I walked beside you as you were rolled down the hall by the two blue-gowned orderlies. Their expressions were very task-oriented. No one was talking and I couldn’t think of what to say. I wondered what you were thinking. You had all these neat expressions about how you gotta go sometime, about numbers being up, about next best alternatives. I wondered what kind of pep talk you were giving yourself—like all the good advice you’d given us over the years.
This was follow-up surgery, the kind they talk about when the stories are told about the first one not going so well. The doctor gave you pretty bad odds for this go around. Still, you were optimistic. Or something. The family will talk about the one good day you had—with all that new oxygenated blood your semi-fixed heart was pumping. You got on the phone and gave everyone advice. Get married. Have a family. Get a job. Get a new job.
I knew I couldn’t go any further than the double doors looming ahead. You lifted your arm, the one without the needle taped to the inside of your elbow. Then you raised your head and turned toward me. “There’s a dress in my closet,” you said. “A dress. What are you talking about?” I asked. “It has tags on it, you’ll find it. Return it and get the money back. It hasn’t been 30 days,” you said.
Friday, February 25, 2011
No Perspective - Francisco Mora
Jake needed to get off his feet. He and his dad, Dr. Frank Sylvester, moved from the kitchen counter to the circular banquette and table where their breakfast was set. They had just been talking softly to not be overheard. Jake had just revealed that he was contemplating suicide again. After more than a year his condition did not improve.
The three lumbar vertebrae broken in the football accident by the impact of a helmet, that cracked the tensile strength of his spine, had not healed. The functional limitations of Jake’s body were many. At twenty-one, Jake was disabled. Treatment by some of the best doctors in the field wasn’t working on the chronic pain.
Every twenty seconds Jake suffered attacks by misfiring nerves that behaved as if they were still being crushed. Every few minutes his legs jerked like he had inserted wet toes in an electric socket equipped with maximum voltage.
His dad sat at his feet. Jake lay down. He lifted the torso and ate a piece of Canadian bacon with his fingers. He set back down.
“It’s different, dad. It’s different today.”
“I hear you, son.”
“In the bathtub a little while ago I wondered more than ever what it’d be like to die. What if my consciousness,” he stopped, lifted his head to look at his dad. “I became so dark. I have no perspective any more. I got out and crawled to the toilet to throw up. My stomach was empty. Just upchucked empty air.”
“We haven’t tried everything. There are still many options, medications, and interventions to nerve paths.”
“Dad, please don’t be my doctor.”
“I know. I’m not. But it’s time to round up your doctors. Is it okay if I pull your team together at the hospital and figure out next steps? You know, as we’ve talked about before, with long term pain you have to regular reassess the team, and it takes a team.”
Jake’s just tightened his closed lips. His dad said, “you should be there, though. We’ll make it short so it’s not too much. Your mom can bring you. Or do you want me to send a car?”
“No hospital today, please. Not today.”
Dad put his hands on Jake’s legs. Jake jolted and pulled away.
“It’s the nerves, dad.”
Dad nodded once.
The three lumbar vertebrae broken in the football accident by the impact of a helmet, that cracked the tensile strength of his spine, had not healed. The functional limitations of Jake’s body were many. At twenty-one, Jake was disabled. Treatment by some of the best doctors in the field wasn’t working on the chronic pain.
Every twenty seconds Jake suffered attacks by misfiring nerves that behaved as if they were still being crushed. Every few minutes his legs jerked like he had inserted wet toes in an electric socket equipped with maximum voltage.
His dad sat at his feet. Jake lay down. He lifted the torso and ate a piece of Canadian bacon with his fingers. He set back down.
“It’s different, dad. It’s different today.”
“I hear you, son.”
“In the bathtub a little while ago I wondered more than ever what it’d be like to die. What if my consciousness,” he stopped, lifted his head to look at his dad. “I became so dark. I have no perspective any more. I got out and crawled to the toilet to throw up. My stomach was empty. Just upchucked empty air.”
“We haven’t tried everything. There are still many options, medications, and interventions to nerve paths.”
“Dad, please don’t be my doctor.”
“I know. I’m not. But it’s time to round up your doctors. Is it okay if I pull your team together at the hospital and figure out next steps? You know, as we’ve talked about before, with long term pain you have to regular reassess the team, and it takes a team.”
Jake’s just tightened his closed lips. His dad said, “you should be there, though. We’ll make it short so it’s not too much. Your mom can bring you. Or do you want me to send a car?”
“No hospital today, please. Not today.”
Dad put his hands on Jake’s legs. Jake jolted and pulled away.
“It’s the nerves, dad.”
Dad nodded once.
No Perspective - Bonnie Smetts
“Ma’am, may I help you? Is there something you are looking for?” Marjorie looked at the young woman wearing the pink apron of Von’s Sweet Shop standing in front of her. “Ma’am?”
Beyond the girl’s sweet blue eyes, Marjorie saw the shop’s candy cane trademark and the candy-filled jars, but she couldn’t put names to any of it. She struggled to think in English.
“Ah. Yes, yes,” Marjorie said, the words finally coming forth. “I’m looking for the tins of the little white mints, I can’t remember their names…” They were the mints from her childhood and since she returned to London they were some kind of balm to her spirits.
“They were right here. These are what you are looking for, right? Woodbridge’ Delectable Mints.” Woodbridge, such a calm sound.
“Oh, yes. Ten tins today.” Marjorie could see the girl was surprised at the number. “Do you like these? You’ve tried them, of course?”
“No, actually, I haven’t, ma’am. You know there are so many sweets here and we’re only allowed so much each month. We have days when we have to taste new things, but otherwise we’ve got an allowance. I always take the chocolate wavers.” The girl pointed to mint green boxes stacked near the cash register.
Of course, thought Marjorie, this girl grew up with chocolates mints, not the plain white mint lozenges of Marjorie’s youth. Charlotte wouldn’t know the Woodbridges either.
Marjorie paid for her package and stepped outside. On the street the feeling of falling started again. She leaned against the shop’s window to steady herself, her back reflected in the window of red Valentine’s Day sweets. If people would just top speaking English, for just one minute. She knew she was being irrational. But the sounds, she couldn’t get used to it. Her doctor said it was just an adjustment, maybe it would take a year, but she couldn’t bear this upside down feeling for a year.
Beyond the girl’s sweet blue eyes, Marjorie saw the shop’s candy cane trademark and the candy-filled jars, but she couldn’t put names to any of it. She struggled to think in English.
“Ah. Yes, yes,” Marjorie said, the words finally coming forth. “I’m looking for the tins of the little white mints, I can’t remember their names…” They were the mints from her childhood and since she returned to London they were some kind of balm to her spirits.
“They were right here. These are what you are looking for, right? Woodbridge’ Delectable Mints.” Woodbridge, such a calm sound.
“Oh, yes. Ten tins today.” Marjorie could see the girl was surprised at the number. “Do you like these? You’ve tried them, of course?”
“No, actually, I haven’t, ma’am. You know there are so many sweets here and we’re only allowed so much each month. We have days when we have to taste new things, but otherwise we’ve got an allowance. I always take the chocolate wavers.” The girl pointed to mint green boxes stacked near the cash register.
Of course, thought Marjorie, this girl grew up with chocolates mints, not the plain white mint lozenges of Marjorie’s youth. Charlotte wouldn’t know the Woodbridges either.
Marjorie paid for her package and stepped outside. On the street the feeling of falling started again. She leaned against the shop’s window to steady herself, her back reflected in the window of red Valentine’s Day sweets. If people would just top speaking English, for just one minute. She knew she was being irrational. But the sounds, she couldn’t get used to it. Her doctor said it was just an adjustment, maybe it would take a year, but she couldn’t bear this upside down feeling for a year.
No Perspective - Maria Robinson
You want to remember what discovering your life was like, but all you can think of is how many things you haven't seen. When you wander barefoot into your kitchen in the morning, your feet on the cold concrete, the promise of steamy black coffee seems the only goal in life. You tug on the white roman shades, there's a tiny sliced off view of Central Park, a feather of green leaves waving in the wind. Your nubbly Italian jacket and thin pencil skirt are laid out, flat, albeit chic scarecrows. The silky silicone makeup base, the wine red lipstick, a spritz of the Parisian cologne that smells like the wood. And where are you going with the briefcase and skyscraper heels?
Singing Alone - E. D. James
Sai couldn’t tell if she had connected with the girl. The questions ran out and then they sat in silence for a moment. The gentle murmurs of the house seemed to become louder to fill the space between them. Finally the girl looked up, “Would you like to come to a performance at my school next week?”
Sai hardly knew what to say. Confronted with the notion of appearing in public, of people potentially knowing that Sai was the one who had abandoned the day old child, Sai felt vulnerable. But then her heart began to grasp onto the vision of seeing her daughter on stage and getting a chance to see a bit of her life overcame her fears, “I would love that.”
Every morning for the next week Sai woke thinking she would call and tell the girls parents that she couldn’t come to the performance. Each day as she headed down to the streetcar stop she would plan the day and schedule a time to make the call. But then, when the lighted windows of the streetcar would come into view down the tracks, Sai would think back to her days of scanning the faces and how desperately she had wanted to find this girl. Now she knew the girl. Now she even had a chance to be a part of her life. The day would pass and Sai wouldn’t make the call.
The scene outside the high school auditorium was bright and loud with the energy of teenagers and parents. Sai walked up towards the crowd feeling anonymous and exposed at the same time. She could see the girls parents standing with a group of other parents chatting and laughing. At the last minute, Sai felt overwhelmed and veered off down a long dark hallway. She found a spot where she could stand and just see the edge of the crowd. She felt safer at the edge of the light. As the crowd began to filter into the auditorium Sai moved closer and followed the last people into the auditorium.
By the time she got through the doors all of the seats had been taken. Sai stood with the other late comers at the back. Fortunately the people around her were occupied with their friends and family so they seemed to pay no attention to Sai standing quietly alone trying to fade into the paneling. She relaxed only when the lights went down.
The faces and the energy of the teens on the stage took her breath away. Chinese high schools had none of the happy intensity that these children exuded. College had been all work for Sai as she struggled to learn English and excel in her classes at the same time. She thought about how different the girls life was turning out.
The house lights dimmed and the stage lights came up on a red velvet curtain. A female voice came over the speakers as the curtains began to slowly open. Sai felt herself drawn in by the voice. She could feel the emotion in the moment. As the stage was revealed Sai saw the girl standing at the center of the stage surrounded by the rest of the chorus but singing alone. Almost in spite of herself, Sai felt her eyes well up and a lump catch in her throat.
Sai hardly knew what to say. Confronted with the notion of appearing in public, of people potentially knowing that Sai was the one who had abandoned the day old child, Sai felt vulnerable. But then her heart began to grasp onto the vision of seeing her daughter on stage and getting a chance to see a bit of her life overcame her fears, “I would love that.”
Every morning for the next week Sai woke thinking she would call and tell the girls parents that she couldn’t come to the performance. Each day as she headed down to the streetcar stop she would plan the day and schedule a time to make the call. But then, when the lighted windows of the streetcar would come into view down the tracks, Sai would think back to her days of scanning the faces and how desperately she had wanted to find this girl. Now she knew the girl. Now she even had a chance to be a part of her life. The day would pass and Sai wouldn’t make the call.
The scene outside the high school auditorium was bright and loud with the energy of teenagers and parents. Sai walked up towards the crowd feeling anonymous and exposed at the same time. She could see the girls parents standing with a group of other parents chatting and laughing. At the last minute, Sai felt overwhelmed and veered off down a long dark hallway. She found a spot where she could stand and just see the edge of the crowd. She felt safer at the edge of the light. As the crowd began to filter into the auditorium Sai moved closer and followed the last people into the auditorium.
By the time she got through the doors all of the seats had been taken. Sai stood with the other late comers at the back. Fortunately the people around her were occupied with their friends and family so they seemed to pay no attention to Sai standing quietly alone trying to fade into the paneling. She relaxed only when the lights went down.
The faces and the energy of the teens on the stage took her breath away. Chinese high schools had none of the happy intensity that these children exuded. College had been all work for Sai as she struggled to learn English and excel in her classes at the same time. She thought about how different the girls life was turning out.
The house lights dimmed and the stage lights came up on a red velvet curtain. A female voice came over the speakers as the curtains began to slowly open. Sai felt herself drawn in by the voice. She could feel the emotion in the moment. As the stage was revealed Sai saw the girl standing at the center of the stage surrounded by the rest of the chorus but singing alone. Almost in spite of herself, Sai felt her eyes well up and a lump catch in her throat.
Singing Alone - Kent Wright
The coat was new; fleece in a green color that was bound to stand out. It was sure the only one like it on anybody in school when we went back after Christmas vacation. Most of the other winter coats had been worn and worn down by older brothers or sisters. And they were practical plaids or hardy browns that didn’t show barn dust and cow shit much. My coat was a coat that said style, that said up-to-date, that almost said one of a kind. That wasn’t the message that I sought really. That green coat was simply irresistible to me from the first time I saw it in the department store because something about the combination of that particular green and the fleece just melted me. Maybe in other material like the rugged work coats worn by my Dad it would have just been another practical jacket that would have taken three years to wear down, and even then would still have been good for riding the tractor on long spring days of ploughing. A coat like that would hang right along side its identical, dark replacement for several more years good enough to be put on for pouring cement for the new side porch or painting in the morning before the sun warmed up the side of the house. My green coast lasted too. It lasted longer that I could still fit into it, and then it was hung upstairs in a closet with other clothes I had outgrown. Somehow my Mother was never able to give my outgrown clothes away. They were the younger brother or sister I didn’t have. Their stretched out elbows and scuffed cuffs were the days I played in the sandbox my Dad made and sat at an angle to both the back of the house and first row of the garden where the zinnias were planted. In that closet a thick red knit tie became friends with the coat and undoubtedly told it countless times about the grey stripped sports coat and scratchy wool pants that it accompanied to church on all those special Sundays when I recited long poems for the congregation. The green coat of the only child outlasted all the other clothes in that closet. It was discovered, its green still magically unchanged, when the house was emptied. I found it alone, safe from the dust zippered into its original plastic bag.
Love - Kate Bueler
Love. The longest and greatest journey is 18 inches from your mind to your heart. As I lean down to bow, my hands upon my third eye, now sandwiched between my head and the ground. Connection of the mind and heart. Is love. Is going at this world with both the armor of the mind, the action of the brain but the heart feeler of more than one and warming you to do more than stand alone.
Love. Lasting or temporary seems to find a permanent home in both our mind and heart. In our thoughts and words and memories and the feelings from the aftermath of love lost and found. I can't help but think I might have been wrong about love. I thought love could solve all things the couple relationship love. I believed in the fairy tale and disneyfied and hallmarked holidays that love will conquer all. But it isn't just one type of love that can do that. It is just purely love. Love for family, friends, for neighbor, for stranger. The more you can travel between the heart and mind and create a frequent flier program you will love more and be loved so much that you find a smile upon your face as you stroll. Home.
It is not a rose colored existence but a human existence not pushed and conformed into me only me. Think of only me. But us. My last experience with love. Was with a room full of strangers. Scratch that many strangers. Some colleagues. But mostly people I had never met before. We all came together in this lecture hall. To stand up. Together. In unison. For others. For ourselves. In this world. We forget, how easily we forget how important this truly is. And as I feet pushes against the ground of this linoleum with my fellow standers. And listen. I am moved not by just the words of trying to find solution and stories of how this program to be forgotten changed a life. I am moved for the greatest journey is happening before my eyes as it happens inside of me.
Connecting the mind and heart. To stand up and say. No. Please listen. In different tones. In different pitches. In different colors. I feel my heart beat and rattle against my ribs and chest. Traveling up to my mind as I raise my hand. I just hope. The words are coming. From the right place. That the two my heart and mind can come together for this moment. Words are now coming out of mouth into ears and skins and minds and hearts of others. The greatest journey of all might be the connecting of your heart with others. The distance is far and great but the journey. The journey. My journey with love. Has surprises along the way.
Love. Lasting or temporary seems to find a permanent home in both our mind and heart. In our thoughts and words and memories and the feelings from the aftermath of love lost and found. I can't help but think I might have been wrong about love. I thought love could solve all things the couple relationship love. I believed in the fairy tale and disneyfied and hallmarked holidays that love will conquer all. But it isn't just one type of love that can do that. It is just purely love. Love for family, friends, for neighbor, for stranger. The more you can travel between the heart and mind and create a frequent flier program you will love more and be loved so much that you find a smile upon your face as you stroll. Home.
It is not a rose colored existence but a human existence not pushed and conformed into me only me. Think of only me. But us. My last experience with love. Was with a room full of strangers. Scratch that many strangers. Some colleagues. But mostly people I had never met before. We all came together in this lecture hall. To stand up. Together. In unison. For others. For ourselves. In this world. We forget, how easily we forget how important this truly is. And as I feet pushes against the ground of this linoleum with my fellow standers. And listen. I am moved not by just the words of trying to find solution and stories of how this program to be forgotten changed a life. I am moved for the greatest journey is happening before my eyes as it happens inside of me.
Connecting the mind and heart. To stand up and say. No. Please listen. In different tones. In different pitches. In different colors. I feel my heart beat and rattle against my ribs and chest. Traveling up to my mind as I raise my hand. I just hope. The words are coming. From the right place. That the two my heart and mind can come together for this moment. Words are now coming out of mouth into ears and skins and minds and hearts of others. The greatest journey of all might be the connecting of your heart with others. The distance is far and great but the journey. The journey. My journey with love. Has surprises along the way.
Hate - Melody Cryns
“I hate you David Hirrell!” I shouted, and then I ran as fast as I could because I knew, I just knew he’d chase me and try to beat me up. He was, after all, the biggest and meanest kid of the neighborhood. David and me had this love/hate relationship. Sometimes we were best friends and sometimes he’d pick on me and I’d get mad – and he infuriated me. Yet even as I yelled that to David and ran for my life, I couldn’t help but think of those ceramic kittens in a tiny basket David had brought back with him from Ireland when he’d spent the summer there with his parents and his brother, Barry. And no matter what, those ceramic kitties had a special spot on my dresser right next to my beloved Beatles dolls…
It was another one of those cool, summer days when I ran down Second Avenue, past the tiny trees all of us kids in the neighborhood had planted just the year before, across Lincoln Way to that special corner of Golden Gate Park that belonged to us kids – the Greens. Or so we thought. it was actually a part of the park that was used for all sorts of things – free concerts, festivals, peace marches – but usually it was “our” place filled with trees and bushes and grass, and even a pile of sawdust and dirt in the middle – the best trees one could find to climb were mixed with those tall eucalyptus trees that no one could climb at all, but the eucalyptus smell permeated the air – I ran towards an area of the Greens we called The Big Bush because the bushes formed a sort of house, and right next to it stood my favorite tree, an oak tree of some kind that was easy to climb. I loved to climb deep within the tree and look out because up there I could see the world, but the world couldn’t see me.
And David knew where that tree was, and he knew where I’d be. But he wouldn’t climb the tree. He’d just look up at me with those beady eyes that were sometimes hard and sometimes soft and that red face. “I’m going to wait down here ‘til you come down, even if it takes all day!”
But he’d never stay there all day and eventually I’d come down.
By the next day, I usually didn’t hate David anymore, and he usually didn’t hate me. And even though one of the Solis boys who lived up the street and hung out with my brother interested me, along with that kid who with the red jersey shirt who was a year older than me – the new kid in the neighborhood who threw a football up in the air all the time and was David Hirrell’s friend – there was always a special place for David. But I could never let on – not ever. I’d be dead meat.
After all, I’d promised that one day – that I’d be sworn to secrecy for the rest of my life – and that I mustn’t tell anyone about that day David Hirrell and me were hiking in Sutro Forest and he carved “David & Mary were here” in a tree. I’ll bet somewhere, amid that dense forest of eucalyptus trees, that carving still exists even after all these years.
That was probably my very first “valentine.” I guess I really didn’t hate David Hirrell after all.
It was another one of those cool, summer days when I ran down Second Avenue, past the tiny trees all of us kids in the neighborhood had planted just the year before, across Lincoln Way to that special corner of Golden Gate Park that belonged to us kids – the Greens. Or so we thought. it was actually a part of the park that was used for all sorts of things – free concerts, festivals, peace marches – but usually it was “our” place filled with trees and bushes and grass, and even a pile of sawdust and dirt in the middle – the best trees one could find to climb were mixed with those tall eucalyptus trees that no one could climb at all, but the eucalyptus smell permeated the air – I ran towards an area of the Greens we called The Big Bush because the bushes formed a sort of house, and right next to it stood my favorite tree, an oak tree of some kind that was easy to climb. I loved to climb deep within the tree and look out because up there I could see the world, but the world couldn’t see me.
And David knew where that tree was, and he knew where I’d be. But he wouldn’t climb the tree. He’d just look up at me with those beady eyes that were sometimes hard and sometimes soft and that red face. “I’m going to wait down here ‘til you come down, even if it takes all day!”
But he’d never stay there all day and eventually I’d come down.
By the next day, I usually didn’t hate David anymore, and he usually didn’t hate me. And even though one of the Solis boys who lived up the street and hung out with my brother interested me, along with that kid who with the red jersey shirt who was a year older than me – the new kid in the neighborhood who threw a football up in the air all the time and was David Hirrell’s friend – there was always a special place for David. But I could never let on – not ever. I’d be dead meat.
After all, I’d promised that one day – that I’d be sworn to secrecy for the rest of my life – and that I mustn’t tell anyone about that day David Hirrell and me were hiking in Sutro Forest and he carved “David & Mary were here” in a tree. I’ll bet somewhere, amid that dense forest of eucalyptus trees, that carving still exists even after all these years.
That was probably my very first “valentine.” I guess I really didn’t hate David Hirrell after all.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wandering - Kent Wright
Summer Sundays when the weather was not a grey sheet of rain or woolen with humidity were good for drives. The family was packed into the Plymouth with its proud fins and quietly we drove out of town on a nicely paved road. The paved road was soon abandoned, however, because paved roads were not what Sunday drives were about. They were about the small, gravel roads that crisscrossed the countryside in mile squares. These little roads led past fields of growing soy beans, and bright green, rustling corn and pastures where black cows ate and moved in slow motion through the afternoon. Dad drove at a slow, deliberate pace with his fingers interlocked and forearms draped over the top of the steering wheel. Behind us a tan rooster tail rose up for a while and then settled back on the weeds along the road. My Dad commented on the state of the crops. My Mother editorialized about the character of farm families based on how yards were tended, side ditches mowed, or the moral stain of hanging out washing on Sunday. Their conversations were intermittent, catalyzed by a name on a mailbox that triggered a history. Children, marriages, failures filled the car for a while and then silence returned.
Scattered about the countryside were small, old churches. They were mostly unused or, if they were, it was by a stubborn handful of souls who shared a preacher with another small congregation on alternate Sundays. Vacant or not each had alongside it a cemetery, and that is where the drive would halt. The parents would stretch themselves out of the car and then wander amongst the tired, tilting gravestones. From the names and their memories families, stories, relationships were resurrected. It seemed to engender a kind of reassurance in them that escaped the bored, antsy kids who dallied under the shade of an old oak or threw stones into the nearby creek. This wandering around the grey stones with their fading writing elicited an oral history that helped my parents make sense of their lives. Perhaps they were comforted by the idea that someone years in the future would stop by the Maxville cemetery where they would reside and point at their shared headstone and remember that he was kind and she was hard but fair, and, on that future Sunday, that recollection would help keep their place in the weave of the fabric.
Scattered about the countryside were small, old churches. They were mostly unused or, if they were, it was by a stubborn handful of souls who shared a preacher with another small congregation on alternate Sundays. Vacant or not each had alongside it a cemetery, and that is where the drive would halt. The parents would stretch themselves out of the car and then wander amongst the tired, tilting gravestones. From the names and their memories families, stories, relationships were resurrected. It seemed to engender a kind of reassurance in them that escaped the bored, antsy kids who dallied under the shade of an old oak or threw stones into the nearby creek. This wandering around the grey stones with their fading writing elicited an oral history that helped my parents make sense of their lives. Perhaps they were comforted by the idea that someone years in the future would stop by the Maxville cemetery where they would reside and point at their shared headstone and remember that he was kind and she was hard but fair, and, on that future Sunday, that recollection would help keep their place in the weave of the fabric.
Wandering - Maria Robinson
Miriam
Unmoored, I am wandering around like the ancestors of old. My people after the destruction of Jerusalem. How we spread to the four corners of the East and West, China, Iraq, Spain. Morocco. Here I am from the Upper West Side, a village of profs and private alternative schools and Columbia, Harlem and Zabar's found in quiet beach front cafes run by Russian emigres, filled with families knit together by ritual and perception. A people beyond oceans and mountains and Romans and Visigoths and Egyptians and Almohads. I come from a people how have settled and still moved and wandered through it all.
Unmoored, I am wandering around like the ancestors of old. My people after the destruction of Jerusalem. How we spread to the four corners of the East and West, China, Iraq, Spain. Morocco. Here I am from the Upper West Side, a village of profs and private alternative schools and Columbia, Harlem and Zabar's found in quiet beach front cafes run by Russian emigres, filled with families knit together by ritual and perception. A people beyond oceans and mountains and Romans and Visigoths and Egyptians and Almohads. I come from a people how have settled and still moved and wandered through it all.
Wandering - Melody Cryns
I dreamed about those cruiser bikes down at the baylands last nights, the ones Google, a huge sprawling campus of buildings, provides for its employees to use. I could see myself soaring down the soft, rolling hills of the baylands, the wind whipping against my face, and I could feel how exhilarating and free it felt – it’s been a while since I’ve been on my bike. Mine sits out on the patio, needing to be fixed for ages now. I let my daughter Megan’s exboyfriend ride it and he messed it all up.
And today I head for the baylands to that sprawling “Google world” campus down at the baylands in Mountain View, to the area where the Canada geese and the avocets and killdeer birds hang out, where there’s miles of open space and water. I’ve studied the map of all the buildings to figure out where I must go – building 1965. Yes, I received the email from Google inviting me to an in-person interview. That was after a 30-minute phone interview with a recruiter. Now I had to talk to four different people for 30 minutes each – no point in going to work at all today for all that. I’m nervous and excited all at the same time, and just yesterday while sitting in Chile’s with a bunch of my coworkers for one of our long-time paralegals, Dawn Salazar’s, going away party I happened to see John van Loben Sels wander by with a bag that looked like his lunch. John and I worked together at two different law firms – he brought me over to Dechert from Quinn Emanuel, said I deserved to make more money. He was right, of course. Now John doesn’t even work where I’m at – he’s a partner at a small firm down the street from Dechert and I only see him occasionally.
But I’d contacted him just a few days ago because I wanted him to be a reference for me. And of course he was happy to do it
Me and Sarah, one of the attorneys, happened to see John so we both ran outside to talk to him for a few moments.
“And I thought this would be your going away party,” John said when we told him where we were at.
“Hey, I don’t have the job yet. It’s just an interview,” I laughed. Looking over at Sarah uncomfortably because I hadn’t really shared with very many people at work that I was going on a job interview. Sarah was cool though, and I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone. If she did, oh well. I guess it’s always a risk to do these sorts of things – to go for better opportunities.
I remembered how I’d taken a limited duration two-year job when I worked for the State of Oregon back in the later 1980’s, how everyone had advised me against it because I was a single mom with three young children and needed stability. But even though I was “okay” as a clerical specialist in Claims Coding, that limited duration two year job in Word Processing was exactly what I needed – I wanted to be a word processing technician and this would be my ace in the hole. So I took the risk and jumped for it not listening to anyone but myself and it turned out to be one of my best moves.
Within a year, that limited duration position became permanent and I was able to reclassify as a word processing technician – a move that would forever change the course of my career such that it is…always able to fall back on a position that some say is going away.
“But we desperately need a doc specialist,” the recruiter at Google had explained to me. “The paralegals are trying to do it themselves!”
I shuddered, knowing exactly what that meant. Nice to know that out of the thousands of jobs Google has, one would be a “legal document specialist” position – but who knew I’d be one of 75,000 people applying for 6,000 jobs!
So I’m focusing on those cruiser bikes and the baylands today as I head down there to the sprawling Google campus where you can easily get caught up inand even a Google world…free meals at their state-of-the art cafeterias, a massage therapist and even a chiropractor on site. Heck, you can even bring your laundry to work because they provide free laundry – oh and did I mention the oil changing services.
The one disconcerting thing that came to mind for me is – once you’re in Google they never want you to leave! It’s like getting caught in the vortex, forever spinning around in the abyss…
But never mind all that.
I’ve got big interviews to attend today…
And today I head for the baylands to that sprawling “Google world” campus down at the baylands in Mountain View, to the area where the Canada geese and the avocets and killdeer birds hang out, where there’s miles of open space and water. I’ve studied the map of all the buildings to figure out where I must go – building 1965. Yes, I received the email from Google inviting me to an in-person interview. That was after a 30-minute phone interview with a recruiter. Now I had to talk to four different people for 30 minutes each – no point in going to work at all today for all that. I’m nervous and excited all at the same time, and just yesterday while sitting in Chile’s with a bunch of my coworkers for one of our long-time paralegals, Dawn Salazar’s, going away party I happened to see John van Loben Sels wander by with a bag that looked like his lunch. John and I worked together at two different law firms – he brought me over to Dechert from Quinn Emanuel, said I deserved to make more money. He was right, of course. Now John doesn’t even work where I’m at – he’s a partner at a small firm down the street from Dechert and I only see him occasionally.
But I’d contacted him just a few days ago because I wanted him to be a reference for me. And of course he was happy to do it
Me and Sarah, one of the attorneys, happened to see John so we both ran outside to talk to him for a few moments.
“And I thought this would be your going away party,” John said when we told him where we were at.
“Hey, I don’t have the job yet. It’s just an interview,” I laughed. Looking over at Sarah uncomfortably because I hadn’t really shared with very many people at work that I was going on a job interview. Sarah was cool though, and I knew she wouldn’t tell anyone. If she did, oh well. I guess it’s always a risk to do these sorts of things – to go for better opportunities.
I remembered how I’d taken a limited duration two-year job when I worked for the State of Oregon back in the later 1980’s, how everyone had advised me against it because I was a single mom with three young children and needed stability. But even though I was “okay” as a clerical specialist in Claims Coding, that limited duration two year job in Word Processing was exactly what I needed – I wanted to be a word processing technician and this would be my ace in the hole. So I took the risk and jumped for it not listening to anyone but myself and it turned out to be one of my best moves.
Within a year, that limited duration position became permanent and I was able to reclassify as a word processing technician – a move that would forever change the course of my career such that it is…always able to fall back on a position that some say is going away.
“But we desperately need a doc specialist,” the recruiter at Google had explained to me. “The paralegals are trying to do it themselves!”
I shuddered, knowing exactly what that meant. Nice to know that out of the thousands of jobs Google has, one would be a “legal document specialist” position – but who knew I’d be one of 75,000 people applying for 6,000 jobs!
So I’m focusing on those cruiser bikes and the baylands today as I head down there to the sprawling Google campus where you can easily get caught up inand even a Google world…free meals at their state-of-the art cafeterias, a massage therapist and even a chiropractor on site. Heck, you can even bring your laundry to work because they provide free laundry – oh and did I mention the oil changing services.
The one disconcerting thing that came to mind for me is – once you’re in Google they never want you to leave! It’s like getting caught in the vortex, forever spinning around in the abyss…
But never mind all that.
I’ve got big interviews to attend today…
A Good Argument - Kate Bueler
A good argument. I just had a good argument with a punching bag. I can say I won but let's see what happens when I wake up tomorrow. Will I be able to move? Will my hands stretch above me for the awaking my body to the morning? Will I lay there thinking maybe the wrapping of the hands in yellow and putting on the gloves too big for my tiny hands wrinkly the same make as my mother and brother might have been a better idea than reality.
I had a good argument with a punching bag. I won. For I can still move this am. And it felt really good to just take my fists into something heavy and hit hard. The jab and the hook. Sometimes more powerful than I expected sometimes weaker than I thought acceptable. My friends face on the other side cheering me on but I still fear I might sock her. You are supposed to dance around the bag. You are supposed to block your face. You are supposed to wait for the buzzer. You are supposed to call out the numbers. You are supposed to do a lot of things. But a good argument with a punching bag. That should be prescribed. A great way to get out what you can on an object that can't fight back expect for a swing your way. I guess you could fall over. But still the risk or pretty low in a world where we unload our truck or empty are bucket on the wrong person all the time. Sublimation at its best.
I used to be scared of punching. Well let me take that back. My father used to stand in front of me on the grass in front of our yellowish house next to my tree swing and have me punch his hands-left and right left and right-for I should learn how to punch and I should not punch like a girl. Strength I felt in my chicken arms as I pounded against the weathered hands of my father.
This was before I feared punching and fights and the temper that lived inside my father. My father the sweet man he was, he is, had been raised in the don't ask don't tell of baby boomers so many emotions trapped inside and anger and sadness and desperately shy at one point all mixed into the perfection of him being a fighter. My dad used to get into fights. Street fights. I don't know when it all started. But I do know there in the story telling there was always some type of justice. That guy called my teammate the n word. Or that guy stole from the store I worked at. But somehow the justified crossed over to someone cutting you off in a car, to little league, to a nephew during a drunken poker night. See there might be justice in fighting in protecting but some fights are not about the punching of the opponent. Its the punching of ourselves.
I learned early on. To try and calm my dad down. I learned early on how to break up fights. One of my first memories of college was me breaking up a fight between two soccer players one from Berkeley the other from oakland. They all had a few lbs on me. But I jumped in. I learned early on that I was scared of anger. Scared of anger and fighting and punching. I learned early on not to touch it or taste it or play with it because it would lose control. But tonight. As I punch this bag. With my wrapped hands and red gloves. I pound out anger. Anger in a way that doesn't scare me. Only scared party is that bag, of the hook. And as I end class I can't think how much I want to call my dad. He would be proud I could punch and not punch as a girl. We all get to choose how our family lives inside of us. As I punched that bag. And had a friendly argument, a good argument with anger.
I had a good argument with a punching bag. I won. For I can still move this am. And it felt really good to just take my fists into something heavy and hit hard. The jab and the hook. Sometimes more powerful than I expected sometimes weaker than I thought acceptable. My friends face on the other side cheering me on but I still fear I might sock her. You are supposed to dance around the bag. You are supposed to block your face. You are supposed to wait for the buzzer. You are supposed to call out the numbers. You are supposed to do a lot of things. But a good argument with a punching bag. That should be prescribed. A great way to get out what you can on an object that can't fight back expect for a swing your way. I guess you could fall over. But still the risk or pretty low in a world where we unload our truck or empty are bucket on the wrong person all the time. Sublimation at its best.
I used to be scared of punching. Well let me take that back. My father used to stand in front of me on the grass in front of our yellowish house next to my tree swing and have me punch his hands-left and right left and right-for I should learn how to punch and I should not punch like a girl. Strength I felt in my chicken arms as I pounded against the weathered hands of my father.
This was before I feared punching and fights and the temper that lived inside my father. My father the sweet man he was, he is, had been raised in the don't ask don't tell of baby boomers so many emotions trapped inside and anger and sadness and desperately shy at one point all mixed into the perfection of him being a fighter. My dad used to get into fights. Street fights. I don't know when it all started. But I do know there in the story telling there was always some type of justice. That guy called my teammate the n word. Or that guy stole from the store I worked at. But somehow the justified crossed over to someone cutting you off in a car, to little league, to a nephew during a drunken poker night. See there might be justice in fighting in protecting but some fights are not about the punching of the opponent. Its the punching of ourselves.
I learned early on. To try and calm my dad down. I learned early on how to break up fights. One of my first memories of college was me breaking up a fight between two soccer players one from Berkeley the other from oakland. They all had a few lbs on me. But I jumped in. I learned early on that I was scared of anger. Scared of anger and fighting and punching. I learned early on not to touch it or taste it or play with it because it would lose control. But tonight. As I punch this bag. With my wrapped hands and red gloves. I pound out anger. Anger in a way that doesn't scare me. Only scared party is that bag, of the hook. And as I end class I can't think how much I want to call my dad. He would be proud I could punch and not punch as a girl. We all get to choose how our family lives inside of us. As I punched that bag. And had a friendly argument, a good argument with anger.
A Good Argument - Bonnie Smetts
“And now I learn that you were going up to the mountains? What in God’s name were you thinking, Marjorie. You can’t be following Renee everywhere. She is not safe.”
“We were just out for a little adventure, some sightseeing. You know there is so little here for me here. So little.”
“Oh, that argument again. I am working to provide us with a future. Once I am done with this post we will be set. You know that.”
“And when will you be done. First it was a year, then another year. We are three years into this.” Marjorie paced the living room like a caged lion, pressed on all sides by the pounding rain, while Ash sat immobile in his overstuffed chair.
“This is an old story, Marjorie. I am not going to do this. To us.”
And then Marjorie was on him, standing with her feet inches from his toes. She bent forward and in a whisper that shook her insides, she said, “To us. You have no ‘to us’ in you. Otherwise you’d understand the difficulties I am having.”
“Please, would you stand back from me? You are not yourself, get a hold of yourself. I can’t have you behaving this way.”
Anger unleashed inside Marjorie, violent anger walloping her insides, swirling from her head to her toes and back again. “You can’t have me behaving like this.” Now she stood over him an arms length away and spoke each word with determination and force that changed her. Hate, cold and bitter and nasty.
She backed up keeping her eyes on his until he looked away. She turned and left the room. She did not feel her feet taking steps or her knees bending and unfolding their way to her room. She breathed in and out like a racehorse after a race. She walked in circles, one, two, three, four, like a horse cooling down. Finally she sat on the edge of the bed. She knew she could never go back from that moment downstairs. Something was broken for good.
Terror, like snow melt running down a rock, filled her. The trap closed in on her tighter.
“We were just out for a little adventure, some sightseeing. You know there is so little here for me here. So little.”
“Oh, that argument again. I am working to provide us with a future. Once I am done with this post we will be set. You know that.”
“And when will you be done. First it was a year, then another year. We are three years into this.” Marjorie paced the living room like a caged lion, pressed on all sides by the pounding rain, while Ash sat immobile in his overstuffed chair.
“This is an old story, Marjorie. I am not going to do this. To us.”
And then Marjorie was on him, standing with her feet inches from his toes. She bent forward and in a whisper that shook her insides, she said, “To us. You have no ‘to us’ in you. Otherwise you’d understand the difficulties I am having.”
“Please, would you stand back from me? You are not yourself, get a hold of yourself. I can’t have you behaving this way.”
Anger unleashed inside Marjorie, violent anger walloping her insides, swirling from her head to her toes and back again. “You can’t have me behaving like this.” Now she stood over him an arms length away and spoke each word with determination and force that changed her. Hate, cold and bitter and nasty.
She backed up keeping her eyes on his until he looked away. She turned and left the room. She did not feel her feet taking steps or her knees bending and unfolding their way to her room. She breathed in and out like a racehorse after a race. She walked in circles, one, two, three, four, like a horse cooling down. Finally she sat on the edge of the bed. She knew she could never go back from that moment downstairs. Something was broken for good.
Terror, like snow melt running down a rock, filled her. The trap closed in on her tighter.
A Good Argument - Judy Albietz
Lily’s mom pulled her close in a hug. “Lily, we’re going to get some dinner downstairs in the cafeteria.”
“Thanks. I’ll stay here. One of Josh’s friends is coming over to the hospital in a little while. We’ll grab something to eat near here,” Lily said.
“A friend? I didn’t know you knew anyone here.”
Lily didn’t say anything. No way could she explain. Like she’d really be able to tell her mom she was waiting for Peter, a kid who was flying in from Seattle. Not just to see Josh. But he had to get into Josh’s laptop. After that … she’d arranged it all with Sam … Chicago was now their meeting place.
Lily worked out a plan to present to her mother. She had a good argument for staying in Chicago until Josh recovered. All her schoolwork could be done on-line. She’d stay with Josh’s family. She’d be able to visit him in the hospital.
Of course she wouldn’t be doing any of that. Josh’s recovery totally depended on her real plan. After Peter had a chance to download the data on Josh’s hard drive, they would leave. She and Peter would go with Sam. They had to look for Josh in a place that didn’t even exist yet. Not for another 2000 years.
“Thanks. I’ll stay here. One of Josh’s friends is coming over to the hospital in a little while. We’ll grab something to eat near here,” Lily said.
“A friend? I didn’t know you knew anyone here.”
Lily didn’t say anything. No way could she explain. Like she’d really be able to tell her mom she was waiting for Peter, a kid who was flying in from Seattle. Not just to see Josh. But he had to get into Josh’s laptop. After that … she’d arranged it all with Sam … Chicago was now their meeting place.
Lily worked out a plan to present to her mother. She had a good argument for staying in Chicago until Josh recovered. All her schoolwork could be done on-line. She’d stay with Josh’s family. She’d be able to visit him in the hospital.
Of course she wouldn’t be doing any of that. Josh’s recovery totally depended on her real plan. After Peter had a chance to download the data on Josh’s hard drive, they would leave. She and Peter would go with Sam. They had to look for Josh in a place that didn’t even exist yet. Not for another 2000 years.
Searching for Truth - Jennifer Baljko
Oriol swallowed the mint he had been chewing since he got off the bus. His wife had slipped a box of spearmint squares into his jacket pocket before he left the house. Its chalky texture did little to cover the taste of resignation balled up in his windpipe. He walked into the gray, square building with shiny, mirrored windows, erected in the late 1960s when Barcelona, like other cities, lost its architectural flare. He went through the metal detector, nodding a familiar hello to the security clerk. He pushed the elevator button for the seventh floor and fixed his gaze as each number on the panel illuminated. He straightened his blue tie as the bell beeped and the doors slide open.
“Hola. Bon dia.” Oriol greeted the receptionist at the train authority’s central investigation center and tried to muster up his warm Catalan smile. “Senyor Puig, si us plau.”
“Yes, he’s waiting for you. He’ll be out in a moment,” she answered him in a Spanish not from Spain. By her accent, Oriol pegged her from Argentina.
Oriol sat on the black leather sofa, pretending to read the latest edition of the soccer magazine he picked up off the coffee table. Barça was again competing for the European Championship, and the city was buzzing with anticipation. Oriol and his friend Pep managed to get tickets for some of the earlier league games, many months before this witch hunt began.
Oriol knew Puig and company were only searching for the truth, exploring all the angles and piecing together how one of their trains and conductors could have possibly killed13 people and injured dozens more. The political fire for accountability was burning their heels. Mostly, Oriol knew they were trying to cover their own asses. He could only the truth would also set him free.
“Hola. Bon dia.” Oriol greeted the receptionist at the train authority’s central investigation center and tried to muster up his warm Catalan smile. “Senyor Puig, si us plau.”
“Yes, he’s waiting for you. He’ll be out in a moment,” she answered him in a Spanish not from Spain. By her accent, Oriol pegged her from Argentina.
Oriol sat on the black leather sofa, pretending to read the latest edition of the soccer magazine he picked up off the coffee table. Barça was again competing for the European Championship, and the city was buzzing with anticipation. Oriol and his friend Pep managed to get tickets for some of the earlier league games, many months before this witch hunt began.
Oriol knew Puig and company were only searching for the truth, exploring all the angles and piecing together how one of their trains and conductors could have possibly killed13 people and injured dozens more. The political fire for accountability was burning their heels. Mostly, Oriol knew they were trying to cover their own asses. He could only the truth would also set him free.
Searching for Truth - Francisco Mora
Aporia. Definition: truth, according to ancient Chinese wisdom.
“So what’s the purpose of writing if not searching for truth?” I said to him.
The Chinese wise man was sitting on a little stool by an oak tree playing a rigged-up cello-looking stringed instrument. Not at all rich like a cello, two strings are all it had. But he was making music out of it, Chinese sounding twangy sort of music. It sounded like a happy deep-throated kitty singing in Cantonese. Stop and listen to that in your head for a moment.
“There’s only one purpose to narrative,” he said.
Yes, my body language said. Yes?
“The purpose is to tell stories. That is all.”
A little let down, I guess is how I looked, because he went on about truth, truth with a capital t. But first he said: “The monkey in search of truth.” He laughed. I saw his ratty teeth. Babbler.
“Did Pol Pot in Cambodia not believe in truth when he killed one million because they wore glasses and looked like the bourgeoisie, the opposite of his Marxist truth. And the Christian church? How many were burned and otherwise exterminated for truth.”
He continued to prattle as he rattled the two strings. He said, “but no, the church was right about the perils of moral relativism. There is absolute truth.” Turning away from me puling on the bow to make me eager to hear what this was, I guess, and I was.
“It’s in you.”
“Me?”
“Everyone. Absolute truth is that dimension of awareness beyond thought and forms, that interstitial space between thought and form. Being, in other words.”
Quizzical. Quixotic.
“It’s the Christ in you. Or your inner Buddha nature. It’s there available to the one who watches his reflection in the water, it’s there when he sees he’s the one looking back at his reflection and stops believing or being only the reflection.”
“I think I get it,” I said. “When I’m aware of my ego, my wants and desires, and I’m not that, then I’m pure Being. And that is absolute truth?”
Nothing came from him. I said, “so what? What am I supposed to do with that? I’m. We. The world is created by thought, form, ego. I can’t be in La-la land of truth all day long, can I?”
The string instrument started sounding like an avenging cat, something that couldn’t, shouldn’t be called music.
He said, “tell stories, but that is all. Don’t mistake the finger pointing to the moon as the moon.”
Whatever.
“So what’s the purpose of writing if not searching for truth?” I said to him.
The Chinese wise man was sitting on a little stool by an oak tree playing a rigged-up cello-looking stringed instrument. Not at all rich like a cello, two strings are all it had. But he was making music out of it, Chinese sounding twangy sort of music. It sounded like a happy deep-throated kitty singing in Cantonese. Stop and listen to that in your head for a moment.
“There’s only one purpose to narrative,” he said.
Yes, my body language said. Yes?
“The purpose is to tell stories. That is all.”
A little let down, I guess is how I looked, because he went on about truth, truth with a capital t. But first he said: “The monkey in search of truth.” He laughed. I saw his ratty teeth. Babbler.
“Did Pol Pot in Cambodia not believe in truth when he killed one million because they wore glasses and looked like the bourgeoisie, the opposite of his Marxist truth. And the Christian church? How many were burned and otherwise exterminated for truth.”
He continued to prattle as he rattled the two strings. He said, “but no, the church was right about the perils of moral relativism. There is absolute truth.” Turning away from me puling on the bow to make me eager to hear what this was, I guess, and I was.
“It’s in you.”
“Me?”
“Everyone. Absolute truth is that dimension of awareness beyond thought and forms, that interstitial space between thought and form. Being, in other words.”
Quizzical. Quixotic.
“It’s the Christ in you. Or your inner Buddha nature. It’s there available to the one who watches his reflection in the water, it’s there when he sees he’s the one looking back at his reflection and stops believing or being only the reflection.”
“I think I get it,” I said. “When I’m aware of my ego, my wants and desires, and I’m not that, then I’m pure Being. And that is absolute truth?”
Nothing came from him. I said, “so what? What am I supposed to do with that? I’m. We. The world is created by thought, form, ego. I can’t be in La-la land of truth all day long, can I?”
The string instrument started sounding like an avenging cat, something that couldn’t, shouldn’t be called music.
He said, “tell stories, but that is all. Don’t mistake the finger pointing to the moon as the moon.”
Whatever.
Searching for Truth - E. D. James
A quiet house greeted Sai when she opened the door. Her heart had hammered in her chest at that quiet and she rushed to the back room, steeling herself for a scene she had often imagined. Bob Barker was irritating but reassuring. Without him Sai could only imagine death.
“Ma?” her query seemed to echo. She turned the corner and her fears went away, replaced by curiousity. Her mother sat hunched over the table in pool of light from the lamp.
The picture album was dusty. Black and white photos with scalloped edges clung to the pages on yellowing triangles of tape that had become brittle. Her mother’s index finger trembled slightly as she stroked the faces and mumbled to herself.
Sai gently put her hand on her mothers shoulder and leaned in to share her view, “Who are they ma?”
“This is your great, great grandfather,” pointing to a man in silk sitting in front of a large house.
“Where was this album? I’ve never seen it before.”
“This is your uncle when he was a baby.”
“What made you think of this Ma?
It took her a long time to settle her mother down to bed. The old woman alternated between grabbing Sai’s arm and pointing at a picture and telling her who it was and sitting shakily stroking faces with tears gentling rolling down her face. Sai sat beside her and spooned some rice into her mouth as best she could, wiping the grains that stuck to the sides of her lips away with a napkin. Finally her mother laid her arm down on her arm and began to drift off. Sai led her down the hallway, sat her in the chair next to her bed and helped her out of her clothes and into her nightgown. When Sai lifted the sheets, her mother slid into the bed, quickly rolled onto her side and curled into a little ball.
The trunk at the end of the bed was open, the blankets and sweaters that occupied the top spread on the floor around it. Sai peered in and saw that there was a false bottom that now lay open. She had never known it was there.
“Ms. Liu?”
“Yes?” the phone felt like it was giving Sai’s hand a jolt of electricity. Markus Wicks voice sounded so loud that she was sure her secretary could hear it outside her door.
“I believe I have some very good news for you.”
“Yes,” the world narrowed down to a point focused on the pound sign of her phone pad.
“We not only have been able to trace your daughter from the orphanage, but we have discovered that she is here in the Toronto area.”
Sai felt as if the inside of her head had expanded to the size of her office. Her face felt flushed and she wasn’t sure she would be able to take her next breath.
“Did you hear me?”
“What do you mean she is here?”
“The family that adopted her is here in Toronto.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“This has never happened to us before. Everyone is really excited.”
“What do we do now?”
“With your permission we will contact the girls family and see if they would allow you to meet her.”
“How long will that take?”
“We are going to need another ten thousand to continue the process. Once we have your check, it will only take a week or two to contact the family and arrange the paperwork that will be necessary.”
Sai could feel only the plastic of the phone in her hand. She wanted to say thanks for what he had done but she didn’t need their help anymore. She wanted to tell him to tell the girl that she loved her and was very sorry for what had happened. She said, “I will get you the check tonight.”
“Ma?” her query seemed to echo. She turned the corner and her fears went away, replaced by curiousity. Her mother sat hunched over the table in pool of light from the lamp.
The picture album was dusty. Black and white photos with scalloped edges clung to the pages on yellowing triangles of tape that had become brittle. Her mother’s index finger trembled slightly as she stroked the faces and mumbled to herself.
Sai gently put her hand on her mothers shoulder and leaned in to share her view, “Who are they ma?”
“This is your great, great grandfather,” pointing to a man in silk sitting in front of a large house.
“Where was this album? I’ve never seen it before.”
“This is your uncle when he was a baby.”
“What made you think of this Ma?
It took her a long time to settle her mother down to bed. The old woman alternated between grabbing Sai’s arm and pointing at a picture and telling her who it was and sitting shakily stroking faces with tears gentling rolling down her face. Sai sat beside her and spooned some rice into her mouth as best she could, wiping the grains that stuck to the sides of her lips away with a napkin. Finally her mother laid her arm down on her arm and began to drift off. Sai led her down the hallway, sat her in the chair next to her bed and helped her out of her clothes and into her nightgown. When Sai lifted the sheets, her mother slid into the bed, quickly rolled onto her side and curled into a little ball.
The trunk at the end of the bed was open, the blankets and sweaters that occupied the top spread on the floor around it. Sai peered in and saw that there was a false bottom that now lay open. She had never known it was there.
“Ms. Liu?”
“Yes?” the phone felt like it was giving Sai’s hand a jolt of electricity. Markus Wicks voice sounded so loud that she was sure her secretary could hear it outside her door.
“I believe I have some very good news for you.”
“Yes,” the world narrowed down to a point focused on the pound sign of her phone pad.
“We not only have been able to trace your daughter from the orphanage, but we have discovered that she is here in the Toronto area.”
Sai felt as if the inside of her head had expanded to the size of her office. Her face felt flushed and she wasn’t sure she would be able to take her next breath.
“Did you hear me?”
“What do you mean she is here?”
“The family that adopted her is here in Toronto.”
“I can’t believe that.”
“This has never happened to us before. Everyone is really excited.”
“What do we do now?”
“With your permission we will contact the girls family and see if they would allow you to meet her.”
“How long will that take?”
“We are going to need another ten thousand to continue the process. Once we have your check, it will only take a week or two to contact the family and arrange the paperwork that will be necessary.”
Sai could feel only the plastic of the phone in her hand. She wanted to say thanks for what he had done but she didn’t need their help anymore. She wanted to tell him to tell the girl that she loved her and was very sorry for what had happened. She said, “I will get you the check tonight.”
Friday, February 11, 2011
Fate - Bonnie Smetts
Marjorie always waited for Ash to get settled before she went to see him after he got home from work. She didn’t want his indifference so she had learned to wait until he’d had time to remember he was home.
She stood at the door to the sunroom where he was sipping his lemonade. The back of his head above the chair and for a moment she loved the shape, the color of his hair. For a moment she remembered she loved Ash.
“You’re standing there spying on me,” Ash said. He laughed, he could have said it with bitterness, but Marjorie heard none of that.
“Admiring you from afar.”
“Come and admire me here,” he said, turning toward her. She kissed his forehead lightly as she passed. He held her hand a moment longer than usual. She sat down in her chair next to him and they faced the view of the garden.
“What happened with you today?”
“Ah, I had lunch with Renee. I always enjoy that you know.”
“What else, I can tell there is something else.”
“The snake again.” Marjorie breathed in and out and worked to hide the anger that threatened to explode. “Why can’t they just clean the house of all the snakes. Get them all, every day if they have to.”
“You know why. They are hoping for a house with more children. One is not enough. Good luck, dear, you know they think it good luck.”
How was it her fate to have this measured husband. Who could say such a thing without feeling a violence toward their house staff? He was stern at his work.
He reached for her hand. “You know we’ve talked about another child.”
Marjorie squeezed Ash’s hand, his big warm hand that had become a stranger to her body. She held her breath two counts. “But you were the one who said we should wait.”
“Maybe the snakes are a sign.” Marjorie laughed at Ash, a man for whom signs did not exist.
She stood at the door to the sunroom where he was sipping his lemonade. The back of his head above the chair and for a moment she loved the shape, the color of his hair. For a moment she remembered she loved Ash.
“You’re standing there spying on me,” Ash said. He laughed, he could have said it with bitterness, but Marjorie heard none of that.
“Admiring you from afar.”
“Come and admire me here,” he said, turning toward her. She kissed his forehead lightly as she passed. He held her hand a moment longer than usual. She sat down in her chair next to him and they faced the view of the garden.
“What happened with you today?”
“Ah, I had lunch with Renee. I always enjoy that you know.”
“What else, I can tell there is something else.”
“The snake again.” Marjorie breathed in and out and worked to hide the anger that threatened to explode. “Why can’t they just clean the house of all the snakes. Get them all, every day if they have to.”
“You know why. They are hoping for a house with more children. One is not enough. Good luck, dear, you know they think it good luck.”
How was it her fate to have this measured husband. Who could say such a thing without feeling a violence toward their house staff? He was stern at his work.
He reached for her hand. “You know we’ve talked about another child.”
Marjorie squeezed Ash’s hand, his big warm hand that had become a stranger to her body. She held her breath two counts. “But you were the one who said we should wait.”
“Maybe the snakes are a sign.” Marjorie laughed at Ash, a man for whom signs did not exist.
Fate - Jennifer Baljko
At the market, Matthias laid his spindly fingers on Misery’s shoulder. “You have the look of your mother,” he cackled. “And, grandmother. It’s in your eyes.”
Misery turned with a start, dropping the potatoes from her basket. Her coal black eyes stared directly into the old man’s fiery eyes, shaded a tint of roasted pumpkin before changing back to a more normal blue spruce. She shivered.
Matthias tried to stroke the long locks of her hair hanging over her sweater. “It’s the same color as hers. Of all the women I knew, your grandmother was the only one who had the hue of dusk.” For a second, Matthias looked years younger as a small almost barely unnoticeable smile crept up his creased face.
Misery jumped back, both repulsed and excited. “Who are you? Do I know you? I’ve seen you before.” She knew this man held a secret, a key Misery needed to open her life. Her head told her to run. Her gut forced her stay still.
“You’ll want to know more. It’s your fate,” he hinted. “Not now. Soon. Very soon.”
Matthias pulled his coat tighter and drifted into the crowd. Misery wanted to follow him, but a flash of light blinded her view. A woman, the angelic form haunting Misery’s dreams, stood in her way. “Go home,” she ordered. Misery fainted, hitting her head on the ground before completely passing out.
Misery turned with a start, dropping the potatoes from her basket. Her coal black eyes stared directly into the old man’s fiery eyes, shaded a tint of roasted pumpkin before changing back to a more normal blue spruce. She shivered.
Matthias tried to stroke the long locks of her hair hanging over her sweater. “It’s the same color as hers. Of all the women I knew, your grandmother was the only one who had the hue of dusk.” For a second, Matthias looked years younger as a small almost barely unnoticeable smile crept up his creased face.
Misery jumped back, both repulsed and excited. “Who are you? Do I know you? I’ve seen you before.” She knew this man held a secret, a key Misery needed to open her life. Her head told her to run. Her gut forced her stay still.
“You’ll want to know more. It’s your fate,” he hinted. “Not now. Soon. Very soon.”
Matthias pulled his coat tighter and drifted into the crowd. Misery wanted to follow him, but a flash of light blinded her view. A woman, the angelic form haunting Misery’s dreams, stood in her way. “Go home,” she ordered. Misery fainted, hitting her head on the ground before completely passing out.
Fated - Maria Robinson
Miriam:
Just fated, I guess.
Away from a home that's no longer by home.
Gone from children that no cannot really know me.
Departed from a husband who loved me but never knew me.
I'm alone yet smothered with relationships..
I'm solitary yet tangled with connections.
All I really want to do is walk the beach here in Israel and reflect back on my fifty years in New York.
Stone after stone. Footprint after footprint.
Just fated, I guess.
Away from a home that's no longer by home.
Gone from children that no cannot really know me.
Departed from a husband who loved me but never knew me.
I'm alone yet smothered with relationships..
I'm solitary yet tangled with connections.
All I really want to do is walk the beach here in Israel and reflect back on my fifty years in New York.
Stone after stone. Footprint after footprint.
Shadows - Kate Bueler
Shadows. The shadows grow from the ground, the pavement, the grass into full formed features growing into a person. I look and see. Quickly. Take my diagnosis in and keep walking. Walking. Away. Down. The street. Home. But sometimes its hard to shake the shadows of my neighbors of my friends. The shadows of people and the what they might do. What they are doing. Makes me want to turn off the film reel in my head. It makes me want to stop seeing. Because once I see. I can't help but think. Think about that shadow of that person. The darkness. The sadness. In what could be.
The other day. I had a day at school. A day full of running up stairs and meeting of kids and learning things I would rather not and keep going up down the stairs across the hall and the listening and supporter of dreaming and planning and shaking of hands and hellos along the way. Hi Ms. B. So as I leave my day. I need some quiet. Some solitude. A pause from the reality that is. And sometimes I get. At a cafe. With a trashy mag and sun beats on my face. Or walking. Walking to the next thing. The world somehow looks different and so am I. In pausing. I see tv slowly around me as I walk into it more real than reality tv or a sitcom crafted. And I don't long to speak to anyone. Which is for me the rarity of all rarities.
As I picked up K from school. From guitar. Excitement to see his face still dosed in exhaustion of giving to others. We walk down the street. Home. To get the car. And I glance ahead and to the left to take in the scene. What me and K with his new glasses and guitar upon his back might be walking into. I see a group of man on the corner. Typical for my hood. And as I glance to my left. I see a shadow. A shadow of a man. A glimpse of a family. The woman seems upset and is lifting her child up the stairs who still resides in a stroller. She is speaking to her husband or boyfriend. Some reassurance. I look to this shadow of a man. And he has a knife open. Open in his right hand. He is upset. I look once and twice. And his shadow is growing. Growing on his porch with his family. In front of his house. My face might not have stayed street. I tried not to look shocked that on a Tuesday afternoon most people hang with their fam with a knife open. All I know is get out of here fast. For K is attached to my arm.
So we walk hard around the corner. He didn't see the shadow. But I did. I exhale once we turn the corner. Open the car. K runs to the car. I get in. And sit there. I didn't want to see what I just saw. I never what to see it. The shadow of a person's potential haunts me. I close my eyes. Breath from the bottom of my legs. And turn the ignition. And keep going. Going home.
The other day. I had a day at school. A day full of running up stairs and meeting of kids and learning things I would rather not and keep going up down the stairs across the hall and the listening and supporter of dreaming and planning and shaking of hands and hellos along the way. Hi Ms. B. So as I leave my day. I need some quiet. Some solitude. A pause from the reality that is. And sometimes I get. At a cafe. With a trashy mag and sun beats on my face. Or walking. Walking to the next thing. The world somehow looks different and so am I. In pausing. I see tv slowly around me as I walk into it more real than reality tv or a sitcom crafted. And I don't long to speak to anyone. Which is for me the rarity of all rarities.
As I picked up K from school. From guitar. Excitement to see his face still dosed in exhaustion of giving to others. We walk down the street. Home. To get the car. And I glance ahead and to the left to take in the scene. What me and K with his new glasses and guitar upon his back might be walking into. I see a group of man on the corner. Typical for my hood. And as I glance to my left. I see a shadow. A shadow of a man. A glimpse of a family. The woman seems upset and is lifting her child up the stairs who still resides in a stroller. She is speaking to her husband or boyfriend. Some reassurance. I look to this shadow of a man. And he has a knife open. Open in his right hand. He is upset. I look once and twice. And his shadow is growing. Growing on his porch with his family. In front of his house. My face might not have stayed street. I tried not to look shocked that on a Tuesday afternoon most people hang with their fam with a knife open. All I know is get out of here fast. For K is attached to my arm.
So we walk hard around the corner. He didn't see the shadow. But I did. I exhale once we turn the corner. Open the car. K runs to the car. I get in. And sit there. I didn't want to see what I just saw. I never what to see it. The shadow of a person's potential haunts me. I close my eyes. Breath from the bottom of my legs. And turn the ignition. And keep going. Going home.
Shadows & Fate - Melody Cryns
If you look beyond the shadows on Second Avenue in San Francisco, you can see and hear all the kids playing in the neighborhood, the special screech we’d made to one another to signal that we were outside and ready to play. Was it fate that brought us all together, or was it just coincidence?
The last time I walked through the old neighborhood, all the buildings looked the same, the various old flats and apartment buildings crammed in with old houses – the flats built in the early 1900’s. I knew every nook and cranny on Second Avenue and on Hugo Street around the corner, Lincoln Way. I can still remember them to this day. Now huge trees shade Second Avenue, tall trees with branches stretching out, casting more shadows on the street.
I still remember when we helped to plant those trees, around 1967 or 1968. It had to do with some ecological beautifying project. Second Avenue had wide sidewalks but no trees. But we kids loved the wide sidewalks which gave us loads of room to play, especially when we were riding bikes, skateboards, scooters, whatever set of wheels we could come up with.
We already knew about planting seeds because the crazy scientist who lived downstairs from us in the garden apartment, Mr. Fentley, with the wild hair and beard that jutted out, had showed us how to plant our own gardens. Mr. Fentley had introduced us to the world of nature. He took us kids out in the backyard and showed us various types of bugs, including a spittle bug that would literally live in its own spit on tiny leaves. He told us the names of all the insects in the yard – and one time even had a sheep skull back there to attract fly larvae. Mr. Fentley was wonderful to all of us kids who loved him.
Then we each staked out a tiny plot of land in the backyard, and Mr. Fentley gave us sunflower seeds to plant. There were six plots, one for me and my brother Michael and sister Jennifer, one for David and his brother Barry around the corner and one for Ricky Solis, one of the Solis boys who lived up the street. Every day we’d excitedly run out into the yard to see if our seeds had sprouted, and sure enough they did – starting off about an inch tall and growing and growing into these huge sunflowers that were even taller than us! The huge yellow flowers were so beautiful, I remember thinking, since yellow was always my favorite color. I remember harvesting sunflower seeds and feeding them to my guinea pig who loved them of course.
So now these hippies wanted to plant trees on our street, okay. They had drills because they’d have to drill into designated squares in the cement and create large holes to plant the trees in. There was a big truck filled with dirt – good dirt so the trees will grow one hippie dude told us kids.
We weren’t sure what to think as we watched them get started on a project that would forever change Second Avenue, we decided we’d take these dudes up on helping them out. They’d asked us after all. We figured it’s going to happen anyway, why not be a part of this endeavor. So, all of us were there, me, my brother and sister, David and Barry, and at least a couple of the Solis boys. We didn’t get to use the huge drills that were so loud they rattled our brains, but we got to help throw dirt into the huge gaping holes with shovels and that was fun. I remember peering down one of the holes thinking, wow! And this is right on our street – wonder where that hole leads to.
Then another truck showed up with the trees that were wrapped with burlap or something at the bottom, not sure what, and the fun part was holding up the tree and slowly getting it into the hole they created, and then getting the tree in deep enough with the dirt.
It was an all-day process getting all those trees in on Second Avenue, as we all planted lots of trees. At the end of the day, all of us kids were so proud to see all those small trees, not quite as tall as we were. There was still plenty of room on the wide sidewalks, and they actually looked pretty cool. Our hands were dirty and our ears were ringing from all that drilling into the cement, but it was all in a day’s work.
We played in and among those little trees and watched them grow just a little before we all grew up and parted ways to live our lives.
So now when I go back to the old neighborhood and see those tall majestic trees lining Second Avenue, casting so many shadows and shades, and swaying in the afternoon breeze, that’s what I think of. Among the shadows of those trees lives a whole group of kids who once played on that street – and the memories will always remain.
The last time I walked through the old neighborhood, all the buildings looked the same, the various old flats and apartment buildings crammed in with old houses – the flats built in the early 1900’s. I knew every nook and cranny on Second Avenue and on Hugo Street around the corner, Lincoln Way. I can still remember them to this day. Now huge trees shade Second Avenue, tall trees with branches stretching out, casting more shadows on the street.
I still remember when we helped to plant those trees, around 1967 or 1968. It had to do with some ecological beautifying project. Second Avenue had wide sidewalks but no trees. But we kids loved the wide sidewalks which gave us loads of room to play, especially when we were riding bikes, skateboards, scooters, whatever set of wheels we could come up with.
We already knew about planting seeds because the crazy scientist who lived downstairs from us in the garden apartment, Mr. Fentley, with the wild hair and beard that jutted out, had showed us how to plant our own gardens. Mr. Fentley had introduced us to the world of nature. He took us kids out in the backyard and showed us various types of bugs, including a spittle bug that would literally live in its own spit on tiny leaves. He told us the names of all the insects in the yard – and one time even had a sheep skull back there to attract fly larvae. Mr. Fentley was wonderful to all of us kids who loved him.
Then we each staked out a tiny plot of land in the backyard, and Mr. Fentley gave us sunflower seeds to plant. There were six plots, one for me and my brother Michael and sister Jennifer, one for David and his brother Barry around the corner and one for Ricky Solis, one of the Solis boys who lived up the street. Every day we’d excitedly run out into the yard to see if our seeds had sprouted, and sure enough they did – starting off about an inch tall and growing and growing into these huge sunflowers that were even taller than us! The huge yellow flowers were so beautiful, I remember thinking, since yellow was always my favorite color. I remember harvesting sunflower seeds and feeding them to my guinea pig who loved them of course.
So now these hippies wanted to plant trees on our street, okay. They had drills because they’d have to drill into designated squares in the cement and create large holes to plant the trees in. There was a big truck filled with dirt – good dirt so the trees will grow one hippie dude told us kids.
We weren’t sure what to think as we watched them get started on a project that would forever change Second Avenue, we decided we’d take these dudes up on helping them out. They’d asked us after all. We figured it’s going to happen anyway, why not be a part of this endeavor. So, all of us were there, me, my brother and sister, David and Barry, and at least a couple of the Solis boys. We didn’t get to use the huge drills that were so loud they rattled our brains, but we got to help throw dirt into the huge gaping holes with shovels and that was fun. I remember peering down one of the holes thinking, wow! And this is right on our street – wonder where that hole leads to.
Then another truck showed up with the trees that were wrapped with burlap or something at the bottom, not sure what, and the fun part was holding up the tree and slowly getting it into the hole they created, and then getting the tree in deep enough with the dirt.
It was an all-day process getting all those trees in on Second Avenue, as we all planted lots of trees. At the end of the day, all of us kids were so proud to see all those small trees, not quite as tall as we were. There was still plenty of room on the wide sidewalks, and they actually looked pretty cool. Our hands were dirty and our ears were ringing from all that drilling into the cement, but it was all in a day’s work.
We played in and among those little trees and watched them grow just a little before we all grew up and parted ways to live our lives.
So now when I go back to the old neighborhood and see those tall majestic trees lining Second Avenue, casting so many shadows and shades, and swaying in the afternoon breeze, that’s what I think of. Among the shadows of those trees lives a whole group of kids who once played on that street – and the memories will always remain.
Home Sweet Home - Judy Albietz
We moved into that house when I was seven years old. I know that for sure since my dad let me write my name in the wet concrete poured that morning for a walkway in the small back yard. I also pressed my handprint down for eternity. Before the furniture arrived that afternoon, my new room had nothing in it but a white shag carpet. That was fine with me and I lined up my books and toys down the middle of the room. Then I went downstairs to inspect the new kitchen. My parents were really proud of the pink Kitchen Aid dishwasher. My dad was really into gadgets. He also had an alarm clock with a woman’s voice announcing the time when you pushed a button.
While the furniture was being moved in, I kept Penny, our West Highland Terrier puppy, on a leash. She was really my dog but I let my parents say she was a family dog. I was the one who fed her, took her on walks, and gave her baths and haircuts. There was a big wide staircase covered with carpet. I held Penny on my lap as I rode on a piece of cardboard—sliding down those stairs—until we got caught.
After we were settled in the house, my mom let me pick out wallpaper for my room. I picked blue flowers. I was at school the day the guy came to put up the wallpaper. As my mom explained later, the wallpaper guy hung the right pattern but the wrong color. The flowers were orange. I was so angry I cried. My mom made a deal with me. She said that if I still hated the orange flowers after one week, she would let me paint them out. As far as I know, after all these years, they are still there on the wall.
While the furniture was being moved in, I kept Penny, our West Highland Terrier puppy, on a leash. She was really my dog but I let my parents say she was a family dog. I was the one who fed her, took her on walks, and gave her baths and haircuts. There was a big wide staircase covered with carpet. I held Penny on my lap as I rode on a piece of cardboard—sliding down those stairs—until we got caught.
After we were settled in the house, my mom let me pick out wallpaper for my room. I picked blue flowers. I was at school the day the guy came to put up the wallpaper. As my mom explained later, the wallpaper guy hung the right pattern but the wrong color. The flowers were orange. I was so angry I cried. My mom made a deal with me. She said that if I still hated the orange flowers after one week, she would let me paint them out. As far as I know, after all these years, they are still there on the wall.
Home Sweet Home - Kent Wright
X- was doing well. Half of a trendy, socially alert shop in a neighborhood that was molting rapidly out of its blue-collar hibernation belonged to him. Before that he worked as an object in advertising because people couldn’t resist the planes of his face and the lean muscle of his body. I was just getting to know him. He was there for dinner at my place for the first time. More than the visual pleasure of sitting opposite him, which could not honestly be ignored, X- had a quiet, soft, manner that was particularly disarming. It was actually surprising. Many people born with beauty turn it into a weapon that pummels others into an uneasy sense of inferiority. I overheard on a park bench one afternoon sometime after my dinner with X- one beauty relate to another of similar quality how it has been necessary to bluntly tell a slobbery admirer the previous evening that “charity fucks” was not something he offered. As I said X- had none of that attitude about him. If anything he tipped the scale at the other end. He did use more frequently than I liked my least favorite popular expression “It’s all good”.
Towards the end of dinner and with the wine bottle still half full the conversation left the city where we were both living at the time and traveled in the direction of childhoods. Mine, I offered, involved a small, rural community that I was happy to escape. I gave a couple of examples of my life there that usually entertained and gained points at the same time. “And where was Home Sweet Home for X-,” I asked.
“St Louis,” was his brief reply. He seemed to quiet into himself a bit. I lumbered on, however, asking if his family was still back there ignoring, not catching the cloud that had passed over the clear blue eyes.
He took a quick, small breath. “I don’t know where they are,” he said. “I haven’t seen them since I was twelve.” Being a child from a family that unless death had intervened were still present and reachable in any number of ways I was shocked. A grinding crash on a country road, or a flood, or maybe a tornado all popped into my mind as possible explanations. “No,” he said flatly. “They are probably still alive, but I don’t know where. They left when I was twelve.”
“Left!?”
“Yes”
“They left without you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. He was 38 years old and that was not the first time he was remembering that afternoon. He had come from school and walked up the street from where the bus had let him off. When he got to his house, there was a note scotch-taped to the middle of the door, which was partly open.
The note began ‘X-‘. There was no ‘dear’ to soften what came next. “We realize that you have the sin of the homosexual on you and the Lord has told us take your brother and sister and flee this pestilence.” That is all it said. There was no indication of where they had gone. Inside were empty rooms with only the impersonal scraps of paper and the dirt that outlined where the sofa had sat. Everything else has been removed.
Towards the end of dinner and with the wine bottle still half full the conversation left the city where we were both living at the time and traveled in the direction of childhoods. Mine, I offered, involved a small, rural community that I was happy to escape. I gave a couple of examples of my life there that usually entertained and gained points at the same time. “And where was Home Sweet Home for X-,” I asked.
“St Louis,” was his brief reply. He seemed to quiet into himself a bit. I lumbered on, however, asking if his family was still back there ignoring, not catching the cloud that had passed over the clear blue eyes.
He took a quick, small breath. “I don’t know where they are,” he said. “I haven’t seen them since I was twelve.” Being a child from a family that unless death had intervened were still present and reachable in any number of ways I was shocked. A grinding crash on a country road, or a flood, or maybe a tornado all popped into my mind as possible explanations. “No,” he said flatly. “They are probably still alive, but I don’t know where. They left when I was twelve.”
“Left!?”
“Yes”
“They left without you?”
“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate. He was 38 years old and that was not the first time he was remembering that afternoon. He had come from school and walked up the street from where the bus had let him off. When he got to his house, there was a note scotch-taped to the middle of the door, which was partly open.
The note began ‘X-‘. There was no ‘dear’ to soften what came next. “We realize that you have the sin of the homosexual on you and the Lord has told us take your brother and sister and flee this pestilence.” That is all it said. There was no indication of where they had gone. Inside were empty rooms with only the impersonal scraps of paper and the dirt that outlined where the sofa had sat. Everything else has been removed.
Friday, February 4, 2011
The Week of January 24 - E. D. James
The bird did not bring an immediate conclusion to her search. Sai scanned the faces on the streetcars and in the streets with renewed intensity for a few days after that morning omen. She went home each night and worked with the face morphing software she’d purchased the year before to try and take the picture from the locket and use it to help her recognize the young woman that baby would have become. She used pictures of herself to meld with that of the baby. She had no pictures of the father. An older boy who had promised to protect her. They loved one another but were torn apart by the tumult of the times and her family’s escape. The software image never quite matched the picture she carried in her head of her daughter’s face.
The cellphone buzzing on her desk startled her. She looked up from the documents she was working on and looked out her window to see if any one in the office noticed as she hurriedly reached to pick it up.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Liu?”
“Yes, who is this? How did you get this number?”
“You submitted it when you queried our website. My name is Markus Wick. I’m with the Chinese birth family association.”
“Do you have some information for me?”
“I believe that we can help you in your search.”
“Do you have records from the orphanages in Shanhai?”
“We do. I would like to meet with you to discuss how we can move the process forward. Would you have time this evening?”
“What time?”
“Say eight o’clock? I can come to your house.”
The man sitting in front of her did not fit Sai’s image of what a person working to trace Chinese orphans would look like. He was young, for one thing, in his early thirties. His hair was big and looked like he used something to hold it in place. His glasses were distracting, obviously expensive, the metal rims with a tortise shell cover. His business card and the information regarding his company were printed in a businesslike fashion. He leaned forward as he spoke and handed her piece of paper.
“We have found this record of a girl given up for adoption on fifteen September nineteen ninety five.”
The page felt heavy in Sai’s hands. Her fingertips and palms were moist and seemed to stick to the paper. The words swam in front of her eyes for a moment. She saw her own name and that of her father.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“Not yet. But we can trace her from this record.”
“Have you had business with this orphanage before?”
“We have had good luck with similar institutions.”
“What is the next step?”
“We will need a deposit of ten thousand dollars to begin the work. If we establish a connection we will have to travel to Shanghai to meet at the orphanage. We will need additional funds at that time for expenses.”
Sai looked the man in the eyes, “Do you have an agreement you would like me to sign?”
He picked up the portfolio from the couch beside him, “This will spell out all the terms of the engagement.” He pulled the first three pages back and folded them over, “You just need to sign here.”
Sai took the pages and folded them back to the beginning, “I am going to need to review this, then we can meet again to finalize the engagement.”
As she sat that night in front of the altar Sai couldn’t keep her mind from racing. She felt guilty for not just signing the contract and writing the check. She wondered if the instinct that had made her suspect the man was true.
The cellphone buzzing on her desk startled her. She looked up from the documents she was working on and looked out her window to see if any one in the office noticed as she hurriedly reached to pick it up.
“Hello.”
“Ms. Liu?”
“Yes, who is this? How did you get this number?”
“You submitted it when you queried our website. My name is Markus Wick. I’m with the Chinese birth family association.”
“Do you have some information for me?”
“I believe that we can help you in your search.”
“Do you have records from the orphanages in Shanhai?”
“We do. I would like to meet with you to discuss how we can move the process forward. Would you have time this evening?”
“What time?”
“Say eight o’clock? I can come to your house.”
The man sitting in front of her did not fit Sai’s image of what a person working to trace Chinese orphans would look like. He was young, for one thing, in his early thirties. His hair was big and looked like he used something to hold it in place. His glasses were distracting, obviously expensive, the metal rims with a tortise shell cover. His business card and the information regarding his company were printed in a businesslike fashion. He leaned forward as he spoke and handed her piece of paper.
“We have found this record of a girl given up for adoption on fifteen September nineteen ninety five.”
The page felt heavy in Sai’s hands. Her fingertips and palms were moist and seemed to stick to the paper. The words swam in front of her eyes for a moment. She saw her own name and that of her father.
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“Not yet. But we can trace her from this record.”
“Have you had business with this orphanage before?”
“We have had good luck with similar institutions.”
“What is the next step?”
“We will need a deposit of ten thousand dollars to begin the work. If we establish a connection we will have to travel to Shanghai to meet at the orphanage. We will need additional funds at that time for expenses.”
Sai looked the man in the eyes, “Do you have an agreement you would like me to sign?”
He picked up the portfolio from the couch beside him, “This will spell out all the terms of the engagement.” He pulled the first three pages back and folded them over, “You just need to sign here.”
Sai took the pages and folded them back to the beginning, “I am going to need to review this, then we can meet again to finalize the engagement.”
As she sat that night in front of the altar Sai couldn’t keep her mind from racing. She felt guilty for not just signing the contract and writing the check. She wondered if the instinct that had made her suspect the man was true.
It Was a Crime - Francisco Mora
My brother-in-law was talking to me more than ever before. Maybe it was the freedom of the space. I don’t know. The Helena Montana airport is one big warm room: high ceilings, walls paneled by wood logs, and hanging all around are heads of large elk and moose. I don’t think so.
But in the twelve years I’ve known him, we finally connected. Differing opinions on different sides of the religio-political spectrum had kept us at a cold distance. As my partner and I waited for our plane to be de-iced, he talked nonstop for about an hour, telling us about a mysterious neurological condition that defied explanation and the best diagnosticians.
Something similar had befallen me. And though we had compared notes on medication combinations and treatment modalities, it had never been more than a few minutes. This blow-by-blow account of his harrowing condition was riveting. Because right there, in the Montana airport he just talked and talked, like he was my best war buddy.
The announcer let us know it would still be half an hour to finish de-icing the plane and boarding. Dad, who was also with us, was eager to get going. It was unusual for him to wait around for us when they took us to the airport. Typically we said goodbye after checking in and went right through security. And usually it was dad and mom who dropped us off, but the brother-in-law volunteered.
We all stood up to go. This was my last chance.
“I got a quick question,” I said. “I’m trying to create real drama in something I’m writing. It’s a medical thriller involving stem cells.” I was a little concerned about asking about this. “Remember, it’s a melodrama.”
I asked my brother-in-law what would he do if he had a choice to save his son’s life using stem cells from an embryo.
“To create life to save life?”
“Yep.”
He didn’t think about it, it was automatic. He said, “I would probably let him die.”
“Your own son?”
“Yeah.” He looked me through his eyeglasses with the same charm and connectedness we were sharing earlier. I asked if his wife would feel the same way. He couldn’t say for sure, but he said that she would probably say it was a crime to harvest an embryo.
We were about to start walking toward security. He said, “that would be high drama.”
“Thrilleresque.”
But in the twelve years I’ve known him, we finally connected. Differing opinions on different sides of the religio-political spectrum had kept us at a cold distance. As my partner and I waited for our plane to be de-iced, he talked nonstop for about an hour, telling us about a mysterious neurological condition that defied explanation and the best diagnosticians.
Something similar had befallen me. And though we had compared notes on medication combinations and treatment modalities, it had never been more than a few minutes. This blow-by-blow account of his harrowing condition was riveting. Because right there, in the Montana airport he just talked and talked, like he was my best war buddy.
The announcer let us know it would still be half an hour to finish de-icing the plane and boarding. Dad, who was also with us, was eager to get going. It was unusual for him to wait around for us when they took us to the airport. Typically we said goodbye after checking in and went right through security. And usually it was dad and mom who dropped us off, but the brother-in-law volunteered.
We all stood up to go. This was my last chance.
“I got a quick question,” I said. “I’m trying to create real drama in something I’m writing. It’s a medical thriller involving stem cells.” I was a little concerned about asking about this. “Remember, it’s a melodrama.”
I asked my brother-in-law what would he do if he had a choice to save his son’s life using stem cells from an embryo.
“To create life to save life?”
“Yep.”
He didn’t think about it, it was automatic. He said, “I would probably let him die.”
“Your own son?”
“Yeah.” He looked me through his eyeglasses with the same charm and connectedness we were sharing earlier. I asked if his wife would feel the same way. He couldn’t say for sure, but he said that she would probably say it was a crime to harvest an embryo.
We were about to start walking toward security. He said, “that would be high drama.”
“Thrilleresque.”
It Was a Crime - Jennifer Baljko
Oriol knew he hadn't committed a crime. But, he couldn't shake the feeling that he must have done something terribly wrong in this life or his past one to have such inconsolable suffering and a sentence meant to punish the rest of his living days.
In all his 16 years as a train conductor, he had never see anything like it. All those young kids crossing the tracks at the same time. Sure, every once in a while a car would rush across just seconds before the barriers would touch down. Never, though, anything like that balmy June night. The images flickered in his memory. Flashes of girls, their hair tied back, in white skirts, guys in t-shirts. Screams suspended in frozen silence, trapped in the icy depths of his mind.
He sat on the cold tiles for a long while. He watched the sunlight play on the floor, coaxing him to get up, to dance, to live again.
Oriol hoisted himself unto the toilet seat. He swallowed hard, pretending he didn't notice the bile-tasting spit that most other days would have made him vomit. He had to get ready, put on his best suit, put on his best face. The lawyers, investigators, transport officials, insurance claims officers. They still had lots of questions for him. Oriol would sit there, again, for hours, answering yes or no to the same questions. Months later, pieces still didn't fit, they said. He didn't know what to tell them any more. He had already lived this night over more times than he cared to count.
"Rosa, can you bring me my white shirt, and the blue tie," Oriol shouted from the doorway towards the bedroom.
"I thought you wanted to wear the red one today. Didn't you wear the blue tie last week when you met the human resources team?" Rosa called back, her voice muffled from the closet.
Oriol couldn't care less which tie he wore. He only owned three of them, and everyone involved in the case had seen him in all of them already. All this fancy dressing. All this frigid politeness. Oriol just wanted to go watch the sunset at the beach and find the peace of mind his doctors kept promising him would come as time healed his guilt-riddled heart.
In all his 16 years as a train conductor, he had never see anything like it. All those young kids crossing the tracks at the same time. Sure, every once in a while a car would rush across just seconds before the barriers would touch down. Never, though, anything like that balmy June night. The images flickered in his memory. Flashes of girls, their hair tied back, in white skirts, guys in t-shirts. Screams suspended in frozen silence, trapped in the icy depths of his mind.
He sat on the cold tiles for a long while. He watched the sunlight play on the floor, coaxing him to get up, to dance, to live again.
Oriol hoisted himself unto the toilet seat. He swallowed hard, pretending he didn't notice the bile-tasting spit that most other days would have made him vomit. He had to get ready, put on his best suit, put on his best face. The lawyers, investigators, transport officials, insurance claims officers. They still had lots of questions for him. Oriol would sit there, again, for hours, answering yes or no to the same questions. Months later, pieces still didn't fit, they said. He didn't know what to tell them any more. He had already lived this night over more times than he cared to count.
"Rosa, can you bring me my white shirt, and the blue tie," Oriol shouted from the doorway towards the bedroom.
"I thought you wanted to wear the red one today. Didn't you wear the blue tie last week when you met the human resources team?" Rosa called back, her voice muffled from the closet.
Oriol couldn't care less which tie he wore. He only owned three of them, and everyone involved in the case had seen him in all of them already. All this fancy dressing. All this frigid politeness. Oriol just wanted to go watch the sunset at the beach and find the peace of mind his doctors kept promising him would come as time healed his guilt-riddled heart.
It Was a Crime - Kate Bueler
It was not a crime to walk way from him at the corner of Guerrero and 16th right before the strike of new day. He sat there- more like stood there-with his appropriate uniform of bartender-but he was off tonight- the tattoos that clung and danced up his arm kept company by his tightish button down plaid shirt sleeves traveling up his arm. His ears had spaces growing for what I could never figure out- it just looks so very painful. Metal circles pushed the space between his ears to what he has created. Talking non-stop, talking from the happenstance of standing next to him at the bar. At the bar earlier in the evening. It isn't a crime to talk to someone at a bar, of course not. Its the common ground church of the 20 and 30 somethings. The rotary club of our generation. The school of life. Where we put on our best dress-sometimes- and stand together as we befriend each other sprayed in our choices of denial, or release or freedom or poison or just the need to play some trivia on a Tuesday night. The light of a bar the next day always awakens the reality of what happened there in the dark could never with the lights falling down with the sun shining in.
Not a crime to speak to someone I didn't know. For I always do. Its one of my favorite pastime other than making out. Its half the eating up of time and space. But the other half is sometimes a conversation breaths air into my lungs. As soon as this man began talking I knew something was wrong with him. I just didn't know what. See I spent the last 10 hours figuring out what was wrong with others. At my jobs. I didn't want to figure this guy out. This reader of problems and hopes and dreams even deserves a night off. His language quick and fast sprinter like but there was not end to the 100 meter dash. Just going again and again the energizer bunny of linguistics. He reminded me of myself upon too many coffee cups swigged down my throat. A Carl Lewis of sorts. But the finish line forgotten. I begin to look around the room. For my friends at the bar.
It was not a crime to have him join our trivia team. Our group small against the other big. He was a good team player. Sometimes. In and out. Outside. For a smoke. And back. To the bathroom. And back. The quick fire quick and the movements of the hands jerky. It is not a crime to see a man falling into pieces in front of you on a Tuesday night. But it might have been a crime for me to do something. To try and pick him up and super glue- I think I got some in my back pocket- and say how can I help you. He fell apart little by little I watched as he fell to the sticky bar ground. Just watching. So when his word of me and my beauty. Came. And his love for my last name. Everyone does love it. His desire to find a woman who bears the strength to keep her name. My beauty. He was a lapsed Catholic. You can't leave- we need more drinks. High five, we won. You are so beautiful. I would love to kiss you or have sex with you. You aren’t leaving. You say you will come back. I want to leave with you. Are you hungry?
He trails behind me as I exit from the wooden picture of the city corner canvas. Walking through. Don't leave your friend, I say. Don't worry she won't leave. She owes me a bag of coke. Do you guys want some? I got to give it to a guy who would share in the world of the drug of choice of secrecy. I decline and say I am trying to quit- the standard line for these type of situations even if the truth is my nose does not travel across white lines. It wasn't a crime to walk away from him on that street corner still talking and swaying and moving and begging and falling and complimenting- it would have been a crime to do any more.
Not a crime to speak to someone I didn't know. For I always do. Its one of my favorite pastime other than making out. Its half the eating up of time and space. But the other half is sometimes a conversation breaths air into my lungs. As soon as this man began talking I knew something was wrong with him. I just didn't know what. See I spent the last 10 hours figuring out what was wrong with others. At my jobs. I didn't want to figure this guy out. This reader of problems and hopes and dreams even deserves a night off. His language quick and fast sprinter like but there was not end to the 100 meter dash. Just going again and again the energizer bunny of linguistics. He reminded me of myself upon too many coffee cups swigged down my throat. A Carl Lewis of sorts. But the finish line forgotten. I begin to look around the room. For my friends at the bar.
It was not a crime to have him join our trivia team. Our group small against the other big. He was a good team player. Sometimes. In and out. Outside. For a smoke. And back. To the bathroom. And back. The quick fire quick and the movements of the hands jerky. It is not a crime to see a man falling into pieces in front of you on a Tuesday night. But it might have been a crime for me to do something. To try and pick him up and super glue- I think I got some in my back pocket- and say how can I help you. He fell apart little by little I watched as he fell to the sticky bar ground. Just watching. So when his word of me and my beauty. Came. And his love for my last name. Everyone does love it. His desire to find a woman who bears the strength to keep her name. My beauty. He was a lapsed Catholic. You can't leave- we need more drinks. High five, we won. You are so beautiful. I would love to kiss you or have sex with you. You aren’t leaving. You say you will come back. I want to leave with you. Are you hungry?
He trails behind me as I exit from the wooden picture of the city corner canvas. Walking through. Don't leave your friend, I say. Don't worry she won't leave. She owes me a bag of coke. Do you guys want some? I got to give it to a guy who would share in the world of the drug of choice of secrecy. I decline and say I am trying to quit- the standard line for these type of situations even if the truth is my nose does not travel across white lines. It wasn't a crime to walk away from him on that street corner still talking and swaying and moving and begging and falling and complimenting- it would have been a crime to do any more.
Getting Lost - Judy Albietz
The roach-like creature stopped its advance toward Josh at about two feet away. Then it attached its suction-cup feet to the smooth wall. At this distance its tiny glowing eyes looked like laser lights. With his hands and feet tied, all Josh could do to move away from the creature was to scoot along the basement floor. But he couldn’t go very far. Through the dull grayness around him, he saw he was surrounded on all sides by smooth walls that made up a space just large enough for him to lie down in. The black ceiling overhead was pretty high up, probably twenty feet. Josh leaned his cheek against the wall and felt the dead cold of concrete. There was no warmth in the air either. But strangely he didn’t feeling chilled. He wasn’t hungry or thirsty either. His head ached with a dull thudding. He had no idea how many minutes or hours had passed since he’d been put there. Who did this to him?
Keeping his eyes on the creature, Josh bent over and threw his weight forward to stand up. The creature moved with him, but didn’t get any closer. Josh could see that the upper part of the walls were covered with some sort of silvery metal. He heard a faint mechanical whirring sound. Where was he?
Keeping his eyes on the creature, Josh bent over and threw his weight forward to stand up. The creature moved with him, but didn’t get any closer. Josh could see that the upper part of the walls were covered with some sort of silvery metal. He heard a faint mechanical whirring sound. Where was he?
Getting Lost - Melody Cryns
It was one of those cool, summer days in San Francisco – I was around 11 or 12, can’t remember which, so it had to be around 1968 or 1969. I still remember that day as clearly as if it was yesterday, when me and David Hirrell set out on an adventure at Sutro Forest, the forest of eucalyptus trees that rises up above the massive UC Hospital right up the street from where I grew up.
For some reason, it was just me and David that day – he could be the meanest kid in the neighborhood, but sometimes he could be the nicest. He stood almost a head taller than me with his sandy blonde hair and dark eyes offset in his chubby face. Sometimes he made me so mad and he was mean to me, and I was mean to him too. But today we were having one of our nice days.
I still remember walking close to David, our bodies touching many times – but neither of us doing anything about it. It was probably the first time in my life I felt that weird connection with someone that was more than just friends, just a tiny glimpse, though.
I don’t know where the rest of the gang was that day, the Solis boys, my brother and sister or even David’s little brother Barry. I just remember it was me and David – and we decided to take off on this journey hiking up at Sutro Forest on rugged trails, sometimes right along sides of perilous cliffs on the hillside. I had picked up a stick and used it to crash through vines and as a walking stick of sorts.
As David continued onward, both of us suddenly realized that we might be lost.
“Where the heck are we?” I said to David.
“I dunno!” David shrugged. He didn’t even seem to mind that we were lost.
So we continued to walk onwards, our bodies touching from time-to-time, our sweaty hands almost clasping but not quite – here I was with the biggest, meanest kid in the neighborhood. These were tender moments. I knew it, but I dare not say anything about it as we trudged onwards because it might break the magic spell we seemed to be under that neither of us could explain.
Suddenly when we were really, super lost in the middle of Sutro Forest, high above the rest of the world, the north part of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge stretched below us beyond UC Hospital, David stopped. He pulled out a scout knife and made his way to a eucalyptus tree close by.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he began to carve on the tree.
“You’ll see. But hear me now,” David said all dramatic and everything.
“Yes?” I tried to keep from laughing.
David didn’t say anything for a few moments. I could hear birds chirping, but all the sounds of the city were far away and muffled here in this forest that we were lost in. I wondered if we’d be able to find our way out or if we were destined to wander these trails until dark. What would be do? Camp in the forest? Would anyone be able to find us?
“Okay, there! But you’ve gotta promise, you’ve gotta swear!” David said, moving away from the tree, “Before you see this.”
“Before I see what?” I tried to peek around David, but his massive body stood in the way.
“You’ve gotta promise never to tell anyone about this – swear to secrecy.”
“Okay, okay,” I laughed.
“No, for real.” David sounded all serious. He used his bossy voice even. It’s the first time I’d heard that voice all day.
“Okay, all right.” I crossed my heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die, poke a needle in my eye!”
David seemed satisfied with this, so he moved aside so I could see what he’d carved into the tree.
He had carved a huge heart on the tree, and the in the middle of the heart were the distinct words, “David & Mary were here.”
I didn’t know what to say. I knew that was special, that it somehow meant something and I understood why David swore me to secrecy. “Whooooo!”
David looked right into my eyes and I looked back into his. “This is just between you and me, okay?”
“Yes, I understand,” I said.
Then David actually grabbed my hand and pulled me along, “C’mon, let’s keep goin’!” He said. I held on to David’s hand for as long as I could. It felt warm and inviting even though we were both sweaty. The other time David had grabbed my hand was that day we went to the beach and I almost got swept out to sea by this huge wave – our mothers had warned us about the undertow at the beach, but had we listened? No, of course not. I remember how the wave had knocked me down and I sputtered and spit water out because my face fell right into the salty cold water, and just when I thought for sure I was a goner, feeling the pull of the ocean, I felt a hand grab mine. “Grab on!” David had shouted, and he’d pulled me right out of the water. I was convinced he saved my life that day.
As we trudged onwards, I didn’t want to let go of David’s hand. I wanted to hang on forever because as long as I held on to David’s hand, it didn’t matter if we were lost…
For some reason, it was just me and David that day – he could be the meanest kid in the neighborhood, but sometimes he could be the nicest. He stood almost a head taller than me with his sandy blonde hair and dark eyes offset in his chubby face. Sometimes he made me so mad and he was mean to me, and I was mean to him too. But today we were having one of our nice days.
I still remember walking close to David, our bodies touching many times – but neither of us doing anything about it. It was probably the first time in my life I felt that weird connection with someone that was more than just friends, just a tiny glimpse, though.
I don’t know where the rest of the gang was that day, the Solis boys, my brother and sister or even David’s little brother Barry. I just remember it was me and David – and we decided to take off on this journey hiking up at Sutro Forest on rugged trails, sometimes right along sides of perilous cliffs on the hillside. I had picked up a stick and used it to crash through vines and as a walking stick of sorts.
As David continued onward, both of us suddenly realized that we might be lost.
“Where the heck are we?” I said to David.
“I dunno!” David shrugged. He didn’t even seem to mind that we were lost.
So we continued to walk onwards, our bodies touching from time-to-time, our sweaty hands almost clasping but not quite – here I was with the biggest, meanest kid in the neighborhood. These were tender moments. I knew it, but I dare not say anything about it as we trudged onwards because it might break the magic spell we seemed to be under that neither of us could explain.
Suddenly when we were really, super lost in the middle of Sutro Forest, high above the rest of the world, the north part of San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge stretched below us beyond UC Hospital, David stopped. He pulled out a scout knife and made his way to a eucalyptus tree close by.
“What are you doing?” I asked as he began to carve on the tree.
“You’ll see. But hear me now,” David said all dramatic and everything.
“Yes?” I tried to keep from laughing.
David didn’t say anything for a few moments. I could hear birds chirping, but all the sounds of the city were far away and muffled here in this forest that we were lost in. I wondered if we’d be able to find our way out or if we were destined to wander these trails until dark. What would be do? Camp in the forest? Would anyone be able to find us?
“Okay, there! But you’ve gotta promise, you’ve gotta swear!” David said, moving away from the tree, “Before you see this.”
“Before I see what?” I tried to peek around David, but his massive body stood in the way.
“You’ve gotta promise never to tell anyone about this – swear to secrecy.”
“Okay, okay,” I laughed.
“No, for real.” David sounded all serious. He used his bossy voice even. It’s the first time I’d heard that voice all day.
“Okay, all right.” I crossed my heart. “Cross my heart, hope to die, poke a needle in my eye!”
David seemed satisfied with this, so he moved aside so I could see what he’d carved into the tree.
He had carved a huge heart on the tree, and the in the middle of the heart were the distinct words, “David & Mary were here.”
I didn’t know what to say. I knew that was special, that it somehow meant something and I understood why David swore me to secrecy. “Whooooo!”
David looked right into my eyes and I looked back into his. “This is just between you and me, okay?”
“Yes, I understand,” I said.
Then David actually grabbed my hand and pulled me along, “C’mon, let’s keep goin’!” He said. I held on to David’s hand for as long as I could. It felt warm and inviting even though we were both sweaty. The other time David had grabbed my hand was that day we went to the beach and I almost got swept out to sea by this huge wave – our mothers had warned us about the undertow at the beach, but had we listened? No, of course not. I remember how the wave had knocked me down and I sputtered and spit water out because my face fell right into the salty cold water, and just when I thought for sure I was a goner, feeling the pull of the ocean, I felt a hand grab mine. “Grab on!” David had shouted, and he’d pulled me right out of the water. I was convinced he saved my life that day.
As we trudged onwards, I didn’t want to let go of David’s hand. I wanted to hang on forever because as long as I held on to David’s hand, it didn’t matter if we were lost…
Guilt - Kent Wright
“He forgives us if we ask.” I was standing on the sidewalk in my hometown speaking with a woman I had not seen in perhaps forty years. She had asked if I was still out there in San Francisco. I looked at her for a moment as what she was saying sunk in. I sensed she felt on the solid footing of a high moral ground. It felt familiar, that giving a message without saying it, and I made a decision.
“Forgive for what?”
“Our choices,” she replied quietly.
“My choice you mean?” She smiled with benevolence and I added, “The coffee is on me if you have a few minutes because I would love to tell you about my choice.”
We settled into a booth in the coffee shop. She sat opposite me with one hand on each side of a white mug.
“So my choice. It was the summer I turned thirteen. It was a Tuesday in July, muggy as anything and outside one of those steady summer rains had set in. So I was stuck there, no bike, no ball to play, nothing to do but lay there on my bed with that antsy boredom that sets in so quickly when you are thirteen. My mind bumped around from thing to thing but finally settled down around what I was going to do with life. I decided to make some decision, one decision anyway, that afternoon about what would be on my road outside the city limits of this little town. You know what I settled on?”
The woman opposite in the booth shook her head.
“I decided to be a homosexual. Not that I really knew anything about it,” I mused looking off like I was remember just what it was like that afternoon. “There was not one person I knew growing up, even from a distance, that I could identify with that label homosexual. Not one. And what I had absorbed from the innuendo, slang and looks of society about it was the picture of a blank, fogged in pit of loneliness, isolation and rejection, but when you are thirteen, you feel you can whip it all sometimes. I decided laying there on my bed on that hot, rainy July day in 1955 ‘ what the hell, I am going to be one of those homosexuals. I made the choice right then and there. It was easy.” I was looking directly at the woman. She didn’t speak. “And do you know what the great thing about that is? Great for you I mean?”
“For me?,” she asked just above a whisper.
“If I can make that choice to be one, so can you!” and gave her a big, warm smile of reassurance.
“But,” my booth mate said finally, “I’m not that way.”
“So? If it is a choice, you can choose to be homosexual too. What is the problem?”
“I don’t have those feelings.”
“Feelings? Forget feelings. Choice. It is choice remember?”
“Forgive for what?”
“Our choices,” she replied quietly.
“My choice you mean?” She smiled with benevolence and I added, “The coffee is on me if you have a few minutes because I would love to tell you about my choice.”
We settled into a booth in the coffee shop. She sat opposite me with one hand on each side of a white mug.
“So my choice. It was the summer I turned thirteen. It was a Tuesday in July, muggy as anything and outside one of those steady summer rains had set in. So I was stuck there, no bike, no ball to play, nothing to do but lay there on my bed with that antsy boredom that sets in so quickly when you are thirteen. My mind bumped around from thing to thing but finally settled down around what I was going to do with life. I decided to make some decision, one decision anyway, that afternoon about what would be on my road outside the city limits of this little town. You know what I settled on?”
The woman opposite in the booth shook her head.
“I decided to be a homosexual. Not that I really knew anything about it,” I mused looking off like I was remember just what it was like that afternoon. “There was not one person I knew growing up, even from a distance, that I could identify with that label homosexual. Not one. And what I had absorbed from the innuendo, slang and looks of society about it was the picture of a blank, fogged in pit of loneliness, isolation and rejection, but when you are thirteen, you feel you can whip it all sometimes. I decided laying there on my bed on that hot, rainy July day in 1955 ‘ what the hell, I am going to be one of those homosexuals. I made the choice right then and there. It was easy.” I was looking directly at the woman. She didn’t speak. “And do you know what the great thing about that is? Great for you I mean?”
“For me?,” she asked just above a whisper.
“If I can make that choice to be one, so can you!” and gave her a big, warm smile of reassurance.
“But,” my booth mate said finally, “I’m not that way.”
“So? If it is a choice, you can choose to be homosexual too. What is the problem?”
“I don’t have those feelings.”
“Feelings? Forget feelings. Choice. It is choice remember?”
Old Age - Meg Newman
He has drifted back to sleep after reading the latest police procedural we purchased together. 3 minutes of tapping and it was sitting on his iPad. After years of resistance to getting an e-reader, because he much prefers to go to the library and select his books, he relented. The act of walking through the library, browsing, observing others looking for books and maybe even smelling the library interiors has been his only life ritual. Every fiber and morsel of his being is atheistic, I think the library jaunts were the most sacred part of his life, besides my mother.
The volume and power of his voice is nowhere near what it used to be when he stormed around at 185 lbs and 5 feet 9. Almost all of his muscle mass has melted away and he now weighs 130 pounds and looks like he is 5 feet 5, or 5 feet 6 inches, at most. His dragon veneer has disappeared piece by piece. He no longer breathes fire only transparent oxygen through his nares. A tame lamb has landed in his bed and climbed inside his body.
He begs out of a shower everyday and opts for every other day but he still takes it independently—at least this week. He has delegated watering the huge palm tree and peace lily’s he has nourished for decades. If human and plant communications exists, then his plants are waiting for him and his water laced chatter to return. I have seen the palm strain to catch a glimpse of him entering the kitchen. I know their missing him will soon be mine to bear.
The volume and power of his voice is nowhere near what it used to be when he stormed around at 185 lbs and 5 feet 9. Almost all of his muscle mass has melted away and he now weighs 130 pounds and looks like he is 5 feet 5, or 5 feet 6 inches, at most. His dragon veneer has disappeared piece by piece. He no longer breathes fire only transparent oxygen through his nares. A tame lamb has landed in his bed and climbed inside his body.
He begs out of a shower everyday and opts for every other day but he still takes it independently—at least this week. He has delegated watering the huge palm tree and peace lily’s he has nourished for decades. If human and plant communications exists, then his plants are waiting for him and his water laced chatter to return. I have seen the palm strain to catch a glimpse of him entering the kitchen. I know their missing him will soon be mine to bear.
This is What Happened First - Donna Shomer
It’s not so often anymore
that Mom is with me
but there she was tonight
in the silence,
like a secret or a sore place.
I still dream of being with her
when she died.
I still scold myself
for missing it.
So when the call came
I drove the freeways
in the middle of the night
to a stillness filled with people –
hospice, caregivers.
And when I was finally left alone
to watch over her
I draped her scarf around my shoulders
and ripped the fabric
This was what happened first.
that Mom is with me
but there she was tonight
in the silence,
like a secret or a sore place.
I still dream of being with her
when she died.
I still scold myself
for missing it.
So when the call came
I drove the freeways
in the middle of the night
to a stillness filled with people –
hospice, caregivers.
And when I was finally left alone
to watch over her
I draped her scarf around my shoulders
and ripped the fabric
This was what happened first.
This is What Happened First - Bonnie Smetts
Renee went off to find Nico to buy him the kite from the stand as she’d promised. Marjorie turned to join the rest of the party gathering along long tables. The tables were set to the side of the shady lawn and linens covered their length. Marjorie wondered who’d done the planning for the party, it must have been Mrs. Parker. They all called her Mrs. Parker, she was the matron of the group. She’d been in India since the beginning.
“Marjorie, you look so lovely.” One of the wives, one she liked very much and knew very little, gave her a little hug.
“And you too, Camilla, everyone looks like a breath of English air, no?” She laughed and was happy to be with the group.
“Come one, let’s go sit with the girls. It looks like we’re not needed in the set-up. Sometimes I feel so useless here.” Her friend guided her to the other women, from a distance, a palette of summery pastels.
“And did you hear about the train wreck? It was on the main line. Someone made a mistake and the trains ran straight into each other. They are still trying to untangle the cars and …” A murmur went around the circle of friends, each one knowing that they or surely their husbands traveled that main line too often. Images of twisted metal filled Marjorie and she couldn’t stop the sound.
“But we must talk of other things. We must.” And the group laughed. Someone began to talk about the garden club, a diversion that Marjorie had never joined. It seemed silly, she had no intention of staying long enough to have a real garden. She wasn’t much interested in flowers, enough to spend hours each week with women who did. They now talked of their successes with orchids, but all Marjorie could think of was the train. Taking the first class car wouldn’t keep them from crashing, two first class cars could tangle and mangle just as easily as the impossibly stuffed ones behind. Women and children and men and she couldn’t get the image from her mind.
“Penny for your thoughts. I go away for a few minutes and come back and you look as white as the tablecloths,” Renee said.
“Oh, sorry. Nothing. They were talking about the train.”
“You heard how it started, the crash. The gear on the switch locked up and no one could stop the oncoming train in time, so they…”
“They crashed into each other.”
“Marjorie, you look so lovely.” One of the wives, one she liked very much and knew very little, gave her a little hug.
“And you too, Camilla, everyone looks like a breath of English air, no?” She laughed and was happy to be with the group.
“Come one, let’s go sit with the girls. It looks like we’re not needed in the set-up. Sometimes I feel so useless here.” Her friend guided her to the other women, from a distance, a palette of summery pastels.
“And did you hear about the train wreck? It was on the main line. Someone made a mistake and the trains ran straight into each other. They are still trying to untangle the cars and …” A murmur went around the circle of friends, each one knowing that they or surely their husbands traveled that main line too often. Images of twisted metal filled Marjorie and she couldn’t stop the sound.
“But we must talk of other things. We must.” And the group laughed. Someone began to talk about the garden club, a diversion that Marjorie had never joined. It seemed silly, she had no intention of staying long enough to have a real garden. She wasn’t much interested in flowers, enough to spend hours each week with women who did. They now talked of their successes with orchids, but all Marjorie could think of was the train. Taking the first class car wouldn’t keep them from crashing, two first class cars could tangle and mangle just as easily as the impossibly stuffed ones behind. Women and children and men and she couldn’t get the image from her mind.
“Penny for your thoughts. I go away for a few minutes and come back and you look as white as the tablecloths,” Renee said.
“Oh, sorry. Nothing. They were talking about the train.”
“You heard how it started, the crash. The gear on the switch locked up and no one could stop the oncoming train in time, so they…”
“They crashed into each other.”
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