Letting Go - Melody Cryns

No matter where I go or what I do, no matter what path I travel in my life, memories of my mother surround me and envelop me – they never go away. She appears in my dream wearing that flannel nightgown she always wore, telling me that it’s time to unpack those boxes. Bookcases stuffed with books surround me in the bedroom where I sleep – some of them old books filled with memories, hopes and dreams, magic and imagination. I can never let go of the books. I lug them with me everywhere no matter how many times we move. And we’ve moved a lot of times.

I want to tell my little grandson when he arrives about my mother, who would have been “Great Grandma Mary,” when he arrives in July – I want to take baby Jeremiah, who will also be named after my grandfather, my mother’s father whom she loved so much, on the same paths in Golden Gate Park I’d traveled on with my mother and then again with my own kids. I’ll show him the rhodenderon gardens and the Japanese Tea Garden, and forget that the old museums have been torn down in favor of the new – only the wall of the old Academy of Sciences remain, but the green park benches can still be found, thank heavens – and the trails, the paths we walked on, still remain. If you walk down the trail, you can forget that the changes ever even happened. You can find lovely lakes and the old electric boats and row boats still glide around Stow Lake, the brown lake with Strawberry Island in the middle. If you listen closely, you might hear a bunch of kids yelling and playing – me and all my friends in the neighborhood.

At the end of the day, when the shadows get bigger and the sky becomes a little darker, we all head close to home – because when our Moms go out on to the stoop to yell for us, we’d better be able to hear them.

And, sure enough, like clockwork – because we could tell what time it was just by where the sun was – no one ever wore a watch or anything. Our moms really had no idea where we were even – all they could do was tell us, “Don’t go to Whiskey Hill, it’s dangerous!” But we knew that as long as we were within hearing shot at the end of the day, then all would be well.


I can still hear my mother’s loud, dramatic voice yelling, “Mary, Michael, Jennifer!” over and over again like a mantra. Then we’d hear other mothers, not as loud and distinct, but still ringing through the air. “David, Barry, time to come in!” their mother would shout with her distinct Irish brogue. Other moms would yell names too, and soon they all became blended in with one another, but our mom’s voice was always the loudest and most distinct – at least to us.

Mom and me fell in love with the Beatles together, and would often sing songs while walking down the street, embarrassing the heck out of my brother and sister. That was when she felt loose and free on the weekends, letting her hair down instead of wearing it up. Friday nights were always the best because we’d always go out to eat – either we’d go to Top’s Doughnuts on Irving Street where they served really good hamburgers or to that Fish n’ Chips place on Haight Street where we’d get fish and chips with vinegar sprinkled on it, wrap them in newspaper and bring them to that little lake on Stanyan and Haight Street where we’d all sit on a park bench and eat and Mom would tell us that the English people also used newspaper to wrap their fish and chips in – now I can’t even imagine eating food with newspaper ink anywhere near it!

But even now as I sit at home surrounded by some of the books that surrounded me throughout my childhood, I know that I will never be able to let go.

Picking up the Pieces - E. D. James

Arnold flashed from the past back to the present as the caravan of cars led by a green forest service truck moved past the blockades and up towards the cone. Horns honked and hands waved out of windows expressing the joy people felt at being able to return to the homes and cabins that were now declared safe. Arnold only felt his stomach sink and the frustration that had cost him his job five years ago rose up again. He’d almost been able to leave it behind. The meditation, the counseling sessions, and his daily workout sessions had allowed much of the anger to dissipate. But now, listening to the announcers stumble through the information that the seismologists had given them that served as the basis for the decision to open the area around Medicine Lake again, Arnold felt it all well up in him again. He knew in his core that they were wrong. That they were misinterpreting the data and that it would lead to disaster. All that would be left would be to go in and pick up the pieces of what was little would remain of peoples lives and possessions.

He thought back to that day when he had first seen the future in the bottom of Boulder Canyon. It had been one of those clear, still, incredibly hot summer days. As he pushed his raft into the cool water of Cache Creek he felt like one of the luckiest geologists on the planet. He’d spend the day drifting along making a strip map of the rocks that lined the canyon. He had salami sandwiches and beer for lunch and was looking forward to a little beach about half way down the canyon that his professor had told him about. Skinny dipping and sunshine. A fine day ahead.

The cool water kept the bottom of the raft cool. He felt the current pick up as he moved to the center of the creek. The walls of the canyon steepened ahead of him. He paddled into a little eddy at the side of the creek as he entered the section and put the raft up on a boulder so that he could study the cliffs rising above him. At first he thought that what he was seeing was an optical illusion created by the bright sunlight and the shadows of the cliffs. But as he studied it he realized that what he was seeing was something real, something significant. There was a change in the sediments about halfway up the three hundred foot wall. The rocks above had the characteristic reddish, tan hue of sediments that were deposited by rivers and lakes and streams. The rocks below were grey and menacing. He looked down at the map he had brought with him. Those that had gone before him had mapped the color change, but the interpretation was that the darker sediments were deposited into the arm of the ocean that had once occupied this part of the landscape. Arnold knew this was wrong.

Picking up the Pieces - Bonnie Smetts

“Come, get up.” Ash held out his hand and Marjorie took it. She hated feeling weak and she hated the guilt of lying. “Now, shall we go downstairs and see what our daughter is up to?”

Marjorie unfolded up toward her husband. “Let’s do that. I’m so sorry to have startled you. I must have fallen asleep there. I don’t know how long I’ve been here.” She laughed. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror as she passed by and for a second didn’t recognize the person she saw.

Downstairs Charlotte was racing around the sunroom, the sun never having arrived this day with the rain. “Mommy, Daddy, look at the trees outside.”

They followed her to the glass doors out to the garden. “What dear? What is it you want us to see?” Ash took Charlotte’s hand and kneeled down to see at her level. “What’s there?”

Marjorie held her breath.

“Look, Daddy. The lady is floating under the tree again. She loves it when it rains, Daddy.”

“Charlotte, there is no one out there.”

“Daddy, she saw us so she went away now. You saw her. She was there in the orange dress.” Charlotte backed up from her father.

“Charlotte, you can’t be making things up.”

“I’m not making up. Mommy, Mommy, I know you saw her.” Marjorie stood still, frozen between her daughter and what she knew was outside.

“Dear I didn’t see anything.” Charlotte looked at Marjorie and her stomach clinched. She didn’t want to disappoint Charlotte, but they couldn’t go on with her seeing what wasn’t outside. That woman, Marjorie wished that woman would stop showing up in the garden.

Sarah came from the kitchen carrying lemonades. Like a cool breeze, the sight of the tall glasses filled with ice and deep green mint leaves calmed Marjorie. She let her eyes rest on the glasses as they came closer. “Here we are. Something fresh to cool this heat.”

Marjorie begged for something to cool the heat.

Picking up the Pieces - Judy Albietz

In a flash, Bakari was at the base of the cinder cone. Even though the actual distance was several miles, all Bakari had to do was to use his inner eye to see himself in another place and he’d be there. Just another perk for being an extension of the Time Portal, he thought. He usually saved his energy and traveled around on Borealis like everyone else—in real time—in real space. But this was an exception. He had to do this without Sam knowing what he was up to. Five minutes left.

Bakari centered his short half-flesh half-plastic self on the trail. Glad he still had some feeling in this body, he wiggled his metallic toes against the sharp edges of the lava-rock gravel. Then he looked up to where Sam and the Blue Monkeys stood near the top of the cinder cone. The big dog was silhouetted against the bright blue sky. Bakari had shielded himself so Sam wouldn’t spot him.

Bakari had no doubt he’d be able to pull this off. But he did have some concerns about what kind of shape he’d be in when it was over—in just two minutes. Bakari used the remaining time to survey the scene.

Everything was proceeding just as in his vision. The outsiders’ ship had arrived. The humans were climbing onto the beach. From there, they would take a trail to the top of the cinder cone—where Sam and the others waited. The humans wouldn’t even pretend to be peaceful. One of them would immediately pull out some sort of weapon to shoot Sam in the chest. When the Blue Monkeys would try to stop them from leaving, the humans would kill them too.

It was time. Now the humans are in for a surprise, Bakari thought to himself. Looking inwardly, he quickly located the coordinates of a safe place in time and space. He took a deep inhale into his plastic lungs. Staring up at Sam and the Blue Monkeys, he imagined a bubble around them. That triggered the familiar chiming sounds of time travel. Then the bubble was empty. Bakari knew this would take almost all his energy reserves. He smiled weakly. Then he collapsed to the ground.

What Was in the Bed - Carol Arnold

There was nothing she could see, no flea shit or dead bug bodies, just the usual white sheets. But something was in there, she knew it. How else was she getting those bites, now raw and red from her incessant scratching? She knew she wasn’t supposed to scratch, that the bites could become infected, but she couldn’t help it. It was an itch like no other, even the one when she first met Bryon and her skin felt like it could barely contain the near-erupting volcano of her body, but she knew how that had turned out. That bite had become infected, a huge pus filled crater of a wound that even now, two years later, had refused to heal.

So here she was off on a wild adventure in an attempt to find a cure for that itch. She had heard about Shaman Xoctl, his lodge in Iquitos that catered to first world customers, from someone she had met at Whole Foods.

“He’s got eyes that will make you see the beginning of time,” the woman had said, her hair done up with feathers, her dress a maze of geometry. “You almost won’t need the drug, but don’t let that fool you. Take the drug. You won’t believe it.”

“What does it do?” Lynne had asked.

“What does it do? There aren’t words. Believe me, it will change your life forever.”

That’s what she needed, her life changed forever. But so far, all that had changed was her back where welts the size of quarters glared at her from a faded mirror. She wanted to crawl back into bed, pull the sheets over her head, but there was something in there, she knew it, and it was only a matter of time before it ate her alive.

What Was in the Bed - Maria Robinson

What wasn't known was how we got there. How we fell into a " first sight" affair and ended up washed ashore in a hotel bed seven hours and forty-two minutes later. How we fumbled and found a way to say hello in shadowed bar and then shone the moon of love into each others' eyes. How from there, we found we lived five hundred miles apart, New York to Cambridge but lived in the same air. What was in the bed was the proof that we, it, were real and we would have to find the way to daylight and what it meant.

Going for Broke - Francisco Mora

Not wanting to part with too much of my cash, I was going for broke when Veronica showed me the herbs container to buy. I looked around the living room, at all the unsynchronized pieces just thrown together without grace, even hiding the beauty of two tapestries from a Peruvian tribe in the Amazon over which we bonded the previous night when we met, and from whom the not-all-together-unpromising herbs derived.

A lack of grace and a promise impelled me to hand over six twenty dollar bills for the session and the herbs.

Veronica a cup of herb tea and instructed me how it should be served: “no metal objects. Just use another cup to pour.”

Not sure, I would remember that, and not sure that made much sense, but hey, I had conviction that maybe the herbs would be helpful. At least they’d be cleansing. Also, I knew that Simon was well acquainted with the Shipibo tribe from yearly travels to their pristine Amazon jungle location. On a daily basis he took a supplement from the region with the undignified name “cat’s nail”.

Simon refused a cup of the tea. He gestured when Veronica wasn’t looking ‘let’s get going.’

In the hallway to the door, cluttered between two large pieces of furniture that looked like bureaux dressers that belonged in a bedroom, we said our good-byes. Veronica said, “thank you for this,” and brought the money to her lips. Almost like she was going to kiss it.


***
Simon was reading the label of the herbs container. “It’s so irritating when people can’t even properly represent things with accuracy. Look how they spelled the name of the tribe.” His right thumb was pointed. I kept my eyes on the road, though we were virtually parked in a massive traffic jam that obtains on Pacific Coast Highway near the center of downtown Santa Barbara. Getting stuck in this was my fault for going north from the Institute before heading south for Los Angeles—for my blood analysis.

He didn’t complain about the traffic like I expected. He did point to the lack of evidence for microscopy, “I’m suspicious,” he said, “of things that lack any scientific data.”

“I know, I understand. But I wanted to look at my actual blood. Science sometimes just tells you everything you ever wanted to know about what you don’t care about.” Simon smiled.

“Can’t tell you, Simon, how many blood tests have been done that said nothing other than take vitamin D. I really wanted to see my blood. It’s reassuring that it looks alright. It was worth it to me.” I suppressed thoughts about dubious claims Veronica made.

And I have to admit, that seven months later, I still haven’t touched the herbs. Maybe Simon just jinxed me.