Oh the possibilities. I would play more with my children, in the yard, in the house, on the Wii, doing puzzles. They are my bliss. I would stop chasing my tail to pay the bills, 70 hours a week at a desk does not leave much time for anything else. I added up the bills this morning, yes, before my morning writing, oops...6000 dollars a month JUST TO LIVE, not including groceries, clothes, shoes...JFC. All by my little self it can be a little daunting, who am I kidding it’s fucking terrifying. Breathe. I have the time to breathe.
What I would do with time? The hair on my legs would get waxed, soon I’ll be able to braid it. I would lie next to my Granny and bury my nose in her neck, where time stops, because she doesn’t have much more...time. I would lie in bed all day with my dark lover and let him whisper things to me that I will try very hard to believe. I would ride a horse across the midwest and camp out in the open air. I would raft the rapids in Colorado, I would snow ski. I would wander the streets of New York and allow myself the pleasure of getting lost. I would sit in awe and stare at the banks of the Seine on a sunny day in Paris. I would sit in the presence of greatness. I would listen more.
Let’s break it down to the simple things...I would brush my hair, I would wax my legs, I would take a long, hot bath, brush my teeth every morning, make a wholesome lunch for my kids to take to school, cook a healthy dinner, do yoga, run, drink more wine, most of all...sing.
Time, a funny thing. Fleeting, like love. How it slips effortlessly and without notice through our hands when there is love is frightening, how slowly it crawls when there is none is terrifying.
Friday, February 5, 2010
If I Only Had Time - Donna Shomer
Time we trash it
we take it or are
taken by it
we are hopelessly
windtunnelled
grit-teethed and
brightminded
time it slips through us
we take it or are
taken by it
we are hopelessly
windtunnelled
grit-teethed and
brightminded
time it slips through us
If I Only Had Time - Darlene Nelson
Oh, if only I had time in the palm of my hand – what a gift! I could turn back the clock and do so many things over, a different way, a different out-come. I would be wiser – knowing not everyone who seemed to be my friend would be. I would know, from a youthful age that you cannot judge a book by its cover and people come in many covers. Some are old and tattered, some strikingly beautiful, others are the in-between never really knowing what shelf to rest upon. All are worthwhile. I would know to engage people of different cultures in conversation: something can be learned from everyone. I would know that, even from people that hurt me, the difference to my life would be remembering the good. I would know that the harshest people would teach me the toughest lessons – to better myself, to have a greater conscience. I would know to ignore the critics – wear a red wedding dress – (they do in China, you know), listen to 70’s disco hits blaring loud, and eat the frosting leaving the cake behind. Tick Tock. It is never too late.
If I Only Had Time - Patricia Spencer
I would like to remain anonymous though I suppose it won’t matter much in the end. Soon everyone will know and I will be long gone, but for now, please grant me this small indulgence. If only I’d had more time I could’ve made things right, corrected the horrible misunderstanding that is about to explode. Billy wouldn’t have minded though. He loved scandal. Lived for it. I miss him more than ever. I didn’t know losing him would hurt this much.
What I Wanted in That Second - Melody Cryns
I wanted her to live – I wanted Mom to keep fighting and not give up. Instead when I arrived to her apartment with the four kids right before Christmas 1996, I found my mother sitting on her bed in that blue and white flannel nightgown she always wore going through all of her “junk” jewelry, as Mom always called it. Mom looked gaunt, thinner than I’d ever seen her, and she had stopped dying her hair so it had turned snow white and fell only below her shoulders. She still looked so young though with those huge gray blue eyes that were exactly like my older daughter Melissa’s who usually wore loads of eye liner at the age of 14 to make her eyes look even bigger – and sometimes scarier.
She and Melissa were two peas in a pod, I thought.
“I’m just wondering if there’s anything in this pile you want!” my mother said so matter-of-factly as if she was getting ready to go on a long journey and talk about the weather. “I’m going through everything.”
“Mom, why are you going through everything? There’s still time, plenty of time…please?”
Baby Megan who was only four years old tugged at my arm. “Mommy I have to go to the bafroom.”
I grabbed Megan’s hand and took her down the hallway of the apartment my mother said she hated because she was surrounded by old people – low income housing for seniors. “I’m going to die here!” she’d said dramatically just a year before. That thought horrified me because a year was when I got that fateful call from my mother telling me that the cancer was terminal.
“I hope you’re sitting down dear” Mom had said on the phone, sounding like this was just another one of her casual conversations.
I hadn’t been sitting down. I was standing in the kitchen and me and the kids had just burst into the house.
Damn it, damn it! I thought after I hung up with my mom. She’s gotta fight! She’s strong. She always taught me to be independent and strong. She can and will fight this.
When I walked back into Mom’s bedroom, Melissa, dark, dramatic and 14, hissed at me, “Mother, I hate you. You never tell me the truth and I hate you.”
“What?” I looked at my mother who still sat on the bed going through her jewelry like an excited kid and not like a 63-year-old woman with cancer, and then at Melissa who stood in the corner.
Mom sighed. “I just told her the truth. She needs to know…”
“The truth? The truth is, you’ve gotta keep fighting Mom, don’t give up. Please. I know you can do this.”
I looked over at the nightstand next to Mom’s bed which contained a ceramic Buddha and a cross and a book which Mom grabbed, called “The Tibetan Book of the Dead,” and the ashtray filled with cigarette butts…Mom’s death sentence, I thought.
“Why didn’t you tell me Grandma was going to die!” Melissa yelled. “Why? I needed to know…why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…because…” I melted down on to the bed like a small child not having any idea what to say, because I didn’t believe it myself so I thought maybe it wasn’t so… or did I really just want to protect my kids? Who knows?
“Come sit here,” Mom said looking right at Melissa, “And we’ll talk about this.” Melissa obediently ran over to Mom’s bed and sat down and Mom put her arm around her. “It’s okay…dying isn’t as bad as you think…”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out of the room past my boys who looked at me funny, threw myself on to the couch with the needlepoint bright colored pillows my mother had made in the 1960’s, and cried.
Here’s to you mom…October 27, 1932 to January 29, 1997…
She and Melissa were two peas in a pod, I thought.
“I’m just wondering if there’s anything in this pile you want!” my mother said so matter-of-factly as if she was getting ready to go on a long journey and talk about the weather. “I’m going through everything.”
“Mom, why are you going through everything? There’s still time, plenty of time…please?”
Baby Megan who was only four years old tugged at my arm. “Mommy I have to go to the bafroom.”
I grabbed Megan’s hand and took her down the hallway of the apartment my mother said she hated because she was surrounded by old people – low income housing for seniors. “I’m going to die here!” she’d said dramatically just a year before. That thought horrified me because a year was when I got that fateful call from my mother telling me that the cancer was terminal.
“I hope you’re sitting down dear” Mom had said on the phone, sounding like this was just another one of her casual conversations.
I hadn’t been sitting down. I was standing in the kitchen and me and the kids had just burst into the house.
Damn it, damn it! I thought after I hung up with my mom. She’s gotta fight! She’s strong. She always taught me to be independent and strong. She can and will fight this.
When I walked back into Mom’s bedroom, Melissa, dark, dramatic and 14, hissed at me, “Mother, I hate you. You never tell me the truth and I hate you.”
“What?” I looked at my mother who still sat on the bed going through her jewelry like an excited kid and not like a 63-year-old woman with cancer, and then at Melissa who stood in the corner.
Mom sighed. “I just told her the truth. She needs to know…”
“The truth? The truth is, you’ve gotta keep fighting Mom, don’t give up. Please. I know you can do this.”
I looked over at the nightstand next to Mom’s bed which contained a ceramic Buddha and a cross and a book which Mom grabbed, called “The Tibetan Book of the Dead,” and the ashtray filled with cigarette butts…Mom’s death sentence, I thought.
“Why didn’t you tell me Grandma was going to die!” Melissa yelled. “Why? I needed to know…why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because…because…” I melted down on to the bed like a small child not having any idea what to say, because I didn’t believe it myself so I thought maybe it wasn’t so… or did I really just want to protect my kids? Who knows?
“Come sit here,” Mom said looking right at Melissa, “And we’ll talk about this.” Melissa obediently ran over to Mom’s bed and sat down and Mom put her arm around her. “It’s okay…dying isn’t as bad as you think…”
I couldn’t take it anymore. I ran out of the room past my boys who looked at me funny, threw myself on to the couch with the needlepoint bright colored pillows my mother had made in the 1960’s, and cried.
Here’s to you mom…October 27, 1932 to January 29, 1997…
What She Wanted in That Second - Marigrace Bannon
What she wanted in that second was to go back and do it again. But when did that second pass and move into the minute, the hour, the day that she didn’t make a conscious decision to follow her, then heart. How could she know now? Years passed, a marriage, a divorce, an East Coast to West Coast transition, many friends, some remained, and some slipped away with a riptide of sorts. There was no reason for her to lament, because she was where she was supposed to be in that cosmic understanding of it all. And yet, there she was always with that wonder. But isn’t that just her dreamy heart imagining the many different scenarios, that couldn’t be her life, because they weren’t? Words have always been important to her. The sound, the meaning, the double entendre, the possibility that words meant something and could change a direction. I love you. I don’t love you anymore. He’s dead. They’re getting a divorce. You’re getting a divorce. There was an earthquake and….
Trash - Rebecca Owen
My mom asked me if Teresa’s husband, Dan, was easy to like. We were in the car driving home from a weekend away in Mendocino. Girl talk. Gossip. Towards the end of the weekend, it had been a good weekend, but we’re running low on talk topics. At this point, always, my mom runs through the list of my friends trying to ignite some insightful conversation and give her a target to throw stones at.
“Dan is likable if he’s the guy behind the counter at Blockbuster renting you your movie,” I said with frankness, “He is not likable if he’s married to your daughter. He’s trash, Mom. Just trashy.”
Teresa and Dan, Teresa especially, is one of my mom’s favorite topics. Teresa with her credit card debt, married to an obnoxious loser, upside down on her house, has a college degree, but has chosen to work as an office girl since she left college because she’s too scared to do anything else. A nice, fat target for stone throwing. This could be fodder for conversation for easily 45 minutes.
“Teresa should….”
“Why did she ever…”
“Why doesn’t she..”
“I would never have…”
“If I were her…”
My mom seems to get so much joy out of implementing her logic, her reason, her “strong person” façade on these weaker people in my social circle. It is so much fun to be better than someone, even if that is only for 45 minutes in the car on the way home.
“Dan is likable if he’s the guy behind the counter at Blockbuster renting you your movie,” I said with frankness, “He is not likable if he’s married to your daughter. He’s trash, Mom. Just trashy.”
Teresa and Dan, Teresa especially, is one of my mom’s favorite topics. Teresa with her credit card debt, married to an obnoxious loser, upside down on her house, has a college degree, but has chosen to work as an office girl since she left college because she’s too scared to do anything else. A nice, fat target for stone throwing. This could be fodder for conversation for easily 45 minutes.
“Teresa should….”
“Why did she ever…”
“Why doesn’t she..”
“I would never have…”
“If I were her…”
My mom seems to get so much joy out of implementing her logic, her reason, her “strong person” façade on these weaker people in my social circle. It is so much fun to be better than someone, even if that is only for 45 minutes in the car on the way home.
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