detroit

The heat
that causes the
tar to turn
sticky.
The suffocating
stickiness of the
July night.
The rock and rhythm
coming from the
corner
of Michigan & Trumbull.
The traffic.
the buzz.
The electricity in
the air.
Fans to dissipate
the swelter.
Aided by a cool
breeze?
Never.
Sirens.
Laughter.
More heat.
Thicker at night
if that
is possible.
And
it is.
Was.
I miss it all. Or do I
miss
what it was?
Or:
What
I
Was?
Younger.
Braver.
Younger.

esther's journal-3

THURSDAY, September 14: We went on hike, today, with the new students – and the old. A bonding affair. We do something like it every fall. It sometimes seems artificial – at least in the planning. But the actual event ends up being quite nice. The weather was a bit chilly for this time of year. I found myself getting rather winded, even though the hike was not at all strenuous. Of course, my mind wandered back to me, to my situation. It does get tiring, always being on guard, trying to avoid the “doomsday” mindset. It’s not easy. But being outside helped. I’ve always loved the hills of New Hampshire. I grew up in suburban Connecticut, but this has become my home. I do find myself hoping to be able to see one more fall. The autumns are glorious. But enough, already, about that.

I sidled up to a new sophomore on the hike. Her name is Andie. She trailed the pack. I struck up a conversation. She’s from New Jersey. Never been away from home, not even for a summer camp, which is quite odd. Many boarding school students are veterans of sleep-over situations. Andie said she was OK, but she wasn’t. She had on this brave smile that broke my heart. I wanted to take her and hug her, but didn’t, for two reasons. One, it was too soon. And, two: I wasn’t sure if I would’ve been doing it for her or for me. Truth be told, Dear Diary, I haven’t been hugged for a while. I could’ve used one. But we talked. I think it helped her.

Tonight, I started making a list of things I wanted to do, before you-know-what. I decided to try to list one thing a day. I know there are constraints: there’s no timetable for my last breath. But I figured it would be a good thing to do. So, here’s the first one: write a love letter. I know, I know – to whom? Well, to no one, in particular, probably. I’ve not been a great lover. I was married; I’ve had relationships. But I don’t think I’ve ever really written a “love” letter. So, I will. Not tonight, though. I need to think on it. But soon.

Oh, one more thing. I’ve also decided to learn how to skate – ice skate. Nicky Kono, the school’s hockey coach, is taking me this weekend. He owes me. I’ll tell you why, later.

the harpies in the stands

they sit in the stands
or stand
by the seats
and harp
and
cackle
and scheme about things
they cannot
control because
control is so important
to them and why wouldn’t
it be
since
they’ve
been able, for most of
their adulthood,
to
buy whatever they want
or bully
whomever
they desire or push
when it comes
time
to
shove.
He said: I am not
a
(pick one – or get it over with and circle all)
“backstage parent,”
“hockey parent,”
“little league
parent.” but comes
the rub: if you have to
deny
it,
well, you get the rest,
don’t you?
he said that
most
recently
when he called the
man in charge
of
teaching his son
how not
to become
one
of
them
a “shithead.’
I’m not one of
them
he
said and with a straight
face and then looked in
the
mirror and what looked back
wasn’t horrifying, though
it should have
been.
and because it wasn’t:
case
closed.

wet dog

popcorn.
seared steak.
microwave
popcorn. rain, sometimes. the Christmas tree,
eventually.
burned toast,
always.
citrus spray
(thank
goodness).
fresh tar. stale
smoke.
sour milk.
your mother’s
perfume.
your father’s
after-shave.
your grandmother’s Vicks. anyone’s exhaust.
a bad idea.
a poor
performance.
garlic.
fresh bread.
fear.
sweat.
strong coffee. (not tea.) bad feet.
cut flowers,
mostly.
the first fire of the
winter.
gasoline.
fuel oil
jet fuel.
Right
Guard. 'Lectric Shave. English
Leather.
Fabreeze.
wet.
dog.
I.
win.

whitelights

He stood before the shelf, surveying the strings of lights. He needed new ones. She had always insisted on white. No colors, only white. There was something perfect about white. Or so she’d said. Once he’d suggested colors and she’d said, “Like your parents’ tree?” and he’d acquiesced, because of how she said it – accusingly, mostly, but intimidating, too. She was gone, now. After all that time and all those white lights, she was gone. She hadn’t been perfect, after all. He grabbed a box of lights from the shelf, a box with reds and blues and greens and yellows and no whites. He felt so good about his choice he took two. A clerk asked if he needed help. He thought about saying, “Not anymore,” but knew that wouldn’t be true. Instead, he said, “I’m alright, thanks.” That wasn’t completely true, either, but it was closer. He paid cash for the lights. She would’ve used a credit card. She always used a credit card. He didn’t have one, anymore. Or the fan noise, at night. Now, he slept in the stillness.

thunderstuck

He says he was
Hit by lightning
While cutting the grass
And listening to his
iPod.
I don’t want to hear
About
Perforated
Eardrums
Or ancillary
Brain damage.
I want to know
Only
Three things:
Why was he mowing
During a storm?
To what song was
He so drawn that
He missed the
Thunderous
Clues of impending
maelstrom?
And, lastly there’s
this:
How did his
Parents get him to
Cut the lawn
In the first
place?
These are all
Pertinent questions that
The journalists
Don’t ask.
And I decry their
Abject
Failings.
Was he alone at the
Time of impact,
And what of the machine?
And, perhaps, most
Curiously:
Who might be getting
Sued?
Bob Dylan?
Mr. Pod?
God?
Not that a youngster
Of his ilk, age
Or specific species
Might be able to
Differentiate.
But his parents would.
And, really, what’s
The use of suffering
Through the teenage
Years,
Unless
There’s the possibility
Of Payoff?
Or is that
Just being a
Bit too cynical?
Stay tuned.
(Available soon
(On
(Podcast.
(Of course.)

sitcom

It was a stupid TV sitcom and it made me cry. It wasn’t so much that George was dying. It was that he was alone and he was afraid. He tried talking about it, but not really. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, even if he had an idea. I’m older, now. My parents are dead. My children are grown and gone. My dogs are with others. I adopted out my cat, too. And I feel that same thing, a little. But here was the thing, too. George had a quiet dignity about him. He had courage. It was almost beautiful, he was, and I only say almost because it was, after all, a TV sitcom. It shouldn’t’ve been that good. But it was.

suBLURBia

I was there,
once, for a while, and it was good, or at least
OK.
Maybe
serviceable
is a better word.
It was
that.
Cars. Houses. Kids. Doctors,
dentists,
soccer fields.
Waldenbooks.
Starbucks. Chikfilay,
or something
like that.
Everyone has to
live
somewhere.
Even
the chains.
Sometimes, anyway.
I am there, again, now,
and it is
different.
No longer
serviceable.
Mostly
outdated,
to me anyway.
Who are
these
people?
Where are
they going
all the time?
And, better yet,
why?
I sit in traffic
and
marvel.
I trundle along
behind
cars with school stickers and finally understand
road rage.
I feel trapped.
I feel old.
I feel somehow
lost, even though
I know where I live.
Or, at least, where I
currently
reside.

kitchen night

We spent the night on the floor in the kitchen. The wind had blown out the electricity. It happened a lot out there. A swift gust or two and a branch falls across a power line and three townships go black. She suggested we drag out a mattress from the bedroom and stoke the wood burning stove, so we did. I don’t remember if we made love; we might have. I don’t remember her skin on mine, either, though I desperately want to. Or maybe it’s better this way, not to. I do remember the dark and the warmth and feeling her breathing and her back against my chest as I pulled her against the cold and against our loneliness. It was cold when we woke. Different. Still without power. Or that way for the first time, perhaps, now.

homecoming

It had been four months. He seemed thinner. He was eating Chinese food from a Styrofoam container at the baggage claim. I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t, couldn’t. He probably knew that, the former. Maybe that’s why he’d busied himself with the stand-up meal. There seemed a calm about him. It felt nice. He didn’t talk much, didn’t seem to want to. I started asking questions, then stopped after a few. It was hard. I wanted to know all about Los Angeles, all about his friends, all about what he’d been doing. He didn’t ask many question to me about me. In fact, we didn’t talk much, at all. When we got to my place, he asked if I lived in the front or the back. I told him and we entered the apartment. He said it seemed all right, used my laptop for a few minutes, then sprawled out on the couch and watched TV. He seemed less angry. My apartment felt warmer. I asked him to turn off the Christmas tree when he went to bed. He said he would. Nicely. Very nicely.

esther's journal-2

WEDNESDAY, September 13: Today was a full day of new-student orientation. I’ve been doing this, here, at The Winnipesaukee School for longer than I ever thought I would, but the thing that sticks with me is the bitter sweetness of it. These kids being sent out, on their own, at 13 and 14. Some need it, I suppose. But kids are gone soon enough. No need to let them go this soon. I know for some families it’s a cultural thing – family-wise: one or both parents went away; it’s what they do. But the arrival of the new students still seems a bit sad, to me. Almost as thought they’ve been orphaned or adopted out. Maybe I’m just projecting. But it still tugs at my heartstrings.

I was especially captured by a new freshman – Jamie Sorts. He had the bluest eyes, cerulian, and one of those shaggy hairdos that private school kids wear. He couldn’t’ve been more than 4-foot-10. He seemed so lost; the first time I came upon him, he was crying, quietly. I asked him how he was doing and he bravely wiped his eyes and said, “OK.” I shook his hand and introduced myself. I wanted to hug him and hold him. Can’t. Couldn’t. Didn’t. I pointed him in the direction of his dorm and watched him walk off. I made a mental note that he would be my fall project: Jamie Sorts.

There’s this thing at boarding school – in loco parentis. It means in the place of parents. Some of us, when things get tough, just refer to it as us being loco. But I think that’s why I stayed all these years. I like the parenting aspect. I thrive on that. It’s different than at a day school, certainly different than at a public school.

Anyway, that was the highlight of my day – Jamie Sorts. Last year it was Annie Duvon. She’s a sophomore, now. I saw her, today, too. She doesn’t need me so much, anymore. At least not right now.

I got a call from my doctor, today, too. He wants to do more tests. I’m not so sure about that, about those. Right now, I’m thinking not. I’ve seen the x-rays and they look pretty black and white to me – figuratively, too. He did say I need to start telling friends and people at the school about the time bomb that’s ticking. There might come a time, he said, when I start blanking out or blacking out and people need to know. I hadn’t said anything, yet, also because of where I am. This is a small, cloistered community. Nothing stays secret for long, no matter how hard you try. And the last thing I need is some sort of pity parade. So, I’m thinking on that.

Meanwhile, the big issue this year – one of the big issues – is kids wearing hats in the Walker – the cafeteria. We’ve wrestled with it for years, now. Is it rude? Should we allow it? Teachers are split. Me? I’m not sure, yet. It seems like a small thing, but maybe not. I think 10 years ago it would’ve meant more to me. A big hard blob expanding in your brain changes your perspective on things.

Oh, yes, I made this decision, today, too: I want to have sex, again. It’s been a while. I’m not going to say how long. But it’s been some time. Now, saying I’m going to have sex and actually doing it, out here, in the middle reaches of New Hampshire, is quite another thing. But it’s a goal. We’ll see. At one time I was quite the seductress. At least in my own mind.

death 1129

It is late. Close to midnight. He still hears the traffic from the nearby interstate. It hums. People traveling. Going someplace; visiting someone. He sits in the dining room. Not thinking. Not doing. Just sitting.

Two days ago, his wife died. Suddenly. Car crash. She was young, or at least younger. They were a pair. Now, not so. He hasn’t yet come to understand the loss. Now, he only feels it. Later, he will struggle to make sense of his life. He will be numb, then, and for days and months to come.

The phone rings, but he doesn’t answer it. No need. There was no one else. Just her. And it isn’t her.

So, the ringing continues. He waits until it stops, then stands, walks across the room and unplugs the phone. He is desperately alone and feels the need to be even more so. A car across the street pulls out. Its headlights crease the room’s blackness, its stillness, and he cringes.

He shivers, pulls his arms in to warm himself, then begins to weep, again.

He will sit, weeping, for minutes more, before heading for his bed and an attempt to sleep. He will dread the morning, but it will come.

buy yourself

Sitting
In a group
And feeling
Alone.
You stifle
The desire –
Or is it a need? –
To say something.
You pretend
That it’s nothing.
But it’s more
Than that.
It’s worse than
Being
In a dark room, because this room is full of light
And you’re not
Able to enjoy
What’s lit.
The books
On the shelves.
The dog napping
In
The
Corner.
The hearth.
The stairs
That lead up for those
Who climb them, which
Doesn’t include
You.
You are not
A stair climber
Here.
You walk outside, instead,
And begin
The journey
Home, where
No one is, but
You
And
Yourself
And
Your thoughts.
It’s
A strange thing,
Feeling all alone.
It’s a sad thing,
Being alone.
Especially
if you’re not.

not just a house

It is just
a house,
my daughter said.
And though I am
loathe to call her wrong,
she is. It was a refuge for my soul.
It was solace
and peace
and time
to think. It was a moment
and a week
and a month
and two years
of trying to understand
everything
that had happened.
It was the darkness
of grief alongside
the rush
of the mountain
spring.
It was the black
of night and a bed of white-hot stars.
And when
it came time for sleep,
it was
the quiet
that brought
a hint
of courage
and
a shred
of bravado
to fend
off
the morning’s
cloy of despair. It
WAS
more than a house.
It had
a soul.
Mine,
for sure.
And maybe those
of the others
who’d healed,
there.
For there must have
been others.
Yes, I’m sure there were
others.

3 days off

I have come
to
dread days off, when the loneliness
gains a grip
and pulls me down
into an abyss of thought, where I remain,
sometimes,
until I get
busy,
again,
or un till
the day
off
becomes
a
Day On.
Odd conundrum, this:
Most,
I suspect,
live for
freedom from
work. I live
for
the
shackles,
for
therein –
thereon,
thereupon –
lies my
liberty,
a freedom from
myself. It seems a waste, of course:
this way.
So, I write,
instead,
or just to pass
the time and
tell
myself
that it is
a good
use
of the free time
that
enslaves me
so mercilessly, but gently, mostly, if that can be.

wildeflowers

They sell them
in cans, now,
for you
to spead.
Now, anyone can play God. Now, anyone
and
EVERYONE
can have
wildflowers.
Is this
wrong
or
right?
AND: Can flowers be
wild if
they came from a can? (Move over,
Prince Albert!)
But why shouldn’t
everyone
be able to
enjoy them?
Maybe THIS
WAS
God’s plan: For wildflowers to be accessible
to all.
But certainly
not
free.
$5.95,
instead,
plus tax,
where applicable.(Don’t
forget
your
receipt.
And, thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart.)

little drummer man

there used to be
a rhythm to his
life. a steady tap on
the
high
hat;
a kept beat on the snare.
and the kick:
deep, careful,
sometimes slick
but
always on.
he was a lead-type
drummer,
who took the music
where
he wanted it to go. then, he stopped
playing.
he kept the
rhythm.
it was,
after all
a gift.
what he’d lost
was
the drive.
he was still making
music –
or was it MUZAK, now? every now and then
he’d sit behind his
old
kit.
it felt good, but different.
he’d fiddle
here
and
riff a bit, there.
he tired so much
more quickly. his energy was different,
somehow.
he could keep
the beat,
but he didn’t send
it,
move it,
anymore.
he once broke
drumsticks as
thought they
were
toothpicks.
snap.
crack.
shatter.
splinter.
now, they lasted.
he wondered if that
was
bad.
then decided
that
it
wasn’t,
maybe.

jimachines

The race
is to get to
the machines so I can run to nowhere
as fast
as
I want.
Or as slow.
6 p.m.:
when
everyone
arrives. They claim their spots.
In front of
a TV, of course.
And they
go nowhere,
fast.
Or, sometimes,
slowly.
But while watching
Oprah
or Ellen
or Fox News.
It takes the
loneliness
out of
long-distance
running,
such as it is,
with no
real
distance covered. No rain. No wind.
No sense,
really.
But everyone
does it –
runs, walks,
bikes, ellipts,
without missing
a beat,
or a commercial. Not so slender. Not so toned.
Not so conditioned.
But
moving.
Headed nowhere.
But fast.
Or, slow,
as the case might be.

gleason

He read the story, again, then put down the magazine. It wasn’t even six, yet, and he was up and into his third cup of coffee. The garbage trucks three blocks over, on Wilmette, woke him. They made a hell’s bells of a ruckus. He wasn’t sleeping very soundly, anyway. Hadn’t for a week or so, ever since he got the news.

His dog, Gleason, lay flat in the corner. On his right side. Always that way. It was humid, still, and would be another scorcher, was the report, and Gleason didn’t move much, anymore, anyway and maybe wouldn’t move from that spot if it got up into the 90s, like it was supposed to. Fat, too. That made it even tougher.

He turned on the TV with his fingers. He didn’t like the remote. Too many choices, with it, he figured. Too easy to change. Sometimes you had to just stick with what you got. He’d done that a lot. Wife. House. Job. Life. It was what he was taught, how he lived, because that was the way you did it, anyway: you lived the way you saw. His old man was the same, and his old man’s old man, too.

The boy was different. He smiled, a bit, sadly, at the thought. If he’d been the same, maybe he’d still be alive. But he wasn’t, and he wasn’t. Last time he’d seen him alive was a week ago Friday. Ten days, now. Funeral’d been a neat affair. Not overcrowded. But enough people. He’d taken Gleason along. Gleason’d been the boy’s dog, mostly. Got him from the pound for the boy when the boy was just eight, or so. He still wasn’t sure why the boy had named him that – Gleason. Or he’d forgotten. Maybe that was it. He must’ve asked him, at some point.

The dog was good company, now, especially since the boy wasn’t coming back. Rough thing, outliving your offspring. Makes you want to lay down and die. First it was Helen, back in ’66. Now, it was her brother. Fay’d died in the late ‘50s. Breast cancer. Ate her up, inside out. She’d been a good mother. Now, it was just him.

Loneliness was a test, he’d always thought. See how tough you are. Back when Fay passed, he didn’t think it could get much tougher. When Helen went, it upped the ante. But, the boy?

He turned off the TV and headed for the front door. He kept it triple-locked, at night. The neighborhood wasn’t so easy, anymore. Most everyone was either dead or moved out. He didn’t speak much with whoever moved in. He wasn’t against anyone, that’s just the way he was.

He thought maybe he’d start drinking, again. Used to hit it pretty hard. Stopped when the boy asked him to. It was a good thing. He thought maybe he’d start smoking, again, too. Stopped that, when Fay passed. Scared him. Made him feel better, it was true. And he wasn’t so sure he missed it. Now, what was the use? Who would care?

He sat in a thread-bare green plaid rocker in the living room and stared at the wall. The doorbell rang. The postman. Earle. Good man. Liked to talk, but not too much. Made friends with Fay. She’d invite him in for coffee on cold, blustery winter days. Some folks thought Fay had a thing for Earle, but it wasn’t nothing, he knew.

He answered the door.
“You ok, old man?”
The old man nodded. “Yeah.”
“I said this before and I’ll say it, again, your boy was a fine soldier.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“He was a patriot.”
“Thank you,” he said, again.
“You need to think that, to remember that.”
“I do,” he said.
Earle handed him a pile of mail. “Gonna git up into the low 90s, they say. You gonna be ok?”
“I’ll stay inside.”
“You do that. Drink cold water. Put some ice in it. An’ I’ll be by, tomorrow.”

The old man nodded, then watched as Earle climbed down the stairs and headed up the driveway, toward the street. He closed the door and fingered through the mail. He would never admit it, but he always looked for a letter from the boy, hoping that he wasn’t gone forever. But, again, there was none.

He walked back into the kitchen, tossed the mail onto the table and got a glass of water from the sink. He drank it down, slow, but in one drink. He looked out the kitchen window and watched the willow tree sway in the hot breeze. He didn’t look down at Gleason, never even gazed at the dog when he left the kitchen for the bedroom and his bed for a nap. He wouldn’t find out until mid-afternoon that Gleason was gone, too. Just like that. Like pretty much everyone went, mostly.

esther's journal

TUESDAY, September 12: Merge Rhoden, the academic dean, caught me in the hallway, today, and asked me if I would mind teaching a few sections of senior English. The last six years I’ve taught sophomores, and I love them. They’re not freshmen any longer and they’re not yet juniors. That may sound rather obvious, but it means this: they’ve graduated the “puppy dog” phase and haven’t quite yet entered the “knows-it-all” year. I’ve enjoyed watching them grow up before my eyes. Anyway, it’s tough to say no to Merge. She always looks so tired and forlorn that you end up – at least I do – saying OK, just because. So, that’ll be it, this year – two blocks of sophomores and two of seniors.

More on Merge: We’ve been working together for almost 20 years, but I feel as though I don’t know her, at all. So, I decided, too, that I would make that one of my Last Year’s Resolutions. Right, the cancer thing, again. Sorry. But a short note about that, too: it’s a brain tumor. Inoperable. The rest of me looks like I could go one forever, or at least a good bit longer. In fact, I was studying my figure in the mirror just this morning and I did think to myself, “At least I’ll go before my hips, thighs and boobs head south.”

The kids did arrive, too, today. I was happy to see them. I often thought about leaving here, leaving the boarding school life, but it does get ahold of you; it does have an interesting rhythm. Especially the fall. It’s like a rebirth. And the energy of the kids is palpable.

One more thing: I really was horny this afternoon. The feeling grabbed me right in the middle of the new parent orientation. First time in a long time, actually. Not sure why. But it was a nice, vibrant feeling, a little giggle of life. Made me feel like a girl, again. I embraced it, enjoyed it. I blushed, inside. I think TNZ – The New Zac – might have noticed. He flirted with me, a bit. And, to tell you the truth, I flirted right back.

tommy

My father’s funeral was a somber affair. Gray, winter day in Cleveland, Ohio, the nation’s capital of gray, winter days. My dad passed only five months after my mother. She died of Alheimer’s. He was a cancer victim. Prostate. It lit up his body a month after mom went. My sisters ran the funeral service. It was a bit overdone, but they both gravitated to the dramatic. My dad was a good man. Simple. A bit confused. Not very insightful. But he loved unconditionally. That was his gift -- and his gift to us.
Tommy was at the funeral. He was one of the six pallbearers. He accompanied us to the Glen Mar Country Club for the reception. He wore an ill-fitting blue-pinstriped suit with a yellow and black Hawaiian shirt. Ponytail. Galoshes. Sunglasses. He ate alone. I ate with my nephews, then joined his table.
“Nice service,” he said. His sunglasses were pushed atop his head. The beard below his mouth was dotted with bread crumbs.
“Let’s have lunch, tomorrow,” I said.
“Sure. Why?”
“I don’t know, exactly,” I said.
“I can understand that,” he said.
“Noon?”
“Eleven-thirty,” he said.
“OK.”
“Ellen’s bossy as ever,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
His mouth was full, but that didn’t stop him. “Good grits, eh?”
I nodded. He smiled.
Outside, it had begun to snow.

DETROIT

The heat
that causes the
tar to turn
to glue.
The suffocating
stickiness of the
July night.
The roars
coming from the
corner
of Michigan & Trumbull.
The traffic.
the buzz.
The electricity in
the air.
Fans to dissipate
the swelter.
Aided by a cool
breeze.
Never.
Sirens.
Laughter.
More heat.
Thicker at night
if that
is possible.
And
it is.
I miss it all,
do I.
Or: do I miss
what it was?
Or:
What
I
Was?

I-90

Maddy squirmed a bit toward me, snuggling in close. I gently pushed back her hair and noticed her earrings. They were still on. She wore long, dangling earrings when we made love. It was one of our “things.” She usually took them off, right after. Tonight, she’d dozed off too quickly.
“You forgot to undress,” I said.
She pulled out a hand without opening her eyes and detached one earring, then the other, depositing them on the nightstand.
She snuggled back into me, face into my chest.
“You’re going, right?” Her voice was a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“I’ll sleep a bit, then leave.”
She slid closer. “No you won’t – sleep, I mean.”
“I know,” I said.
I pulled Maddy even closer. I wanted her closer, still, inside me.
“Why?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“How are the roads?”
“They’ll be good, by now.”
“Even on I-90?”
Maddy meant the long stretch from Massachusetts through Albany, Syracuse, Rochester, Buffalo, Erie, Pennsylvania, then finally to Cleveland.
“I’ll take my time.”
“I don’t want you to go, you know that.”
“Yes.”
“I’m just being selfish.”
“I know that, too.”
She smiled, eyes still closed.
“You miss your dad a lot.”
“It’s not about that.”
“Then what?”
“I’m not exactly sure."
“Yes, you are."
“I need to feel something, and I don’t. I need to find out why I don’t feel an incredible sadness that it’s all over. Shouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know what anyone should feel,” she said. “Maybe that’s what you need to find out, that there’s no should.”
“I’m not calling ahead.”
Maddy nodded. “That’s fine.”
“I’m just going.”
“It’s OK, Nicky,” she said. “It is.”
I stood and Maddy rolled onto her back, covered herself chastely, smiled gently. “You do need to go,” she said. “You’ve been talking about it by not talking about it for weeks. It’s time.” She rose, then stood, wrapping the beige comforter around her naked body. She tossed back her hair, checked the time – 4:45. “I’ll make some coffee,” she said.
I was standing at the window, now, looking out. The snow fell, still. Silently. Softly.

venicebeach

on a
rainy
Friday in
LA, here,
where they
sell:
crappy T-shirts,
creepy t-shirts,
sunglasses, bikinis,
"imported" jewelry,
bongs and full Chinese massages
for $45.
and that’s on the boardwalk
in full view, except, of course,
for
the
full Chinese massages for 45
dollars, which are up the
stairs
and down the
hallway, where
full Chinese massages
are always, out of view of
everything and
everyone, including
the swarm of black, indie
rappers hawking mix
tapes
for $5 or $10 a disc to anyone
who catches an eye.
a homeless man sleeps on a
boardwalk church step.
a free-lance artist
dances to a song
playing in
her
head only,
if even
there. runners.
bikers.
boarders.
a few.
surfers who don’t mind
the rain
because they plan on getting
wet, anyway.
and, so, the world continues, as always,
here,
and everywhere
for that matter,
with
most just doing what they need
to do to get by.
only the
full Chinese massage 4 $45
customer, up the
stairs
and
down
the
hallway,
is left
to wonder if there
will
be
a
Happy
Ending.
everyone else
already
knows.

top gun

He walks the tarmac to the jet, stops, does what needs be done, inspects what needs inspecting, climbs up, over, in. This strap, that one. Helmet on; canopy down. World suddenly shut out. Cocooned, he is, in quiet, for a moment. Then the rumble, the sprint, the climb. And, now, really liberated. Liberation, really. A different kind of quiet. For a bit, at least. Then, eventually, down again. Unstrapped. Out. Walking back. So easy, for that bit, to leave all behind. But he was younger. Not so much to leave behind, alone, askew, undone, unmet, unloved, forgotten. For most lay ahead. In his dreams, now, or thoughts, at least, he does, at times, remember how it felt to fly and to flee.

now, what, again

it sneaks up now and then
and more now
it
seems than then, lately:
what
are
you doing
with your
life is
the question
that can dust over
a
particularly
fine,
ordinary day,
and it’s one that simply
has, at this point, way
too
many
good answers, none of
which
seem
to
sate the conscience.
something worthwhile.
something
I do well.
something
that pays ok in this
time of joblessness
and
worry.
but what comes back as
the
rejoinder is this:
ok. fine.
both of which
seem far too tame and
lukewarm for the times,
when it may really
be
time to try to do
what you’ve ALWAYS
wanted to do, which is
what?
aye, and comes, there,
the rub.
I’ve always wanted to be
a writer
and a drummer
and a second baseman
for any team, really,
and a creator
and a lover and
someone who is making
a
difference.
write a movie script.
write a memoir.
seduce a wild-eyed argentine
beauty.
solve one of the world’s
problems, or suffer, at
least
in the trying.
that which stops me, here,
defeats me – or, at least,
knows me.

if you're scoring at home

for a moment, or longer
than that, really, it all
made
sense:
the good guys;
the bad guys;
who we were, and
who
they
were;
where we were
and
what we were
trying to do. even
the challenges
and the joys
and disappointments
made some
sense.
no infinity,
but just the
opposite:
finity.
so 2 speak, or
write,
as this case might be.
there would be an
end.
things would
stop.
it all would be over and
we would be
judged or at least
judg-able.
best of all,
the focus was always
on
the
present.
everything was
in
the
moment, and we thought,
or at least did I,
that wouldn’t this be
a
terrific way always to live life.
all truths
unhidden;
all endings ended.
a start.
a finish. a focus.
a meaning.
then, perhaps
to move on to
the next
moment.
but it was an artificial construction, of course.
man-made.
nothing but an exercise perhaps
to engender, or just to teach.
by the way, we won,
2-1
in overtime,
thanks for asking.

early memories

From the earliest he can remember, his mother was angry. At him. At them. At their father. He remembered how she drove home late from any number of places and told him – and his sister – to talk to her so she would, so she could remain awake. He remembered the spankings, which, today, would be unabashedly and non-specifically termed beatings. And they were. He remembered her threats to leave, her leaving, then returning. He remembered her threats to “burn this place down.” He remembered hearing, later, of her flip mentions of suicide and the story another sister told of driving home four hours in the spitting rain and overwhelming darkness because she’d promised to make good on the threat. He remembers this and knows this and still tries to make sense, not of that, for it might not be possible or even worthwhile, but to somehow make sense of how it changed him and them, for they thought, then, and some of them still do, that all this was nothing so unusual. She had some of them brainwashed, you need to know, that it was just God’s will, all of it, and her – and their – suffering would be rewarded, later, but certainly not here. So, she took them to Mass sometimes twice every Sunday and always to the Stations of the Cross during Lent, and slept with a rosary wound in her hands, beads wrapped tight around her fingers. And when they buried her, some of them, not him, made certain that she still held a rosary. Him? He had other things to consider. Mostly answers. Some, still questions. He hasn't visited her grave. He won't.

his dad

He wondered this a day or so ago and it caught him by surprise because he does not wonder things like this very often. But he wondered if he would see his father, again. He misses him and he’s not sure about an afterlife. Part of him – the major part of him, you must know – believes that afterlife is a flimsy, whimsical figment of hope, a crutch of an idea for those who cannot face mortality on its own terms: that is, you’re born; you live; you die. Deal with it. For most of his life, he believed that the only “after” was the goodness left behind, which, to him, anyway, bestowed upon it an honor and a dignity in an intrinsic sort of way. But now he does wish, or did, at least once, the other day, that he could see his dad, again. He’s not sure exactly why, but the idea makes him smile. Funny, he does not wonder the same about his mother, but he does not let that bother him. His father’s name was Ernie.

minimalisticism

I am trying to get
my head
around this idea of
minimalism – and around the
idea of getting my head
around anything,
as
though
it might
bend or crease or flow
or wind serpentitiously,
if that
even
is
possible, as though whomever
first coined
the
cliché might
know.
to cut down.
to make riddance.
to emancipate oneself
from space, itself.
and
things.
what would go? the
table from my grandfather’s
basement. the sewing machine
from grandma’s
bedroom. the
secretary – a piece of
furniture, not a she (or a he) –
from that old
musty
room next to the
bar with
the silhouette of the naked woman, bust, breast and nipples,
which always caused me
mortal pause
as a boy.
(“Father, I have sinned, for I
looked at the naked
lady’s boobs on Uncle Bob’s
painting on grampa’s bar.”)
the TV cabinet.
the cane chairs.
the knicks and
knacks.
to be replaced by:
a
modular couch
(in a deep forest green)
and an HD TV.
and
a different attitude,
presumably:
what does one need;
what do I need;
what is
important.
space.
a place.
or just, perhaps: more
freedom
from the
past
at last.

mind ful

what went through
her mind
is a mystery to him
or maybe to him and
him, for to be completely
honest
would be difficult,
because she is not
sure
who to be honest
to
much
less
what she can dare be honest
about.
she knew this going in,
of course, not imagining
or
being
able
to predict the going out.
there is the chance,
for there
is
always
a chance,
that she was able to compartment
her comportment
when it came time to
slip into
the
new
pair
of arms. but it is more
likely
not, for she knows the
line
of
demarcation, even though
she
pretends it does not exist;
she knows the moment of
betrayal, even though
she
would not like
to think of
it
as that;
she knows the points
of
no
return, even though
she pretends
there
are none.
all that is left
is
the
most difficult
decision:
letting
go – or not.
can she; might she
would she;
and, most importantly: did
she?