Inside the Light

Nora decomposes quietly in her bed. She’s a bother to no one. She isn’t actually dead. Yet. But after a series of strokes the living have mostly stopped paying her any mind.

She lies trapped in her useless body, inert as a turnip beneath a starchy blanket, the only activity occurring behind her eyes.

Nora misses nothing and everything at once.

She watches the light sliced into slits by the institutional blinds travel across the wall.

When it’s barely past the window ledge someone will come in with a tube of liquid food and plug it to her belly. She misses the taste of food. Even her mother’s burned bacon or liver and onions would be a welcome change from the flavor of old pennies and stale breath.

A slice of light touching the faded floral print in the ornate plastic frame means two of the ever-changing cast of CNAs will enter the scene to rotate her in an attempt to limit the bloom of bedsores bedecking her backside. They handle her like a cut of cheap beef and titter over her withered ass as though Nora no longer comprehends human communication. But she does.

When the fading light reaches her inert hands it’s time for the library lady to arrive. She brings with her a lurid novel and an earnest voice and transports Nora to a different place and time. Her favorites are the speculative fiction stories. Anything can happen and beings with all manner of bodies live full lives.

As the day’s rays fade, corporeal sustenance is once again plugged in and dripped, enough to get her to morning.

The building settles, hallways become quiet, and Nora thinks about the library lady and today’s story. A sleeping princess wakened by a tender kiss, lifted to her feet and waltzed around, dizzy with joy, filled with life.

Tears leak from Nora’s eyes. She closes them and shuts out the world.

******

They lay together, his hand resting on her chest. He rumbles something sweet into her ear and she turns to him. The leaves filter late day sun, dappling all round with mystery and magic.

“Nora,” he whispers, his breath tickling her neck.

How she’d missed this. How she’d missed him. How long had it been since they’d been together? Too long to calculate and she didn’t care to spend this time focused on figuring such mundane sums. 

He is here now. That’s all that matters.

He stands and lifts her, his hands on hers, strong and insistent yet gentle. There are no worries while she is in his arms and she willingly dances with him to languorous rhythm not so much heard as felt. The blanket, picnic and space they had occupied recedes. Soon they are in a field and dusk drops. Fireflies light between the flowers. There are flowers everywhere and the smell is intoxicating. Petals brush her skin and she continues to dance throughout the night, confident with the arms of her love.

*****

Hands leave Nora's discarded shell. Signals are silenced and cables are wound and tucked into machines now pushed to corners. Blankets are left jumbled, some trailing to the cold floor.

Morning light touches the window ledge.

Generations

Generations

As a child I followed
my parents
watching      listening  learning
becoming
me.
As an adult I led my children
teaching     listening learning
evolving.
In mid life I observe
my elders becoming
dependent needing being
unsure in this shifting world.
These generations
shoulder to shoulder stand
roots touching
branches intertwined
reaching for the sky.

Berta

Berta bops down the street,

an ebullient bundle of brash.

Top of the class for street smarts and survival sense

she weaves between obstacles that would fell

the posh peeps who patronize her,

who put money in her pocket so they can put

candy up their noses, all while turning said noses

up at her.

Hah.

Who uses who now?

Who needs who now?

After the Flood

What was here before the flood

in the days preceding a deluge

of familial responsibility?

Surely there were budding dreams and

deep green thoughts adorning

lush shrubs and trees,

individual expectations and plans

basking in light and air.

Now, all appears drown

slippery and rotted beneath the surface.

Looks, however, can lie.

New life darts among sodden stalks

nipping nutrients where it can

growing in rippled light.

Fingers crossed that it will someday

haul itself from the damp to

dry land,

lungs expanding,

and begin again.

After the flood.

first snow of winter

car engines rev, heedless

tires spin, useless

snow covers ice covers asphalt,

melts plans to do anything

in a timely manner

The Heater Cries

A plaintiff mewl issues from the hotel room heater each time the blower stops. The room is stifling warm despite the 64-degree setting and the outdoor temperature in the 30s.

As I lie in the rented king-sized bed, my husband snoring lightly beside me, my mind refuses to quiet and glide obediently into sleep. Instead it replays the many, many nights we were woken by either or both of our two former foster daughters during deep night. They both suffered from scary and confusing dreams, muddled remembrances of the many traumatic events they experienced filtered through their forming intellect, subconscious struggling to find sense.

Six months ago, after it became clear that neither of their parents would be able to provide a safe and stable environment, the children moved to a pre-adoptive home two plus hours distance from us. The young couple who hope to become their parents are wonderful people, knowledgeable about childhood trauma and more than willing and able to work with the girls. But they’re over two hours away and we worried about our ability to maintain contact with them. We do not want them to feel abandoned. We have driven there each month to spend time with them and video chat between in-person visits.

Now termination of parental rights looms. The initial hearing is less than two weeks away. And yesterday we were told that we will not be able to see the little girls for the next two months. These pending parents anticipate heightened emotional disregulation and subsequent behaviors as the three-year anniversary of the children’s removal from parental care approaches. So, they plan to keep their lives and activity levels as low-key as possible as a preemptive measure.

I get it. I really do. These children lived with us for two years and we are well aware of some of the behaviors that concern the new parents. However, my instincts tell me that remaining in contact with stable, caring people who love them will help them maintain a solid base from which to grow and bond with their new family structure, without overshadowing their authority but rather supporting it.

The heater cries again. I stare at the ceiling and wait for the light of dawn.

Pondering Potatoes

Potatoes were regulars in our family meals. They showed up baked, mashed, pan-fried, boiled, riced in home-made beef hash, and for a brief period, as “instant” potatoes consisting of dehydrated spuds miraculously reconstituted with the assistance of water or chicken broth. I still gag when I think of them, though for some inexplicable reason my younger sister was quite fond of them.

Perhaps the unwavering presence of potatoes at our dinner table was due to cultural heritage. My mom’s grandfather emigrated from Ireland where potatoes had been a daily staple. My father’s parents both moved to Wisconsin from Switzerland. They had grown up near the German border and cooked traditional German food. Guess what? Potatoes were a staple there as well.

Though inherited tastes and habits may have been a part of our over-familiarity with potatoes, it was also very likely to have been a matter of practicality. My parents could feed themselves and five children economically by adding potatoes to nearly every meal.

Growing up in Wisconsin, potatoes were plentiful. Antigo, the town where both my parents grew up, was known for its potato production. When our high school football team played against Antigo, a small town about 35 miles from us, you were sure to hear a little chorus of, “I’m glad I’m not an Antigo potato…” sung to the tune of the Oscar Meyer Weiner jingle.

My dad passed away several years ago, but I can still see the way he would take his potatoes, flatten them into a thin circle on his plate, then drag his fork across to make tiny furrows before topping them with butter, salt and pepper. I always wondered why he did that, and now it’s too late to ask. So, I tell my kids about it and someday, if I’m blessed with grandchildren, I’ll tell them too.