Who is your someone?
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Smiles of love.
Everyone has someone in their life who can make them smile no matter what.
Who is your someone?
Who is your someone?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Our Song
I am getting good at forgetting you.
I have learned to collect all of the scrambling memories I have of you,
Running around like fluffy little chicks.
I scoop them up quickly, stick them in a box and close the lid that throbs like a new bruise.
But every once in a while, a little yellow memory escapes
And sneaks its oily way into my conscience,
Interrupting a once placid moment.
Once, I was in the grocery store--
Way in the grocery store--
Far from any exit and easy escape,
When I heard the old familiar notes of our song beginning to play on my rustiest heartstring.
As I stood in the cereal aisle with Chex in one hand, Cheerios in the other,
I flooded with poultry of what these words once were to me, to us.
I recalled the time shopping for towels that our tune played
And you wordlessly pulled me in to sway right there
Among the Egyptian cotton and terrycloth.
How I cherished that moment then.
How I am haunted by it now.
The lyrics, now so laden with meaning,
Laughing in my face with irony,
Make me want to tear open the boxes in my hands
And watch the breakfast roll down the manilla tiles of aisle seven.
A life that we once swore was better together
Is distant. Foreign. Foggy.
I soon realize that I have been deciding for five minutes.
I scoop up the chick, tuck it back inside its box
And put the cereal back on the shelf.
I exit the store leaving my appetite and the memory on the shelf.
I have learned to collect all of the scrambling memories I have of you,
Running around like fluffy little chicks.
I scoop them up quickly, stick them in a box and close the lid that throbs like a new bruise.
But every once in a while, a little yellow memory escapes
And sneaks its oily way into my conscience,
Interrupting a once placid moment.
Once, I was in the grocery store--
Way in the grocery store--
Far from any exit and easy escape,
When I heard the old familiar notes of our song beginning to play on my rustiest heartstring.
As I stood in the cereal aisle with Chex in one hand, Cheerios in the other,
I flooded with poultry of what these words once were to me, to us.
I recalled the time shopping for towels that our tune played
And you wordlessly pulled me in to sway right there
Among the Egyptian cotton and terrycloth.
How I cherished that moment then.
How I am haunted by it now.
The lyrics, now so laden with meaning,
Laughing in my face with irony,
Make me want to tear open the boxes in my hands
And watch the breakfast roll down the manilla tiles of aisle seven.
A life that we once swore was better together
Is distant. Foreign. Foggy.
I soon realize that I have been deciding for five minutes.
I scoop up the chick, tuck it back inside its box
And put the cereal back on the shelf.
I exit the store leaving my appetite and the memory on the shelf.
Friday, March 27, 2009
What is it With Love?
The great William Shakespeare once said, “To say the truth, reason and love keep little company together now-a-days.” Truer words were never spoken! So what is it about love that makes intelligent, sensible people into witless, imprudent fools?
I, myself, am no exception to the foolhardiness of love. My poor heart has been stretched, squeezed and popped so many times that it’s a wonder it is still beating. With my ingénue sense of hope, I walk clumsily through my days falling in love with everyone I meet. This is not to say that I have a relationship, or even a conversation, with most of the people I fall in love with. Rather, I hold in my mind a wonderfully idealistic view of who everyone I encounter is in their own lives. In my wild mind, everyone, from the man who bags my groceries to the fellow who tears my movie stub, is an friendly, happy and romantic being just waiting to share his love with me.
I play out these beautiful, poetry-laden conversations with my fantasy Joes all day long. This one smiles crookedly at me, so he harbors a secret passion for French cuisine and is just dying to cook me up a soufflé au fromage. That one says, “How can I help you?” in a voice so smooth it can only be used to sing me a gorgeous and delightful love song.
No matter who they are or what they are doing, I can find something to love in everyone, a fact that leaves me extremely open and vulnerable. I dig around in the recesses of my mind, searching for the inherent goodness in every man and woman I come across. Because of this, I wander through the supermarket and the drug store and the deli with a silly grin pasted on my face for every person I meet. Every outing is a new opportunity for love and every new face inspires a fresh round of make-believe confabulation.
But no matter how silly this is or how irresponsible I am with my heart, I would rather walk around as an over-loving sap than as a hardened emotional statue. So perhaps Mr. Shakespeare was right, love and reason cannot take up residence in the same heart, but is a silly, unreasoning heart such a bad thing afterall?
I, myself, am no exception to the foolhardiness of love. My poor heart has been stretched, squeezed and popped so many times that it’s a wonder it is still beating. With my ingénue sense of hope, I walk clumsily through my days falling in love with everyone I meet. This is not to say that I have a relationship, or even a conversation, with most of the people I fall in love with. Rather, I hold in my mind a wonderfully idealistic view of who everyone I encounter is in their own lives. In my wild mind, everyone, from the man who bags my groceries to the fellow who tears my movie stub, is an friendly, happy and romantic being just waiting to share his love with me.
I play out these beautiful, poetry-laden conversations with my fantasy Joes all day long. This one smiles crookedly at me, so he harbors a secret passion for French cuisine and is just dying to cook me up a soufflé au fromage. That one says, “How can I help you?” in a voice so smooth it can only be used to sing me a gorgeous and delightful love song.
No matter who they are or what they are doing, I can find something to love in everyone, a fact that leaves me extremely open and vulnerable. I dig around in the recesses of my mind, searching for the inherent goodness in every man and woman I come across. Because of this, I wander through the supermarket and the drug store and the deli with a silly grin pasted on my face for every person I meet. Every outing is a new opportunity for love and every new face inspires a fresh round of make-believe confabulation.
But no matter how silly this is or how irresponsible I am with my heart, I would rather walk around as an over-loving sap than as a hardened emotional statue. So perhaps Mr. Shakespeare was right, love and reason cannot take up residence in the same heart, but is a silly, unreasoning heart such a bad thing afterall?
Some Great Veins
"Wow! You have great veins!" As if I haven't heard this every time they tighten the tourniquet; as if this is supposed to make me feel good about the fact that they are pilfering 9 vials of blood. Am I supposed to say thank you? I swear, the phlebotomists see me coming and draw straws to see who is going to get me. "If only everyone could have such great veins as this!" If only I wasn't the only one in the waiting room who can't qualify for the early bird special.
I look around at the others in the room. Most are old enough to be my grandparents. They stare at me like I am some sort of oddity, asking with their eyes, why are you here? I feel their pity like a wet blanket surrounding me and it is suffocating. The receptionist, who always calls my honey or sweetie, taps her fake nails on the counter and smiles a sympathetic smile at me. I straighten in my seat and try to watch the medical TV that is blaring in the corner. Why can't they just put on something mindless like Golden Girls or The Price is Right? Instead, we all pretend to be really interested in what happens when you crack your knuckles and how to prevent osteoarthritis.
I stare at my hands, wondering what I ever did to make them rebel against me. I cross and uncross my legs trying fruitlessly to find a comfortable spot. Soon I will be called back for more poking and prodding. The technician will mix my concoction and affix my needle. I've done this enough, why do I still get nervous? I make eye contact with a small woman who is so riddled with arthritis that she is nearly folded in half, her knotty hands clutching a leopard-print cane. She squints her eyes in an ancient smile and says, "We can still wear necklaces." I notice she has three on, one with a bright blue pendant. "And bracelets," I tell her, showing her my two.
"Susan!" It's my turn. As I cross the room, all of the wise eyes follow me, noticing my all-too-familiar gait. Down the narrow, bright hallway I am led. I take my seat among the infusion elders, saying my hellos to the other regulars. Most have been there for hours and are sleeping or talking softly to their neighbors. Our large rolling chairs form a neat half-circle so that we are all facing one another, the fluid-filled bags hanging like ornaments on cold metal Christmas trees. The technician comes over to take my vitals and get me started. She wraps the blue smelly rubber around my bicep and I see her face light up. "Oh my, you have such great veins!" I just smile and say thank you.
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