I remember a horrid infant: the creation of rabid men, a concoction of desires, ideas and secret process devoid of conscience. They thought the riddle was solved: The forfeiture of a fraction for the good of the whole. But the whole was demeaned; the part was not consumable and refused to lie in silence as mere charred bone.
The old man saw her the moment he pulled into the the convenience store parking lot at the four-way stop; by the dumpster; a frail, hollowed creature hardly able to stand. “Fuck!” He made his way inside trying not to glance at her again. He decided on a twelve pack instead of six and a liter of Sweet Red and slowly with practiced care made his way back to the car. He wasn’t going to look but he did. “Fuck fuck”! She was lying by the dumpster now, still in the hot sun, struggling to raise her head. He bumped his forehead against the steering wheel, really too hard, trying to activate some sense which was he knew not going to happen. Again, slowly, he left the car and opened the rear passenger door. Leaving it open he made his way to the dumpster talking dog talk. The old dog seemed aware of his intentions and stilled her head on the ground obviously hoping for good, but ready, he could see it in her eyes, to accept whatever. She was blackish, short-haired with mangy spots and gruesomely starved. The old man grunted in pain as he tried to lift the now limp fur-bag of dangling bones. She whimpered a bit as he managed to lift her. Making it up with a jerk but still hunched over, the dogs shameful light weight pulled him forward and downward as he stumbled toward the open car door. But the four-way stop and some dumbass, forever unknown, intervened; blaring horns and a loud crash of metal caused him to jerk his head up, offsetting his balance. Knowing what was coming, with all he had, he tried to twist his body around as he fell, to protect her. When he hit, the back of his head bounced twice against the hot asphalt. The dog, though trembling, was still in his arms and he knew they had survived, for the moment. The raucous in the streets fell to silence. Everything did. There was nothing but the feel of his clutched bundle; the touch sense was strangely familiar, soothing, like a reoccurring dream; one he did not want to abandon. Gradually, sound seeped back, and it was the running, gurgling of creek water. Singing Creek ran as always washing, polishing its precious stones formed over millenniums. The cold water sliding over his feet, as he carefully tested with his toes the slickness of each stepping stone, soothed him. Beth was there, too, but not being so careful. She was doing more of a stumbling dance, skinny arms flying about mimicking what he did not know. She seemed distracted by the cute kid with his assumed dad across the creek on the falls viewing platform. “Careful Honey. It will get slicker the further we go. Do you know that boy? "A little.” “Is a little enough?” “Jeeze! dad!” she scolded him with her 11-year-old mind your own damn business face. “I love you too!” he smiled. They reached the huge boulders that formed the lip of the falls. The actual falling part was a narrow surge in the center and dropped maybe six feet during wet season. They had walked the trail to the north bank. From that side the boulders sloped down to creek level and were less smooth and polished, even jagged in spots with only enough water trickling over them to keep them slick. Beth, a resolute non-swimmer avoided the center, and continued her unscripted, flirting dance. He knew he should warn her again, but he had really never seen her so out of herself. He hardly recognized his daughter, normally so quiet, meek, even sullen at times. Of course, it only took one tiny, slimy slick of Diatoms to create havoc. Beth, her arms shooting straight up, gasped, but he was close enough to grab her and they fell together onto the sloping, sculpted granite. He managed to land on his back. A snaggy protrusion tore into his left shoulder, stealing his breath. Beth was immediately fighting his tight grip, struggling for release. “What are you doing?” she screamed. He couldn’t find air to ask if she was ok, but he released her squirming body, and she did an immediate crawling run to the bank. Still on his back, his eyes followed her struggling escape and he saw blood on her knees and saw her calling to him, again with a scolding face, but the sounds were a blasphemous cacophony foreign to the quiet, reverent creek. Horn blares bashed the old man’s head while his eyes squinted against the harsh sun. The dog, still in his clutch, was quiet. He rolled to look at his car only a few feet away. No one was around them. Releasing his grip, he slid the dog to the pavement and grunted his way to his knees and then to his feet. Grasping the dogs rear feet, whose eyes were still open and darting with awareness, he dragged her to the opened door without resistance. With one stooping movement and another stuttering grunt, he grasped the dog; half lifting, half dragging, heaving her into the seat. Sirens screamed in their approach. The only unblocked exit from the store was south and he quickly took it before it too was blocked. Half a mile south and he turned left starting a swing north towards the vet clinic. When he reached for the lease hanging by the door Old Dog was immediately there; her untrimmed nails keeping time to her clumsy-jumpy dance on the hardwood floor. His phone rang. “Shit!” It was Beth who he hadn’t actually seen in over three years. He plopped back down into his chair. Old Dog, disappointed, lay her gray muzzle on his knee. “Hey Honey, how you doing? I thought you died.” “Not yet. We ‘re still apartment bound. We even get our groceries delivered and we are doing the HelloFresh meals thing. We haven’t been out in maybe three weeks. It’s still terrible down here, so many cases and they are redoing the apartments landscaping so there is noise constantly. It’s hard to get any work done.” “IT nerds have a rough life don’t they?” “Ha ha! How are you doing? Bob told me you fell trying get a dog or something. You’re eighty…eighty something, now? You need to be more careful.” “That was months ago and no big deal. I’ve got a new best friend I have to take out dancing all the time.” “Dancing! You?” “It is a metaphor, honey.” “Oh, one of them thangs.” Old dog’s eyes lit up at the ensuing silence. “You two need to get out. Move back to the mountains. Come and see me. OK?” “Maybe someday.” Another silence. “Some ones knocking at the door and the dog has got to go out and pee.” “I’ll let you go. My emails going crazy, anyway. Love you!” “Love you, too!” Sorry I told a lie in front of you. Maybe, you do have to pee. Hey, let’s drive down to the lake. I know this cool creek that flows over a small falls and into the lake. I haven’t been there in probably forty-something years. I want to see if is as I remember or if my mind is playing with me. We can walk to it if we take it slow. We have water bottles in the car. Want to go? Old Dog did her butt wiggling, nail tapping dance in the affirmative. The old man’s mind was on the fall. He wondered if Beth remembered the fall at the falls. Surely she would; he knew she was just like him, never forgetting or letting go of a moment like that. Why had she stomped off up the trail leaving him in her wake of anger? Embarrassment in front of the kid across the creek? Could it be that simple? He knew he would never know because he would never ask, and she would never tell.
Memories do blanch, change, slip to nonexistence
but one still remains clear as a straight razor edge.
1953 probably. 1st grade, small wood, rural rental
with an old outhouse...but we had running water!
At my new school we had "duck and cover" drills and
every Sunday service the preacher screamed at me
words directly from God; if deemed an unbeliever,
I would endure forever a lake of fire and brimstone.
My dreams of fire came at night way before I slept.
I knew my small bed and handmake quilts offered
no protection, only a sweaty taste of fire to come
as I clutched them in fear tightly around my neck.
One way or the other, I was destined to be burned,
by The Bomb or by my inability to accept gods will;
to be a red seething char as those in our coal stove,
only screaming with all the others in our agony.
I am no longer six. I am 76. Accepting the inevitable
is a process accomplished by most; a natural process,
not taught in schools. I went to a funeral home today
and purchased a prepaid cremation plan. Hello, Fire!
A resident, new to me, chair-paddled into the room with long, flat feet padded in doubled hospital socks. Enthralled by the new arrivals face, I fell to silence, allowing mother to resume her private communion with her other son unseen by either of us in 15 years. The new she, yes, a she, floated diaphanously in, as if fresh from the make-up trailer on a movie set of a ghost-tale or a horror flick, ready to kill her scenes; mumbling the lines of her lone perfected character oblivious to all but her muse and her scripted tale. Huge cheekbones drooped to tiny, pointed chin; all sheathed in the thinnest, palest of white skin fragile as a gossamer clouds feel. Corn silk hair, white not golden, clung scantily to a slick scalp. But the eyes, her eyes dispelled my brief fantasy. Her eyes, a Matisse light-blue commingling with sparks of light whiter than God, danced with joy, speaking a stunning, rare tongue of their own as she listened and conversed with her invisible visitor who sat, stood, hovered joyously confirming all her truths. The words her visitor showered on her could not be belittled. All were accepted without doubt as true: professions of love, devotion, her reimagined life. Raising, then lowering her hands daintily, her eyes and mumblings fell silent. She chair-paddled away. Mother's head lifted, her own excited eyes shining; Your brother just spoke to me! He and two other men have been traveling the world all these past years! His friends pay for everything! He said to tell you Hi! Offering a weak side to side hand wave, I said, Hi!
Once again, the Final Edit begins; a rearrangement...Cut...Copy...Paste...Delete and regretted words are revised, changed...denied. Perhaps, they or I said that but meant the other; new words I just remembered; was it just a joke! Ha! Ha! Did I appear to be laughing? Anyway: a beginning is always the beginning and the ending is never, ever really the ending.
Ink 245XL Black tops my list along with Rx at CVS and a succulent mix at Lowes. Also, to visit mother at the nursing home; donning mask, shield, gown and blue gloves. To give her chocolate ice cream and candy. Also, take wild-child Blue for due shots. Writing down doesn't ensure task completion; I may leave in a rush or pissed-off state without the list, without my debit card, without the will to fulfil this humble list. Ink245XL Black was missed on the list! Everything else, more or less, was fulfilled. Mother, a clump of sadness, grinned and grabbed for a hug, wondering, silently, why I am the only one to every come to visit. Blue-eyed Blue enthralled the vet's helper; too bad, I'm not young...cruising for chicks. Back to Ink 245XL Black: I really do need this to finish printing copies of all my stuff stuck in the Cloud; all my poems and a few stories. The Cloud could disappear despite Experts' arguments. Some Experts worship god Chaos. Clouds like stars implode; more like vanish, dissipate, some showering cooling blessings while others are never seen, touched or known. These pages are mine to clutch. Some garnered a few Likes and occasionally, rare praise from a Non-Expert; not their real intended purpose. Oh! to once again caress a Goddess Muse; say Yes! I remember! to what I feel in my memories hands.
I saw an eagle today; not on the nest web-cam I check daily now, but soaring an invisible draft, circling our neighborhood, rising, tipping down, gliding to a near red oak limb revealing in glinting light unique white “bald” head, tail and demeanor. With apt aplomb he dismissed two raucous crow's rantings as they stomped and strutted near limbs. Three swipes of his yellow, hooked beak against his supporting limb and the cursing duo quickly took note, lifting, darting west “as the crow flies” leaving only me and Fuzz to stare; bear witness. Ditch-stink charmed Fuzz; I was in awe alone. Did eagle give me a nod as he glanced my way, arching huge wings for a forward, lifting jump, fanning white, tail-feathers in silent ascension? It seemed to me, there was a mutual greeting; respect hoped for, valued, but not demanded. I would have given a salute if I did such things. We have hope; faith in ultimate good we clutch as a faultless anthem, sang softly, only in sky. afterstanza: Now, another year has flown passed that red oak and I still check out that empty January grey limb. Awe has waned, Fuzz limps and a question remains, only now acknowledged, a yellow beak ripping me: Are there really only Predators and Prey and which....
She would appear way down our dirt road at the turn-off, leaving a quarter mile more to walk to our house; ample time to run, get mother and for her to get her saved change, put away weekly in her left dresser-drawer. Momma! Momma! The Avon Lady’s coming! Lugging two big black satchels, yanked her arms down, rounded shoulders, trudged her gait, but she never wavered, never stopped. Her long dresses, dark, austere; dark as those high-tops and thick, opaque wrinkled hose amazed a near-naked kid in steamy, white air. I never saw any evidence of the woman-things she sold on her face or arms of weathered skin or her unadorned, piercing…..unblinking eyes. Her brimmed straw-hat sprinkled her plainness with points of white light, seemingly, seeping from within, bathing her existence in radiance.
never
a strange belittled concept usually
kicked aside ignored as if never uttered
a misunderstanding a muttered hasty response
oh yes I know but things have changed
we must reassess our priorities change gears
a typo inserted hurriedly as he stood reciting
brusquely dismissing from behind his mask
attempted input the numbers the meld score
will tell us more in two weeks typing inserting
you in the forever known never to be removed
at his squeaky mobile lectern he pushed
to his next tiny room off his tiny hallway
bumping clunking denting cheap door facings
his blue plaid stefano ricci shirt unimpeded
by lab coat the brightest thing in the building
on the street in the city in the tri-state area
I will never read that line to you as written
from patient education and instructions section
of pages pushed to us as I pushed your chair
bumping tiny room walls off the tiny hallway
he too hurried a coward to say never to our faces
never be a LT candidat e
the e left to dangl e ther e
never to be corrected
alon
e
I held my father’s hand once more last night, but only in a dream. I did not see his face or hear his voice or recognize a nod, but his ever-gentleness stood to sooth my unease of muddled senses. Almost thirty quick years have gone since I stood by his bed. Did I, at first, hold his hand? A white cloth, folded in half, lay over his mouth for moisture; rare tears traced crow’s-feet to his pillow and I, new to dying, wondered if he cried from fear. But through the muffling wetness, struggling not to sob, “Your mother…” And then I understood, “I will take care of her.” I promised; only then…I remember, now…did I take his hand. The hand I held last night was not that of thirty years before; his hands, in life, had the square bluntness of his days of labor. Always, he carried a pocketknife to turn the grease and grit from beneath his nails into minute, curled strings of grime. The hand I held in my dream was only his because I just knew and not recognition by touch; the hand I held was feminine, covered with the sheltered, thin skin of one needing protection. I’ve pondered the paradox all day, wondering why the hand was his, but not; time could not have altered to such extreme, a touch etched in memory. Believing only in our faulty minds, I can only conclude that I, so desiring that my father might know I have kept my promise, conjured a dream, a visitation; the hand I knew as his is my mother’s I hold today. This is a re-post from years ago; a memory of the time my father was dying in 1982.
Belated Words 