he writes of giving and
and being on the mend.
I wonder if she guides him through it all.
Her scent, her warmth and fresh bread in the kitchen waft to his nose
and he follows her in reality and with his mind’s eye mixed with fantasy, longing and desire. Where is he? Does he have a double for me? A poet would make a nice lover if he likes to drink coffee with me, listen to my day’s challenges and wants to know more about my dreams. Perhaps, the muse of a woman is a man-wife. She comes home after a long day writing and he has warm soup with carrots floating to the top in her favorite bowl. After dinner, they adjourn to the bath where a re-enactment of a favorite movie scene starring Kate Winslett, bath bubbles and two sponges and she melts as each becomes the other. Not perfection, but close.
She has creaking bones; like me.
We are both survivors of abuse at different times and places in our lives.
With one gift, years ago, she returned the favor in hearts. Reaching out to me at a time when I could not see the forest or the trees. Instructing me to write in longhand and start the book, my book, and I did. Throughout our lives, we have dabbled to stay sane, to communicate our very selves to the world and to use various art media as outlets of pain, joy and patience and kindness. She is one of my kindred spirits. I have been finding several recently.
As little girls, I think we liked being messy. If we had lived near each other, I bet we would have been fast friends. She makes me laugh and cry. How many people does anyone know who can touch their heart? Carefully, softly, as though stroking skin with the petals of a red, red rose. Yes, the bright flower has thorns to prickle us; to make us move to another place or to accelerate our growth. How very glad I am not to be alone in the world.
A specifier is included
because it could be by machine
by stylus or other means.
My granddaughter asked for a Sharpie; she had a special use in mind. I gave her white paper from my copying machine and explained this marker was permanent and she would need to sit at the kitchen table. In case, the market bled through; on the marble-like tile, I think. It could be faux marble. What I know is that blueberries leave a stain on it and I have not been willing to crouch on the floor making hands and knees sore and achy to remove the stain. Quickly, she drew several pairs of eyes and then she was finished. As I walked around her, we spoke briefly and touched; my hand on her long shimmering strawberry blonde hair so like mine over fifty years ago. As she moves “states away” our drawings together have been infrequent. While she was my first and best (our family joke); having two younger siblings means less time together and more time shared; halved, quartered and then gone.
I awoke after writing about the physical act of pen or pencil on paper; I remember touring Ali’s museum in Louisville.
He is part of my life; in my consciousness and now, in my late years; I chose to be like him as I live with the dying pain similar to his.
The memory of the museum came just when I needed it most. It is similar to Ali’s movement through my life as a young girl and a woman. How strong he was, how he stood up for justice and against injustice and how hard he fought and set an example for what it means to be an American, a patriot and a human being.
Ali had a buddy who was an artist at a time in the life of personalities when we did not film, video or instagram our every moment: LeRoy Neimann. It is my view they inspired each other to capture the moment, the movement and the grace of the man who chose to cast off his “slave” name against the advice of his father. Ali kept sketch paper and pencils with him all the time. The paper has a surface, a smell of classrooms and a texture most of us at that time thought was inferior to the beautiful white typing paper which came later. What we did not realize is that typing paper is for typing. I am grateful to be able to return to the “raggedness” of the old yellow paper we were given for our last thirty minutes of school with the instruction “draw something”; now, I know what that means.
Pulling a pencil across that surface is creative, evocative and the best use of paper I can think of as it pulls us into the act of drawing. Ali knew this. The museum is filled with paper and pencil cubbies. There are questions to answer, statements to respond to in one’s own words and interesting facts about his lifetime and his contribution to our society. I am glad I have memo pads, notebooks, journals and colored “pretty” papers. I am going to find me some raggedy paper and read more about that inspiring man, Ali and hope to catch his spirit in my life.
Yes, I know. Use a processor; save a tree.
I also understand we as a society are going to keep making journals, notebooks and scratchpads whether I buy them or not.
I admit it. I love the movement of the pen or pencil over the paper page.
I like the ways my finger tips move up and down the wooden pencil as I think my thoughts – yes, I know, pencils also cause trees to be cut.
Ink flows from the end of the pen like when I was in fifth grade, practicing my calligraphy against my best friend. She always won. She has traveled to far-flung places writing me about flora and fauna. Now, she has returned to our small community while I traverse across the face of the United States seeing my family members. Yes, I know, it would be better for the environment if we do not make “ink” and “plastic” pens any more.
I started my new and return to the old way as I thought of someone else who achieved their objectives by tightly writing on each line; and on front and backs of pages and it helped her get in touch with her feelings in a way which was vaguely familiar to me. Can I get that same feeling on these “keys” today as I work at my Mac? I am not sure; but, I am open to the possibilities of combining new and “old” modes of writing as I seek myself on these pages.
you little blonde haired wonder
like me and also yourself
I want to freeze you at five
I want to see your children
I want to know how you talk about the passions of your life
and I want to live long enough for it all.
You run, giggle and walk fast.
You observe and ask questions. You love family time.
When your head hits the pillow at night as you say you do not want to go to sleep and your eyes are closing, you are the light to the candle of my life.
she rustled under my polyester top as I walked in the sunshine to the blue Nova.
The doctor declared today would be her birthday; she was already three weeks late, no signs of starting labor.
I held her tightly to me.
Since the time of her birth, I have never put her down; not truly.
She left me to go to college and get married and have a career and start a family.
When she comes back,
I am waiting.
Her love for her daughters is strong and challenged by the times in which she lives.
I grow older; more tired, less able. A virus catches me and I am laid up for days and her children rebound in minutes, it seems.
Daughter of mine.
How can I say how I felt then, how I feel now? How fierce is my love? Fighting every day for her survival and the well-being of her young, I am lost, there is not enough of me. My energies are on the wane and I must go on to old age – alone.
She wrenches my heart; it lurches when she says “please.”
Looking at her, I think I could die for loving her and what might be our fate together. Her coming was like a comet, expected, profound and magical. Every day I grow older and I wonder how I can face death and leave her?
Her giggles tickle my brain.
Her dance with bottom wiggling causes me to dance and wiggle.
The deep brownness of her eyes harkens back to other relatives who blew my life apart
and I stand amazed that this can be so in one lifetime. I can never enjoy a day with her “grandpa” and I am glad. Deeper than this gladness, I feel the relief. No longer burdened by him, his evil ways, his crazy family and even though his genetic material lives on; it seems to have been diluted. I pray this girl child will carry very little of it in her ovum to the next generation. I pray for nurture; I pray nurture can curtail nature.
Love like this one feels dangerous. I would compare it to watching a fireworks display with sheer delight and at the same instant knowing the power behind the elegant display of blues, reds and pure white light in the sky. She, a rose bud; me a drying and dying bush with no blossoms remaining.
the touch of his fingers kneading my white parchment skin on my arm
made soft by hours of working in cocoa butter
just in case touch came my way.
Social events, wars, and fun times unrelated to a significant other and will he even care when he returns from his great adventure?
I see him when he is not here; I hear his voice and I know loving in older age is not easy nor quick for me. I was afraid; he was afraid. I am less afraid now, he has been gentle and kind. Kindness is such an important virtue, it is to be prized next to love but I did not choose to write about kindness and is kindness love? Kindness seems to be the action and love the emotion; kindness is also about spirit and it shines through when we have it. His eye color is green, very light and I never see it because the spirit draws me when we talk.
Having a conversation with him inside my head continues.
Will we have a relationship when he returns?
Is it possible for me to have a relationship while he is in absentia?
What would he answer?
For me, he is a constant object. Whether he loves me, I do not know.
Loving him and being alive to the loving seems to be the most important thing for me.
her breath; her spirit are mine.
yesterday she told me she thinks she and her baby sister were twins and born at different times and I thought it was probably the truth as I feel as connected to her as a hand or a foot and I can see why she would think about these things.
Saturday, after spending forty minutes listening to her howl and sob; I wondered if she is having hormonal fluctuations, if she is being deliberately manipulative or if she was told exactly what she said and I need to go and flog someone for hurting her because she is and will always be my princess; my first.
I tell her every time I see her and she does not know. She loves her sisters and she cannot understand my heart and may never. Claiming she will never have children; I tell her that would be an okay decision in my book and I want to be around when she finishes college and starts to make those kinds of decisions.
Like me, she has allergies and I worry. I do not want to sleep with her again for a while because it bothers me so.
Love hurts and hurts and hurts.