Mourning Joe

Breeze brushes water

painting swirls and waves.

Leaves flitter, unsure.

 

Clouds anchored in blue beckon.

 

He moves along the shore

shedding shape and corporeality,

goodbyes rising

like fresh coffee steam.

 

And then he’s gone.

 

STILL

My flight arrives late and cabs are scarce. It’s after midnight when I unfold myself from the taxi's back seat and escape the cloud of stale smoke and curry. The cabby takes my cash without a word and drives away, destined for God knows where. I pause, deep slush soaking my new suede boots, then take a deep breath and push myself through the door.

 

Hours of silence are shattered by a siren screaming by. She doesn’t stir, just the rise and fall of her chest mark the moments before dawn. I shift in the chair, uncomfortable.

 

We’ve been friends for over 20 years. At Thanksgiving this year, after putting my kids to bed, we shared a bottle of wine and caught up. She got back together with Jarod. She said he treats her like a princess, buys her gifts. He really does love her. I told her I’ve heard it all before.  She said I’ve been bitter since my divorce. She left early and I didn't call. Now, here we are.

 

The ventilator inhales and exhales for her. Jagged lines track her heartbeat across the monitor, always returning to the start. I reach over and brush stray hair from her forehead, careful, so careful, to avoid her battered face. The necklace of bruises he left her will fade in time, but the damage runs deep, maybe permanent. It’s too early to tell.

 

The sun struggles to conquer the horizon, casting prisms from the melting icicles as it rises painfully slow, clouds lit up and glowing. 

 

My friend remains with me, still.

Live at the Polack Inn

Ben walks into the Polack Inn, taking in the Friday night crowd and hazy atmosphere. In the back a band screams and plays raging guitars. Some things never change.

“Hey Dave.”

“Ben! What brings you to town?”

Dave picks up an empty beer glass and dunks it in the soapy water behind the bar.

“Oh, just felt like seeing some familiar faces.”

“Cool. I heard your tour sold out. Congrats man!”

“Thanks.”

“What can I get you?”

“Rum and coke.”

“Coming right up.”

Ben takes another look around.  Same pool table, same beat up floor, same feeble lights struggling to illuminate the room.

“Here you go. On the house.”

“Thanks Dave.”

Ben grabs his drink and heads to the backroom. It’s like he never left.

The walls around him vibrate and the decibels climb. He sees himself in the guitar player on stage, sweat soaked and high beyond belief, all attitude and push. Girls with pink-tipped hair whip their heads in time to the frenetic beat. The song ends in an orgy of feedback and swagger before the band disengages from their guitars and goes in search of beer.

In the deafening silence that follows, Ben steps onto the stage and picks up a guitar. He unplugs it and begins to play a simple tune that slowly rises like smoke hovering 5000 feet above ground level. He closes his eyes, lost in the moment, weariness from the road jettisoned and far away.

People applaud. He smiles, lost in the music.

New Start

The wheel continued to spin even after the car slid to a stop. Funny thing was, Jamie couldn’t remember now where she was going so early and in such a hurry. Something about a chance for a new start. But that was before the deer stepped into the path of her headlights.

She remembered being fired from her job. Her boss’s wife, the surly old hag, had made accusations about missing funds, and then pointed her gnarled but well-manicured finger right at Jamie. Now she tried to focus, but her thoughts kept slipping away.

Jamie shifted in her seat, the pressure of the safety belt digging into her shoulder gradually gaining her attention. The car slid a few more feet and the trunk popped open spilling her emergency kit and her suitcase down the brush covered embankment.

She undid the seatbelt and dropped, bumping her head on the compressed car ceiling before shimmying out the window frame, her purse in tow.  As she stood, ears ringing, the car tipped and fell, already burning before it landed.

Jamie opened her purse and pulled her tattered prayer book from its depths. There, in the sanctity of its pages, nestled a thick stack of hundred dollar bills.

Her dad had once told her, “There are a hundred things you have not dreamed of, some good, and some bad. It all depends on the choices you make.”

She put the book back in her purse and, in the sunlit silence, turned and walked away.

Phoebe

The tall grass and brambles pull at Phoebe’s skirt; she walks on, oblivious. She’s often seen here walking through the field as the sky softens to dusk.

She hums, a secret song barely audible. It sounds like distant wind chimes, but there is no wind, not even the whisper of a breeze. The world holds its breath, save for some small animal that senses her approach and scuttles to a safer distance.

Phoebe’s feet pass over jagged stones set like teeth in the once fertile ground. They nip, greedy, at her soles. Still she pushes forward, heading toward the sumac thicket.

She slips through the branches and once on the other side heads due west. The sun fades and moon climbs as she crests a small rise. A weathered gray shack squats below, its door sagging on tired hinges. To open it would release a moan, but she's not interested. Instead she veers toward the jagged creek and the low stone fence below. And there she stops.

At her feet six small mossy stones, planted in a row, mark where she buried her babies. Each one dead at less than a year old.

She’d loved them singularly. Their chubby cheeks and pudgy feet. Their grasping, grabbing hands. And their lips. She’d gaze at them for hours as they slept, finally waking them to nurse at her breast. That was heaven. Knowing she alone could love them enough to keep them alive. That is, until the next one came, more perfect than the last. She didn’t have enough to give to two, so the elder would be wrapped in a blanket, tucked tenderly in the ground, and forgotten.

The seventh baby laid permanent claim to her. They died together in the small shack, tangled together in cord and placenta.

She returns each night, shocked anew to find plump and tender flesh replaced with seasoned bones that no longer reach for her, no longer warm her, no longer need her.

The Lake

Loon glides over slick
lily pads anchored in mud.
Dinner waits below.

Hurricane Promise

 Rain pelts the windows and the overhead lights flicker. Hurricane Promise makes her presence known.

I’d had this trip planned for two years. “Say hola to paradise.” That’s what the brochure had said. Sugar sand beaches, gentle waves, palm trees and sunshine. No computers. No work. No stress. Hah. I’d take the 8 to 5 grind over this any day.

The baggage carousel winds round and round, one lone suitcase repeating its jittery circuit, ignored, while we all crouch together on the floor as far from the windows as possible. This jumble of rumpled and unwashed humanity all silently prays to the god of their choice, begging to be delivered from disaster. Hopefully at least one of them has a direct line, because even though I don’t believe in god, I don’t want to die in this third world paradise either.

“It’s my birthday.” I say quietly, to myself. “I turned forty today.”

The body next to me gives me a gentle nudge.

“Would you like some gum?”

I smile and reach out, taking a piece from the calloused hand.

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

I pop it in my mouth and revel in the inimitable burst of spearmint freshness.

“Where are you from?”

“Wisconsin,” he says, smiling.

“Me too.”

“Small world. Mine name is Simon. Simon Nap. But my friends call me Snap.”

“Nice to meet you Snap. I’m Valerie.”

“Well Valerie, I’m going to buy you a birthday drink once this storm blows over.”

I smile and the lights go out.