Painted in a Corner

“Janie. Come in here. Right away.”

Recrimination echoed in the ensuing silence. Janie tucked her hair behind her ears, straightened her shirt, took a deep breath, walked slowly down the hall and into the sunlit corner room where a matronly lady stood reviewing the wreckage of Janie’s work.

“You do know that you’ve painted yourself into a corner this time. You’re up the creek without a paddle, on the roof without a ladder, in the mine without a parakeet. In short, you, my friend, are in trouble.”

Tears came to Janie’s eyes.

“I’m, I’m s-s-s-sorry.”

“Well, we’re kind of past the point of sorry now.”

Stern icy blue eyes under shaggy grey eyebrows looked down at Janie who was now more aware of her slight stature than she’d ever been.

“What do you want me to do,” she asked.

Janie held her hands in front of her, pleading. She also held her breath.

“Janie, if this had been the first time we could overlook it. But you’ve done this before. Several times.”

“But I’ll do better. I promise!”

The craggy face in which the eyes resided moved closer.

“OK. I believe you. So here’s what what’s going to happen. You’re going to clean up the mess you made, and you’ll do it without complaint.”

“I understand,” Janie said. She brushed her hands together, ready to get down to business.

“And Janie…”

“Yes?”

“Next time you want to make cookies, check with me first. We can have a grandma and Janie baking lesson.

Janie smiled and nodded as she swept flour, chocolate chips and eggshells, her culinary palette, from the floor.

imprints

 

ghosts of last fall’s leaves

tattoo the sidewalk

in coffee-colored points and dips

their brilliant colors faded and edges blurred

just a memory of what was

 

the maple may not recognize her shed

marked on the ridged concrete below shadowed branches

 

I pray for the strength to release

what I no longer need

as I weather the seasons

In the Spirit

 

The mind manacle tightened

‘till ideas spurted.

No sagacity squandered

as the mind wandered and wended

exploring expanded exigencies.

A chorus of characters kick-lining

to culmination backed by

an orchestra of she and his

saying and playing.

No right or wrong

just is and as

in the absinth moment.

Fly Away

 Grackles squabble and squawk outside my window. Their aggressive behavior is supremely irritating, second only to the garish clash of patterns on their feathers. They monopolize the feeders, chasing other birds away and arguing with those who contest their dominance. Their incessant activity and noise drills into my brain vying with the news of my mom’s cancer recurrence. If only I could attach this knowledge to those striped and dotted feathers and see them fly away. I would slam the window up, clap my hands and scream to send them on their way and pray that they never returned.

Shane

 

How does one console a mother whose youngest son is gone. departed for the unknown, he remains unknowable since he returned a decade ago. A U.S. Army sergeant, four tours of duty as a demolitions expert in the middle east did him damage. Subjected to multiple explosions, one that killed his best friend and all others in the vehicle, left him with irreparable brain damage through he looked fine on the outside. Yes, he was awarded the Bronze star and multiple Purple Hearts, but they did nothing to mend the post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and chronic traumatic encephalopothy (CTE). As a result, when he, convinced that his next door neighbor in a smallish Wisconsin town was a demon eating children's souls, agonized over what to do before picking up his rifle, entering her home, and killing her while her two children hid. 

He is my cousin, and watching these events unfold has been heart rending. After months and months of time in jail, he was found incompetent to stand trial and remanded to a mental health facility. Eventually he was transferred to a group home for Veterans where he did very well. He earned the privileges of riding his bike around this new tiny town, working out at the local YMCA and spending a weekend or two per month with his parents at their home.

A few weeks ago he received a notice that there would be another competency hearing. They do them twice each year. But this one was worded differently and he thought it meant he was going to prison. 

Somehow he covered the 70 miles to his parents' home while they were gone, took his mothers' car and drove to New Mexico. We know he was there because he was stopped by a tribal police officer who did not have the jurisdiction to detain him. He could be anywhere now, the nationwide APB issued too late. 

He is a carpenter. He is a devout Catholic. He is a decorated military Veteran. He is irrational and paranoid. He is missing. And he is my cousin. 

Fresh Cut Grass

 My son lived in Portland, Oregon from 2018 to 2019. In the spring of 2018, my husband and I, along with our two daughters and their husbands, planned a vacation to meet our son in Portland before traveling to Seaside and Cannon Beach.

It was lovely to be there where there was already abundant green as opposed to the stark white and brown Wisconsin landscape we had temporarily left behind. As we walked along a Portland street on our way to a brew pub, we passed a man mowing a lawn. Thus began a conversation about the best smells of summer. Freshly cut grass ranked number one among our group, with camp fire a close second.

I wondered if these smells evoked long summer days playing in the backyard with cousins, aunts, uncles and friends – and my husband and I… grass clippings sticking to bare feet and sweaty legs as they built forts, wrestled or dreamed on that blanket of green. We’d often finish those days with a backyard bonfire, sometimes making ‘pudgy pies’ in small iron molds with long handles over the fire for dinner. Other nights, we’d go outside after dinner and roast marshmallows for s’mores. Our son loved to start his marshmallows afire, blowing them out like torches once a crispy black crust had formed on the outside. Our daughters, more discerning, would slow-roast theirs along the ember edges of the fire, rotating the stick-speared sweets until they turned a delicate toasty brown. This technique resulted in a marshmallow melted all the way through – gooey perfection.

I never asked if those memories played a part in their votes for best smells of summer, but I know for me they did.

Found

 

Rooted here

Quiet, earth-bound

Tremors of wisdom fill the air

An embrace wide enough to span

The ocean.

A feast of tranquility

An understory of understanding

Bliss.