The Cape

In 1998, at age 36 my mom and I trekked out to Cape Cod with my two boys for a winter getaway invited by my birth mom and newly extended family for the first time. My youngest boy was three, my oldest eight. Five years later, after losing my mom, we started an annual vacation to the cape with my newly extended family. Now at age 63, I reluctantly realize that I’m almost the same age that my birth mom was over twenty years ago and my oldest son is almost the same age that I was when we first came. 

But arriving at the cape moves me to a place about bliss. Although we have had plenty of drama on our vacations here, we all realize that no one wants their bubble bursted by the realities of home at “The Cape”.

There have been transitions with partners for me, my sister and two of my four brothers, with spouses…without…divorces…death…distance…changes in our appearance. My sons and nephews, once toddlers and little boys, now sit on the beach with a beer and chat about their adult lives. They too are in on the objective. Escape.


On the last day, I step out of my unit to leave and once again memories steal me, only this time, my thoughts are of realization. Every party has to come to an end. When will this party be over? About twenty-seven years of Cape Cod vacations equals about half a year. No wonder it’s hard to process the change when we’re there. 

Each year, we anticipate the next, but someday, it will not happen for some of us, eventually all of us. And that knowledge is crushing. 

Someday someone else will travel to the cape and subconsciously inhale all the memories I’ve left behind and make new memories that don’t include me or my family, and my memories will land softly on a beach, a sea shell, or a blade of glass…to be forgotten. 

But now, I have driven off the cape. My reality switches back to home. The ache of the end no longer haunts me, at least until the end of the next year’s vacation. For now, it’s tucked away for next year’s anticipation of “The Cape,” with no memory of the sadness or pending eventual doom. Only the joy of anticipation remains and the escape from all things eventual.

Estranged

The reality that love is not enough

He says his time is limited

that the house he has

will always pale in comparison to the house he wanted

The deck is damaged, the color is off, the roof line is all wrong

Unless of course someone else describes what they love about it

then his love brightens, the satisfaction of it all entrances him

Its beautiful parklike setting, its high ceilings, the freedom of its privacy,

the comfort that it holds all his secrets securely

and for a while he will relish its gifts, make plans to make it what he needs

But resentment returns, he could have had more, he deserved more

and the work stops


I could have been happy here too, had I ever been enough for you.

Memorial Day

The white flowers float from the locust tree above

Grandpa reads a newspaper on the chaise.

Lisa suns herself while Devin and Ray howl on the slip and slide.

Mommy and Grandma set potato salad and coleslaw on the picnic table.

Daddy grills in his blue work suit.

I yell into the garage to young men working on cars, "It's time to eat!"


I meet my brother Kenn at the gate.

He smiles, "It's a Norman Rockwell painting" he whispers.

We always knew, even as young people, even when things were not perfect.


The locust flowers fall . . .

A forgotten kiss whispering I loved you once, but I am no more.

No More

No more intimacy

Or tenderness

And no hope for either, only acceptance of the way things are

There is love, although it is stark love

stripped of what once made you feel safe

You can no longer afford vulnerability

What is love anyway? - I am told.

There is companionship at times and sexual comfort.

It is the closest thing to intimacy or tenderness that you can now hope for

It reaches out, but never quite connects leaving an empty feeling that hurts in the pit of your stomach.

It happens so often in relationships, and yet 

we are surprised.

We float in suspended disbelief from time to time . . . laugh, enjoy something together,

but then the curtain drops and you’re blinded by the stage lights.

The audience wants to know what you’ll do.

You are imobilized by confusion, indecisiveness.

You seek shelter elsewhere until the dust settles and try again.

Each time losing another piece of you that once belonged to him and of him that once belonged to you.

You understand for the first time why people stray. 

That once familiar comfort of someone who enjoys your company, and holds you with tenderness and respect. 

The feeling moves you farther and farther away, until what you both once were together is so far in the distance, that one of you finally has the nerve to walk away. 

The Wrong Man and the Wrong Woman

There were warning signs that we both ignored. After our first date he wrote: The physical distance between us & our commitments to job & family are factors that most likely would undermine the building of a relationship (assuming of course that you're even interested). Pragmatically, I agreed, then both of us ignored our own advice.

9 years together and 7 years married with elating ups, soothing evenness, and increasingly troubling downs, we realize we are very very different. That maybe we should have looked at the impracticality of a relationship between us. 

We sat on the couch discussing it. You should have married a woman who never had children, and was engrossed in her art living as a recluse. 

And rich, he laughed.  And rich, I laughed back.  And I should have married a family man who would have moved into my house and embraced my life as his own.

What do we do? I don't know. I'm tired of arguing. Me too. Things seem to go well for a while, and then it's like the lid blows and everything is wrong. 

The realization that one of us could leave for good becomes overwhelming to think about, so we don't. We stop talking about it. We slip into a mindset where we focus on the good instead of the bad once again. 

Moments where I daydream about our summers in Provincetown or what I love about him. 

I wonder if we will cross a line from which neither of us can return.

“Love is the absence of judgment.” Dalai Lama XIV

The End of 2021

 

Year two COVID planet. I guess this is the new normal. Although, I remain hopeful that I am wrong.

The virus finally found me. I gave it to Tom. We weren't hospitalized, thank God, but the fear it put into us as we lied awake sick was troubling. By Christmas, we were better. A waterlogged feeling in my chest a reminder that the virus was not quite finished with me.

Gathering with family for Christmas with everyone either vaccinated or COVIDed like me gave a sense of security and a mourning for a time before. I vowed to sleep through New Year’s Eve. I didn’t want to think about the past while engulfed in this dreay present.

Those days as a young adult when New Year’s Eve was an exciting excuse to don a new dress and party with friends in my parents’ finished basement. At midnight, a knowing nod at the foot of the stairs to my brother Kenn in the midst of happy New Year’s kisses and hugs.

Without a word, he would follow me upstairs from the party house to a quieter dimension. Where the dimly lit parlor flickered with Christmas lights from the tree. Where my mom stood serving broiled sausage and Italian olives in the dining room, and my grandparents and father sat with pokino cards and pennies from the round of garbage they had just played. We made our rounds kissing and wishing each a Happy New Year. My mom quickly shooing us back downstairs, so we could enjoy our party.

In my determination to sleep through New Year’s Eve, Tom and I had a nice dinner and went to bed early.

Around 11:00 PM my son called, I’ll be at your house soon.

I thought you were coming for dinner? I said. I’m in bed already. Silence . . . Ok, I said, I’ll unlock the door.

Can you put the ball on in the parlor for me? I don’t want to miss it.

Eleven-Thirty, he was sitting in my parlor, TV on as I warmed his dinner.

We watched the ball drop together. It wasn’t so bad. The past and present quietly coexisting in this pandemic background and the quiet comfort of this night.

COVID-19

Corona Fantasy

I find myself dreaming of you, age two. 

Hot chubby cheeks, pressed against mine. 

You are draped across me in deep sleep. 

I slide you down to my left and tuck you in. Your brother scrunched up next to me on my right, fast asleep. 

Your midnight escape from your room, a perfect excuse for him to follow you into my bed. 

We three sleep peacefully intertwined throughout the night.


Corona Overload

You remark that I am lucky that I can eat when I want. I take that to mean I am eating too much during my quarantine. 

You start making too many negative comments about me. Usually, I laugh and give you the finger. I complain that you are not a nice person. 

We go to bed separately. I call you the Golden boy. You have shortcomings too. Apparently, I alone have shortcomings and should be grateful to have someone who is not a half-wit.

All day, I sequester myself. 

When I hear your footsteps, I wait for you to complain about something else I have done. 

I coldly state how I think things should be done, contradicting your way. 

We are at a standstill. All of this may be a moot point if this virus finds us or our loved ones. 

You cover me in the middle of the night and kiss the top of my head.

Past Lives

1981. I am nineteen. Pat Benatar’s, Hit Me With Your Best Shot…crackles over the 7-11 loudspeakers as I pour my Sanka.

What the hell are you drinking that for? Lisa laughes shaking her head as she walks by.

The teenaged clerk eyes her long stilettoed legs and big blond hair. I snicker to myself. He then watches Kim tug at her denim mini skirt as she reaches into the cooler for a Coke.  I poof up my already overteased red hair hoping that I too might make a good impression.

Barbie, our "girl next door," puts her hands in her jean pockets and grins that tangerine smile at my bid for equal attention. Lisa smiles at her knowingly.

I babble ridiculous small talk, but suddenly realize no one is listening to me.

Kim flatly eyes the situation unimpressed as usual, and plops a Coke down on the counter. 

The young clerk tells Kim that her ice green eyes look Asian and are beautiful against her dark hair.

Thank you, Kim replies suspiciously as she reaches for her Coke.

We file out to my red mustang.

Did you get Mommy milk? Lisa asks, just as I sit down.

Oh shit.

Airhead, Lisa mumbles.

I defend myself stating I was sidetracked by how they attracted such dumbfounded attention from the clerk.

Lisa slaps the back of my head. But you were posing, you idiot, we weren't. 

Well, I wanted to add to the presentation, not deter, I smugly state.

I don't think you were successful, Kim whispers. Lisa roars. I roll my eyes. I may have given her the finger.

Kim sarcastically glances sideways at me, That's an intelligent response.

Barbie giggles and offers to get the milk to escape my chatter.  I hand her money through the window, tell her I love her with a laugh and start the car. The radio blares upon ignition.

Hit me with your best shot, why don’t ya hit me with your best shot…We all sing loudly.

Fire awaaaay! 

Ma’m, Ma’m?

Oh sorry. 

I don't realize the young clerk is waiting for me to put my things on the counter. He eyes me with an irritated glance. 

You’re a kid, I think. You have no idea. 

Hit Me With Your Best Shot…continues to play over the loudspeaker, but it is 2019.

I am on my way to the 5K run. It’s been fifteen years since Li took her life and two months since Kim died without warning. Barbie and I lost touch many years ago, now reaching out in disbelief that so many decades had passed to bring us where we are now.

In the 80s, we were all determined young women on the brink of something big. Whether or not that something big ever happened was not important. Just the fact that we were poised and ready was all that mattered.

I step onto the steaming asphalt to wait for the starting gun, with 4,000 other women.

Breathless and panting after the first small hill, the real athletes run past me to finish the entire race in the time it takes me to run 1 mile, but I don’t care.

When I cross the finish line, as usual I feel as though I might throw up or pass out. I grab a bottle of water from a volunteer and keep walking to avoid leg cramps while I wait for my family to find me. 

Lisa and Kim still in the forefront of my mind . . . My eyes well up. I say to myself, Today was for you. I don’t know why. I don’t even think it means that much, but to me at that moment, it means everything.

I imagine them saying, Cherish it, don’t waste it.  YOU ARE STILL HERE. I see the four of us piling into my red mustang in 1981. And in that moment, with no guarantees for the future . . . I am joyous.

Macerating In Menopause

I honestly don't understand women that rejoice at menopause. Their mantra, "No more period hooray!" and they beam with pride for every earned wrinkle.  I’m wriggling in my seat because I’m an egomaniac about aging.  At 56, I walk around in all the items you are warned not to wear over forty: big hoop earrings, tight pants, shorts, and tight tops. These rules for dressing were not written by a woman desperately trying to hold onto to the last flicker of absolute denial. 

I break my butt at the gym, run, do Zumba, buy the latest face creams, slather my body in oils, anything to gloss over my aging, but there is only so much one can hide.

Each line on my face is carefully documented by date of appearance. New crepe like surfaces come and go all over my body when I bend the wrong way. 

I’m told not to be superficial and I agree, but when I hear the word superficial all I can think of is superficial lines and the latest beauty treatment to combat them. I pose in the mirror to see how high I have to hold my neck so no sign of a double chin comes into view and practice holding that pose. I’m hopeless. 

I recently went on vacation with my 80 something cousins who wear big hoop earrings and in my opinion, they rock it. On a car ride to the beach, I had to pee for the 4th time in less than an hour, my cousin needed Kaopectate, my mom complained about hot flashes and someone in the back was asking about Depends. Is this really what it all comes down to?

We have a good laugh, and I lament my youth. I decide that if I have to go down, I may as well go down laughing and in complete denial. It could be over soon, but for now I reach for my high heeled shoes and pray for good lighting. Who’s up for a night out ladies?   

Winter

                                           
Winter steals my soul.
A good friend has died.
Sitting quietly
I escape back . . . to 2002.

The beginning of my Hudson Valley chapter.
My parents dead,
my marriage long over.
My kids awaiting our future in a new state.

I built a home for us in the country.
My kids were happy.
My 40s not fatal.
A chance to start over.

15 years later, my youngest hospitalized,
after a failed suicide attempt.
My oldest in the psych ward two years earlier.

My heart aches.
I feel I have failed them.
They once had so much to look forward to,
to dream about.

They are men, who can no longer hide
in the comfort of childhood.
They are standing on the plank . . . waiting.

I avoid the thought of my twilight.
To fight suffocation, I scramble to the gym,
research longevity,
check off items on my bucket list,
and tell myself my children will soar
and happiness will prevail.

I hear Jack Kerouac in my head:

. . . and nobody, nobody knows what's going to happen
to anybody besides the forlorn rags of growing old.

A Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving

   

     My new husband is an only child. He is accustomed to spending holidays alone on his mountain and likes it that way. I, on the other hand, come from a loud grafted family. OK, I'm the loud one.

     This Thanksgiving morning my husband Tom was driving me and my two sons, south to New Jersey for brunch with my brothers.

     Tom entered the house to find me pacing wildly up and down the hallway. My 21 year old moaning softly that he was too sick to go.

     No one is bailing on me this morning! You weren’t too sick to stay out until two a.m., so get your butt in the shower now! I demanded, pulling back his covers.

     For the entire trip, my other son continuously complained:

     What the hell Tom, easy on the bumps!
     I’m roasting back here, can you turn the heat down?
     Aren’t you going a little fast?
     Turn up the radio please.
     On second thought, turn it down, I hate this song.

     Tom was quiet for the duration of the two hour trip. My youngest, barely conscious, offered occasional sickly moans from under a blanket, size thirteen feet suddenly appearing on the armrest between the two front seats,

I think I’m gonna throw up! he groaned.

Don’t throw up in Tom's new car! I bellowed. Panicked, I kept pulling at a bra strap that would not stay put, and roared, I’m about to rip this friggin bra off right here!

I cautiously glanced at my husband.

He looked over at me expressionless and silent, like a man bludgeoned in the head one too many times.

Smile, Tommy, I said nervously. Tell yourself you love me, over and over, until you believe it.

NO RESPONSE.

     On and on the dissident clatter continued until we arrived. Tom exited the car and walked, or maybe he ran toward my brothers. All I could hear him say was—

No, not while driving in the car with those three!

My brothers and Tom watched motionless, as I prodded and yanked at my semi-conscious son to exit the car. They shook their heads bewilderedly.

     The waitress led us to a center table in a noisy crowded dining room. During brunch, I repeatedly sputtered barely audible directives to my oldest to stop gobbling his food like he was going to the electric chair. My son, unable to fathom why the five course Thanksgiving special was unsuitable considering he would be eating a full Thanksgiving dinner at his grandfather’s in two hours time.

     I continually directed through plastered smiles, while plunging my hand inside my dress to address my rogue bra strap. My other arm strategically placed over my bosom to hide the fact that I was wearing an entirely inappropriate low-cut dress for an eleven A.M. gathering at a diner.

     My oldest brother Ray, who is intellectually impaired, stopped everyone within earshot to wish them a Happy Thanksgiving forgetting momentarily that chewing and speaking were mutually exclusive. 

      Waving my fork discretely, I frantically resorted to anxious eye-brow raising and head bobbing to signal Ray to close his mouth before Tom or any other unsuspecting diner was privy to its contents. Thankfully our eyes met and crisis was averted.

     This while kicking my youngest under the table through gritted teeth to pick up his head. Although clean, his unshaven face and tattoo brandishing tank-top in thirty degree weather was surely a thwarted attempt to force me to leave him home for the day.

Are you hungover? A nearby diner finally asked to my chagrin.

     My glowing embarrassment made me ponder just who I was teaching a lesson by forcing this kid to attend today.

     Then, suddenly my oldest began to choke. Everyone around us froze in anticipation. His eyes widened as he continued to gasp for air. I wondered if someone should perform the Heimlich maneuver. It never occurred to me that maybe that should be me, but before I could think further, a three inch foaming hunk of meat launched from his mouth… Dismayed onlookers gasped.

Oh my God! my youngest dry heaved, Cover that thing. I’m gonna throw up.

Shoosh, I smiled, trying to pretend we were a normal family.

He’s right, I whispered, cover that thing up, trying to hold back my own gag reflex. I quickly covered the phlegmy mess.

I looked over at Tom, to see if he was still there, and to my dismay he was… his eyes fixed downward; His usual sarcastic demeanor in repose today for my sake on this blessed Thanksgiving Day.

I began giggling nervously, aware that our table had attracted the unsavory attention of onlookers. I was left with two choices: Hang my head in embarrassment, or revel in the hilarity of the situation. I chose the ladder, until my family was hard pressed not to join me.

Tom continued to stare downward, I suspect he was wondering when it would be safe to look up.

I wondered what Tom must have been thinking at that moment. But before I could ask, it was then that I realized that some things were better left unsaid.

Room Enough For Three

You were devastated.
They would ask, How can you love her?
But you did

You had to let her go
A young couple took her
They didn't have to love her, but they did.

Endless nights trying to calm her
… No three year old is gonna tell me what to do
… You’re 16, take off all that makeup
… Is it because I’m adopted?

Every Valentine’s Day a stranger wept for a bratty redhead

… Da, the baby’s bottle is in the fridge … see you after work

Mommy and I are lucky … we have good kids … we're proud of you
      

He would hold my hand and run his thumb across my knuckles to calm me...

I’m scared, Da … 

Your Daddy is just getting a little rusty, don't worry

He slipped away. 

No one can ever take your place, I whispered

She is OUR daughter now, Happy Mother’s Day
Two mothers crying in each other’s arms
I stood there stiffly holding you
Compassion for this person I didn’t know … this stranger

Please take care of her after I am gone. I don’t want her and the kids to be alone.

She slipped away. 

No one can ever take your place, I whispered

I kissed her goodbye … YOU held my hand

 
Your brothers are now my sons, you said.
You … no longer a stranger
Can I love you without betraying them?

God’s house has many rooms
But is there room enough for three?

Eighteen years blurring the lines of loyalty
Building a house where one never stood

I hold YOUR hand … I kiss YOUR forehead
No one can ever take your place, I whisper

God’s house has many rooms

All Glory is Fleeting

Driving with my oldest son . . . he gently reveals, I have some bad news for you Mom, Geck (our lizard) has died.

Oh poor Geck, I blurted crying childishly, my hands gripping the wheel. He was a lizard after all.

It was more than sadness that our little pet was gone. My mom had purchased that lizard for my boys in 1998, when we took daily walks in the park with the kids.

I remember her broad smiles even when she complained that my youngest should be called 'The Destroyer' for whatever domestic item his little hands had broken by accident on a given day.

The last piece of my mother now gone . . . funny I dreamt that I was in a car the other night, and she was there covering me with a blanket to keep me warm. Gratefully I snuggled. Should I be embarrassed to admit that at my age?

Today’s loss was more than my mom being gone . . . it was another reminder of youth lost and the uncertainty of the journey ahead. 

My son placed his hand gently on my back disintegrating the image of my former 36 year old self. . . Did he understand?

I composed myself, tucking mom’s story away once again. Live in the moment, I thought. There is no way to predict my story. Only the distractions of day to day living, can pull me away from the reminder of the swift passage of time. I hear my husband’s voice in my head quoting Patton.

. . . All glory is fleeting.

August

Photo by Elizabeth Vermilyea

For my Husband . . .

Laughter floats on
warm breezes . . .

Years later summer evenings remind me of a perfect moment in time

Photo by Elizabeth Vermilyea

                                               

Pocket by Tom Corrado

At night
instead of sleep
I color images of you
costumed
dancing . . .
my heart
in your pocket








Hummingbird by Raymond Carver

Suppose I say summer,
write the word "hummingbird,"
put it in an envelope
take it down the hill
to the box. When you open
my letter you will recall
those days and how much,
just how much I love you.

Fate

Excerpted from Screen dump 115 by Tom Corrado

One day you will forget who you are…

Your shoes will switch feet . . . Little matter, I will continue to kick your butt in chess . . .and read aloud to you my ho-hum poems and carry you . . . in the fall . . . to the river . . . so you can see the Canada geese flying home . . . 

Fate

I once stood here, before I ever stood here

Images trigger what was . . . but never was

I sit cross-legged on the floor. The snow falls quietly

You flood the backdrop with soft echoes of music & poetry

Do you remember me?

Amber locks . . . long clumsy legs . . .
gum stuck to the electric outlet

Bubbling eggplant plays against flickering candles

Sarcastic blue-green eyes echo your derisive Crocs 

Arm punching rebuttals in play . . . then

without warning, facades fade
but, I can keep a secret

Do you remember me? 

I have always been here.

A Return to the Green Room

And you return to your former self . . . backing in through the door . . . having been pent-up in the Green Room . . . Tom Corrado

He said it would happen eventually. I protested that it would not. When it happened to me, it didn’t last. I was angry with him. We didn’t even have a huge fight, but the more I thought about it, the more furious I became. His halo broken in pieces on the floor. How could he, I thought?

It doesn’t matter the topic, but when it happens defense mechanisms channel your thinking to relish an inflated past. Your former life taking on qualities of distorted content shaded by current hurt, trials, or redundancy.

It’s harder for him to hide it when the veil of illusion drops between us. A skeptic sits closer to that edge to begin with. The idealist usually recovers.

I see him mourning the simplicity of his past life. I wonder if he will recover from this longing. I wonder how I will feel if he does not.

Whispers

I had already put a note in his dusty old wish jar, high up on a shelf, asking him to propose. I was glad he didn’t find it, as now it was clear that this would never materialize.

I had come to a point where I realized that eventually things were not going to work out for us. I thought how I would want him to remember how much I loved him, even if we had to part because of competing commitments. He was not at home and I was alone in his house. I searched furiously through his poetry books trying to find one in which to hide a note that perhaps he would find someday, after I was gone.

Finally, I came across a small Emily Dickinson book of poems.

#155

Victory comes late -

And is held low to freezing lips -

Too rapt with frost

To take it -

How sweet it would have tasted -

Just a Drop -

Was God so economical?

His Table's spread too high for Us -

Unless We dine on tiptoe -

Crumbs - fit such little mouths -

Cherries - suit Robins -

The Eagle's Golden Breakfast strangles - Them -

God keeps His Oath to Sparrows -

Who of little Love - know how to starve!

I felt those words as if they were mine, and although losing him would devastate me, I was ready to return to my former life.

I placed a note inside the book and tucked it back inside his closet.

Weeks later an email came . . .

OK, so I had coffee, checked email, played the flugel, puttered, then started musing about Emily Dickinson, went back upstairs (Cat on futon, window open, rain & wind blowing in), started watching more [of a movie about Emily Dickinson] (totally taken by this strange fiercely independent intense little woman), decided to refill my coffee, paused the machine & went into my closet to grab my little book on Emily & what do I find? A note from you - my beautiful otherworldly ethereal muse - with a reference to #155. There's something about you . . . just something mystical about you . . . I love you, Thomas

Two weeks later, I sat at an open mic listening to him read his poetry. He had asked me to read, and I adamantly refused. But he was stubborn and was headed my way. He pulled me out of my seat, WHY? I complained.

I steadfastly folded my arms in a monumentous gesture of my refusal to speak, when suddenly he went down on one knee.

He couldn’t be, I thought? Could he? But he was. There he knelt proposing to me, reaching for my hand to offer a ring. His never nervous hands, slightly twitching.

I accepted. Although I move forward towards marrying this man; each day I wonder if we will move on the impossibility of our competing lifestyles.

If we parted ways, we would both survive he would say.

I avoid placing blame for conflicting desires . . . and remind myself to be grateful that in my present, I can connect with someone in a place where words don't even exist.

Nudging me . . . I hear my past lives whispering, Don't lose sight of how special and fleeting this world can be.

Funny Valentine & Forgotten 'What Ifs'

     Sometimes, late at night he would recite: Last night, while I lay thinking here some What ifs 
     crawled inside my ear. 
     Shel Silverstein

I’m at his poetry study group. I am an auditor here. It is not my group. I know little about poetry. Even still, sometimes my big mouth is jumping out of my head. It’s good for me. An exercise in futility that is. I’m not being sarcastic. I have a hard time keeping my opinions to myself and I need that practice. But, providing a backdrop for my internal microscoping is admittedly frustrating.

They’re chatting about the narcissism of Facebook . . . After all, who cares when someone posts . . . feeling content, or feeling bored . . . I do, I think. OK, so I do post a narcissistic selfie once in a while. These self-absorbed activities help keep my mortality from intruding on my reality. I need that sometimes.  'He' doesn't, I think.  'He' embraces the unknown, the stark reality of it all . . . trivializes my need for occasional mindlessness . . . without a word.

Finally, they’re gearing up to talk some serious poetry. The host is eyeing the amount of food I’ve eaten anyway, and I need to be rescued from the inside of my own head.

The presenter begins discussing a poet named Issa . . . Haiku. This one stands out for everyone:

On a branch/floating downriver/a cricket singing

They debate it several different ways. They're an interesting group. Inner peace in the face of uncertainty, is my silent take. But, something is off . . . My attention drifts when suddenly Howard plainly states . . .

 . . . Everything leads back to our own vanity. Is he inside my head? I silently smile.  My boyfriend looks over at me and says to the group, ‘All Glory is fleeting’. This jabs at my incessant preoccupation with my looks. Don’t tarnish my trophy, I pout. I lower my head and pretend to read.

They are now discussing one of ‘His’ poems. Is it just musicality, or does it have meaning, they ask?

I steal his line-Drill down deep enough, I silently suggest, sarcasm placated by my Peter-Panitis  . . . there IS meaning in there, whether he wants to admit it or not. Nothing remains meaningless.

Parts of his poems are about relationships, he answers . . . I’m surprised by this public admission . . .

Admission-I am preoccupied by whether you are ever gonna ask me to marry you?  Will chaos always safely back burner the plausibility of that question? . . . Then take the damn ring off that finger Missy and put it on another one. I can’t get it off, I protest to myself pathetically.

Now they're debating something like the effect of syntax, colloquialisms, and idioms on poetry. It’s all semantics again….everything comes back to semantics for me, I think . . . You overanalyze everything, 'He' has said. I know.

You wear your goofiness like a banner 'He' has also said . . . Fuck him . . . I don't need his approval. I froth inside my head. Oh, but you do . . . otherwise, why protest so Missy? Touché, I think to myself . . . Touché.

Am I more than a trophy to you? I ask with no words. My sister reveled in being a trophy I wander inside my head. Somehow she couldn’t get that she was more.

She wasn't really your sister, 'He' would say . . . REALLY? Do you realize the significance of the word REALLY to someone who has never known a blood REALLY until she gave birth to her own children?

Is that what this is really about?

Seriously, you know damn well you are more than his trophy . . . really? And furthermore . . . You lie! To some extent, you like being his trophy. . . really?

Focus on the bean dip before your pathology accidentally oozes from your seams. Your ‘reallys’ are showing!

Face it, that’s what’s really worrying you. You worry the reality of yourself as his invalidated ‘really’. A misplaced funny Valentine and a grand gesture destined to gather dust on a shelf of long forgotten ‘what ifs’.

The Insecurity of Trust

 It wasn't that I didn't want someone. It was that I didn’t dare to hope. In this area I stood a cynic. I marveled at what people would accept as mates, after I realized my mistake.

Then, smugly, I sat thinking, Weak fools. Satisfied that I had gleaned the true strategy to avoid that affliction, that pain that unravels you to the quick and leaves you naked, struggling for a sense of dignity. OK, scratch the melodrama, but I learned how to be happy being alone.  

Oh, it’s not that I was unaware of the damage inflicted upon me by my own weakness. All I had to do was look in the mirror, or look at the expressions on my friend’s faces. I knew what they were thinking. She used to be . . . Yeah, I know. I saw it too. I ate my way to solitary happiness. Those 50 pounds my badge of honor, far adrift from any sign of a life that considered my needs as a woman.

I got used to seeing a different me and so did they.

When finally I left, my confidence soared. I would no longer be a doormat.

Years turned into long over a decade, and countless friends and family would offer matches. Although quite aware that I was not the best catch, my smugness protected me.

But in those quiet moments, I would daydream girlishly of something that I thought I would never have.

When a more fit me began to take shape, I started noticing attention from men.
I awkwardly avoided eye contact.

And now a year later, and into a new relationship, I question the insanity of spending 18 years alone. But sometimes . . . I revel in it. There was no doubt about my femininity. I didn’t care what a man thought of me. I relaxed in the satisfaction of that power.

Deliriously happy on one hand, but always waiting for the pendulum to swing back the other way, I vacillate between girlish gushing and, Fuck off, I don't need you, at the slightest provocation.

There’s no way around it. A series of concessions where some you both are more than willing to accommodate and others you question. It’s when that questioning gets in the way, then someone ends it.

It happens to everyone. The novelty wears off, but what if it doesn't wear off for me, but does for him?

You can’t continue life gushing about a man the way I have for the last year.

Is there ever a happy medium? Do people ever really learn how to navigate this intricate dance?

I am among the idiots in love again.

I am alone in the outcome of that reality.

You Smell Funny

Pity sexual groping. I was feeling a little frisky a few weeks into my surgery recovery. This went on for two days before he suddenly announced---Uh, sweetie...you smell funny. 

Dear God, I thought . . . smelly three day old fish funny, pair of sweaty gym socks funny, something more repugnant, what?

Conrad's horror has nothing on me, as my man decided to inform me of my unfortunate malodorous issue when I was trying to entice him with a kiss. What is it, bad breath, I say? Tell the truth. 

During my recovery, my pits have smelled, my breath has been worse, and my pee smells like ammonia running through a rusty metal pipe. Rather than acknowledge this as an unfortunate phase of recovery where my body is attempting to rid itself of unwanted toxins, I choose instead to obsess that I have been struck with some rare chronic malady that has rendered me smelly for the remainder of my life.

Smell my armpits I gasp as my son passes me in the kitchen. I stink! I’m horrified.

Grimacing and motioning with his hand for me to back off, my son states, That’s OK Mom.

No, really, I never smell this bad. . . What the hell?

Sweat is an attempt for the body to rid itself of bacteria, My son continues as he runs down the hall . . . You just had surgery, your body is trying to repair itself . . . his bedroom door slamming shut, thankful to escape.

No, I am convinced my gravestone will read-Here lies Missy, a lovely woman, assassinated without warning by an innocent bystander who suddenly offed her in a desperate attempt to relieve himself of the rancid smells she was emitting!

Further incising my ego, I had to leave his bedroom to sleep downstairs, as I woke myself three times from my own snoring! I figured, I better leave now before I start farting next. I’m the whole package I thought! 

Convincing myself that my case sat helplessly, I began thinking of ways to off myself before morning, but I resigned myself to sleep instead.

Then morning, the stark reality of my new man emptying my bloody surgery drains, putting me on the toilet, and various other unpleasant tasks he has had to endure over the last 3 weeks . . .

His friend tried to assuage my fears-- Oh, don't worry, a hundred men would line up to put you on the toilet Missy!

Hmmm, what kind of men? Men devoid of any sexual appetite at all . . . with malfunctioning olfactory sensors? This is not good for my ego.

He's going to Hooter's with the guys today.  I realize my man will be ogling girls with exceptional mammories, and sexually enticing curves, further banishing my post-surgery bacteria regurgitating self to the underworld of unappetizing fare.

I thought, Right about now one of those 100 men who would enjoy putting me on the toilet would make me feel a lot more appealing.

***A week later, I can report my smelly conundrum has passed. Unfortunately, it is only a matter of time before I am painstakingly onto my next fear of horrible medical fates awaiting me.

Mother's Day in the real world . . .

Mother's day was approaching. Long gone were the days of breakfast in bed and cute little cards proclaiming, Mommy I love you.  What could I ask for that my teenager especially could supply without causing me to climb over a chair to get at him so I could strangle him?

Go to church with me for Mother's day.

Groan, my youngest complained. But I might burst into flames when I cross the threshold.

Then I guess we'll have to watch you burn, I beamed broadly.

After several days of bantering back and forth on the topic, my youngest finally relented, You're really gonna guilt me into this?

I thought of my Nonna's Italian guilt...No, no that's OK . . . go, go, I'll be fine here alone . . . (unspoken-while I mire here in the pit of despair).

Yes, I said...Guilt I will! 

I thought about our typical day:

If you miss that friggin school bus one more time I'll *&^%$+&  kill you!

Seriously, You drink from a paper bowl rather than wash the pile of glasses you left on the counter? 

You're too lazy to wash your own socks so you ram your big feet into mine, and now they all have holes in them, really? 

You spilled what in my bed, right in the spot where I am about to go to sleep?!!!

Turn that *&$#!@# music down, and that is My eye liner, not your tattoo pencil!

My son thought for a moment and then replied, Then, I'm sitting in the back of the church by the door!

Fine, but, I want you to come forward for "The Our Father" to hold my hand like you did when you were little. It's Mother's Day's, so you owe me!

There was nothing he could say. He had to admit defeat.

And so Mother's Day came, effortlessly for my oldest who attends church weekly anyway standing next to my youngest in black skinny jeans with long blue-black razored hair complete with disgusted teenage expression.

Perfect, I thought upon entering the church, my youngest cringing . . .
Look you didn't even burst into flames, I offered gratefully, as I headed for a pew, leaving him at the back.

Serenity coursed through my veins, as the choir music washed over me . . . my oldest raised my left arm and clasped my hand for the "Our Father". I frantically glanced through a sea of raised arms hoping for a dart of black, but before I could look over to my other side, I felt his hand gently slip into mine. I almost felt like a normal mother.

.
I have to admit, all sarcasm suspended . . . My lanky 6 foot 3 youngest was suddenly a chubby faced 4 year old smiling up at me with a playful grin. Images of a past life flooded my emotions.

After church walking arm and arm with my oldest, I scurried up ahead to grab my teenager with the other arm.

Really mom? he groaned. You're gonna burn in hell for this . . . a smile creeping up his face.

Yes, I know, pulling his face in close to kiss him with a smile, but for today... it was worth it.

Your Demons

I wish I could take it away. Make it right for you. They drag you to that dark place where you cannot rest.

I writhe in anger, pleading for a way to lock that door. 

They have said you were brilliant, and here you sit helpless straining for their commands.  Your hand through the glass to reach them. Desperate . . . and then our eyes meet. Recoiling in denial. We both pretend. 

Without warning, a glimpse . . . a glimpse of normal. A glimpse of happiness. 

I could cry for what you have been denied, but at that moment I bathe in relief. I look to your brother. He agrees. This is a normal moment. There is hope . . . maybe. 

And what about your brother? What of his talents? Those demons have chased him away too . . . 
Drowned his spirit. Taken his smile. 

Could I have tried harder somehow? 

I search wildly between the covers . . . between smiles and regrets.  I know I saw it once.

I wish hope were all I needed to give you to make you soar. I wish that were enough.

Cheer for the Underdog

I had just worked out at our gym and was sitting by the front door waiting for my son. I felt a little awkward today. Had to wear short sleeves . . . worried my age was showing too much, when in walked a tall blond.

She had her hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, ringlets of frizzy curls exploding out the back. She was tan and lean. By the looks of her face, I had guessed she was close to my age. By the looks of her body, decades younger. She turned to sign in and her jeans hugged her bottom masterfully.

Looks kinda like a California girl, I thought. Not much makeup. That outdoorsy appeal. And then it hit me . . . I could be describing his ex.

What if it IS her? This is out of her territory, but she goes to the same gym chain. What if she had a business trip down this way for the day, and thought it would be easier to work out here?

My palms began to sweat. I felt as though I might throw up. I turned and caught myself in the mirror.

How can we compare me-French goulash, to the California girl!!  The room began to spin.

I looked at the pathetic signs of muscles forming under my skin, contrasting her hard body. I wanted to disappear. My son was finished and walked over. I stood up, forcing myself to stand tall, wanting to hunch over in unbridled insecurity. How can I ever live up to that? I thought.

I assured myself that the Funny Valentine won the day in the song. That Audrey Hepburn got the guy in Funny Face. I continued to kid myself, and refused to show my fear.

As much as my insecurity over this topic killed me, I realized I could never live up to my idea of the physical description of his ex.  And if the underdog didn't win this time, then at some point there would be someone out there cheering for my kind in the future.