.  She had almost quoted  me about the quick healing properties of silver, but she was hinting around rather than asking outright. 

So frustrating.  

Perhaps she felt her chances of getting what she wanted were greater if she structured things so I felt it was my idea. "I'll ask her for something liquid and fast acting and let her realize on her own that silver best fits the bill. She will feel so smart, she will go get it and I can get rid of this thing quicker."

Silly rabbit, I thought as I slid the bottle back into the medicine cabinet- I just want you to ask for what you want, for what you need.  Say "Mom, where's the silver. I need some for my lip." You're going to need to be direct in your adult life. And if I say no it's probably because I know of something better for that particular kind of sore.

Ha! (was that out loud? Probably.) Okay, I get it God. Haha. You just want me to come to you, too, to ask for what I need. Even when you already know. I get it. I mean, this isn't the first time I've realized it, but got it...message received, lesson remembered. 

I am a silly rabbit, too.

Thank you Father,  for not rolling your eyes at me.

lobby

my hands fall clumsily onto the keyboard
i am amazed there are no misspellings

waiting for my coffee to cool a sip more
and the floating pat of butter to melt
i am waiting on 

a paradox
a pair of dice

i type and sit
sip and type
i am waiting on words to come out

paradeux

monkeys with typewriters
we've done this experiment before

the pilot in the breakfast nook asks for boiled eggs
the man in the burger shirt would like to check out late. 

he's been places
we all can see
from his shirt
with the Burgers that are 

first In
then Out

we don't have those down here

and we don't have hard-boiled eggs
either
not this morning.

they were ordered from the warehouse
but never came
she tells him

she is sixty five perhaps
and only another half hour from bed
she greets we stragglers
who have slept soundly under her night desk watch.

i wonder who it is
that isn't there
to greet her at the door,

the same nobody

she works night shifts 

in this airport hotel for

maybe he left a long time ago
perhaps he recently died
there's always a chance
he never existed
and she has always been
a night owl

waiting up for him to arrive,

the egg-less pilot stands to leave
and i hope his hands do not fall clumsily 
in front of him this morning 

due to a lack of yolk 

yoke 

less

eggyolks

I quietly wish him no misspellings. 
as he walks out next to Linda the Lobby Lady

she is now greeted
brightly
too brightly
by the morning staff 

those freshly washed faces 

trickling in
with the sun

At the door, they go their separate ways

he to greater heights 
and she to depths of slumber
godspeed you both, my friends

eggs from warehouses
words from coffee

to go home and 

a bit more sleep

we all want something
we 

simply
cannot
have

candles

His parents were away for the weekend.
We had the beach house to ourselves.
They'd invited us down, insisted we house-sit as an anniversary gift. 
Celebrating our first married year and now, our news last week, that baby made three.
A smidge of extra icing for
That old and preferable, still more socially acceptable order;
First the love, then the marriage, fallen tree, baby's carriage.
This time. 

We would leave our footprints in the sand, take a photo on the pier.
The three days of their absence, we would celebrate as one.
We would watch the sea's shenanigans and flirtations of the sun from just across the street.
There'd be lots of staying in.

The plan was simple: steak dinner
(with baked potatoes, because that's fancy when you've been married one whole year.)
He cooked the steaks, I set the table.

We lit the candles on the table, of course.

Moonlit stroll, we happened across a grand celebration: the lighthouse on this tiny island was being re-lit.
It hadn't shone for a decade or more.
Each anniversary now, another year of shared life with one another and with this stately pillar of light.

Baby came later that year, and then, little by little, we continued to multiply.
Like filthy, senseless rabbits with no idea where babies come from.
~~~~
Christmas and we are in flip flops.
The beach house is now our house... too.
We are staying in his parents' back bedroom, our impossible little rabbit family, imposing ourselves on them.
Temporarily, of course.
We have chased our dreams, right here to the horizon.
If we sit here quietly a while, we may catch them suddenly in our nets, and carry them away
with the sea glass and broken shells in our old and rusty pails.

~~~
"What is it?" he craned to see in the box from across the room to see past the sea of ripped wrapping paper between us.

I'd gone quiet in a way that alarmed him.

I didn't look up, I couldn't.

"What?" from across the room, beside him. Her voice was tinged with mock confusion and dripping with secret glee. "I got you some of your own."

"Oh, cool. You love those don't you? Let me see. What do they smell like? " his own voice betrayed that he clearly saw what he was pretending  not to notice.

He talks excessively when there's tension.
He doesn't realize this, so how would he know to stop?

I quietly tucked the tissue paper back around her gift and set the box on the ottoman.

Had tears threatened to spill? Maybe, but probably not in that moment. I don't cry, and I don't admit to crying. But if I were to indulge in that sort of thing, it would certainly only be in the shower...with the door locked... and the lights out...while biting a washrag...and even then, only so quietly it would technically have to be called sobbing.

I was careful not to slam the door.
Slamming the door would sound too much like "Thank you."

Deep breath and count to three, "1...2.."
There he stands, staring disapprovingly at me.
"What was that all about?" him, to me, incredulously."I thought you loved candles? And those are the nice kind that smell good."
There was nothing to do but wait.
Finally, the silence forced him to continue, to get it over with.  
"What?" he asked, as if it weren't an accusation.
When I wouldn't supply him with words to hurl back my way, he continued,
"Well, you shouldn't have lit them. You should tell her you're sorry about it. And go tell them thank you for the gift. "
He left me to gaze at the closed door and to not cry... not just yet.
~~~

Flashback to sometime in September of the same year:

His parents were away for the weekend.
We had the beach house all to ourselves.
The rabbit children fed and tucked in early.
So many long work days, such a long commute; when he got in tonight, a fancy dinner would be waiting. 

Candle light and soft music. It was to be romantic.

And for a  flicker in time, maybe it resembled romance.
The kind that is a sort of wishful thinking.

But candlelight has a way of softening reality.
And in the morning, the sunlight's exposure was harsh.

We loaded the dishwasher, re-made their bed.
We scraped the now cooled wax from the mantle, then tucked our hands into our pockets and whistled toward the ceiling like we hadn't needed a weekend without them, like we hadn't enjoyed it.

We were quiet in a way that alarmed her.

"Who lit these?!" she wanted to know, as if there were an entire line-up of usual suspects,  routinely lighting forbidden candles throughout her home.

Was I thrown under the bus? How came the reply? I was not in the room, but even before the days when she paid a private detective to follow me, she hadn't asked because she wanted to know; she asked because she did. She asked because she wanted a fight.
She wanted him to apologize for being happy, especially with the likes of me.
 
Of course I lit the candles.
Whatever he said, it was not a mutual crime.
I had lit the candles, had enjoyed the free time alone.
He wasn't even home.

"Honey... " she started, as she sat on the edge of my bed.
Her bed. 
The bed she was lending  me.
Our bed.

For a moment, we were in the same boat, literally the same bed.
In a flash, I was under water.

I can't remember the exchange.
Sometimes, verbatim is a strength of mine.
Other times, forgetting is the mercy.
I probably didn't meet her eyes.
I'm sure I was ashamed.
Also I was something I'm not sure I know the word for... something the opposite of loved.
I used to own a thesaurus. 

The candles, she told me, cost eleven dollars apiece.
They came from a fancy store with itchy air and though they had wicks, they were never meant to be lit.
Fancy people knew this.
Obviously, I had not.

I consoled myself that truly rich people would light fancy candles whenever they pleased, burn them down to nubs.
They'd pull more fancy candles from their fancy candle drawer, where they waited next to matches in mass supply.
Only imposters would fret over the loss of two measly pillars that didn't look so fancy at all.

It was little consolation.
I'd made the error, I'd ruined a prized possession.

I did say I was sorry, but somewhere in my heart, I think I was only sorry for the way she was carrying on. I should've had more respect for her things. Years have helped me to see the other layers that were there.  I naively thought candles were free game. And I presumed upon a grace she didn't extend toward me.  

She had called me honey in such viloent sugared tones. I should have picked up on it, but I can be tone deaf.  

Quickly he consoled her
Toss the candles, we'll buy you more.
(Last night meant nothing, I can't believe you lit her candles.)

As if together they'd caught me dancing alone in the candlelight
Together declaring
"She is such a silly rabbit"
~~~
How long can the flame of a memory sting?
Almost two decades later, I smoulder the thoughts as we pass a shelf of candles in a fancy gift shop.
These last two decades, the light of us hidden  away.
Will we shine again? 

It has taken me every minute, as well as time I'm not yet given
to understand that living near her flame demanded a fortress be built.
It has taken him as long to find the door, show her to it and dare to invite others in.

Sometimes, the door is still shut.

A Fortress of Solitude feels safest.
Even cold and devoid of flame.