I snapped the camera just as she turned. Just after she asked me how old she was. Just after she said it was impossible that she was going to be ninety. Just after she declared she was only twenty-seven.
I could see it in her eyes. The blank stare that sees beyond time yet holds on to the past. The struggle between here and there. The movie that ends and credits are rolling.
Seventy years ago today Mom and Dad got married at a very young age. I wondered how it all would have turned out had they stayed married all this time. Mom wondered about that too as she told me the story about how she met Dad. I could see it in her eyes.
Finally, a bit of winter has arrived in Southern California, hurried cars, auto wars, frustrated drivers forgetting the trickery, the slickery of roads, all going home at the same time, the same pace, the same rat race, fighting the sleep in a heap of wet smog, dodging a Beemer who wants to be first, is the worst, all getting there in due time, eventually, but with this rhyme we are all the same, as we drive home together in the rain.
Small Stone - Jan 31 The fog rolls in, gently
over parched hills, fading the green from the pines, changing browns into
grays, turning the familiar scenery into an unknown land, yet adventurous,
wanting nothing but the freedom to roam and play out its part, in the
uncertainty and inevitable ways of the forest.
It still hasn't rained in this area yet. A few sprinkles last weekend that evaporated so fast they couldn't be measured. These past few days the sky has filled with plenty of clouds that look promising but seemingly scatter and dissolve into the sunset, adding one more day without rain.
I went to see an elderly friend in the hospital today. She was in a deep medicated sleep, breathing heavy, eyes silent and unaware, hands and arms bruised from all the care she was given in the ICU; remnants of a survivor of a massive heart attack. I wondered if she knew I was there? I couldn't wake her, no one could wake her. Just held her hand and told her that I loved her and wished her well so we could play cards again...her favourite thing. She didn't stir until I got up to leave. Again, I held her hand, told her I loved her and would come visit in a few days. With eyes still closed, she gave back the faintest, most lovely smile.
pulling at the sun
pulling at my heart
Today, yes even on Sunday, I got a phone call from an
obviously scumbag Telemarketer who asked for my stepfather by his full formal
name.He said he talked to my stepdad a
few months ago about remodeling the kitchen and was following up to see if he
was going to honour the contract by putting a deposit down.I listened to his spiel about how easy it
would be over the phone to use a credit card, and waited until he stopped
talking and then said, "I don't know about the arrangements you’ve made
with my dad but I can try to forward the message to him if you would like and
he can take care of it?The silly
Telemarketer said, “I would appreciate that, Miss.So I said, “It might take a while to get a
hold of him though because he died eight years ago and I don’t exactly know
where he’s at."
It was Friday morning, church day
for the ninth and tenth graders, and we were on our way to Mass. Down the
dreaded steps to the lower field, across the volleyball court and then up
another steep set of stairs to the campus chapel. It was a weary trail of
exercise just before lunch and too soon after the morning gym class. We
couldn’t wait to be Seniors and then we would be able to walk across the
coveted ramp that ran beside the library windows on the second floor. The
ramp was a straight walk from the classrooms to the chapel but was also a
privilege, earned and reserved, only for the Senior class.
Three months into the new school
year and already two tenth graders were expelled for smoking marijuana in The
Cave under the Senior ramp. As we filed into the little European style
chapel, Sr. Ursula stood at the foot of the alter, arms sternly folded at her
chest and hidden under the bib of her black habit, waiting to reprimand both
classes and warn us of the perils of cannabis and mortal sin.
Gabby, Yvette and I sat on the
ninth grader’s side, in the back pew next to the stained-glass window that had
the most purple in it. The morning sun filtered through the windows on
the other side of the chapel and beamed their brilliant colours over to us,
making rainbow fairies on the wall just above Elaine Bronson’s ratted Bubble
hairdo. Why we thought that was so funny, I don’t know, but we sat there
and giggled about it until Elaine turned around and told us to shush. She
was holier than we were, silently kneeling and praying for forgiveness before
she would receive communion, so we followed her example and knelt down.
even the rainbow fairies
Pat Crumley came in late, as
usual, and sat in the pew in front of us next to Elaine. She was detained
in Sr. Leo’s office with a verbal warning about her skirt being too
short…again. Sr. Leo did not know that Patricia was with the two tenth
graders in The Cave, under the ramp; Pat gave us a quick glance of relief as
she knelt down in prayer. The first year at the Academy, a prestigious all-girl college prep school, was a filter. If you
were called into the office three times you were expelled, never to
return. That was Patricia’s second offense.
It was almost eleven o’clock and
Mass had not yet started. Sr. Ursula told us to read our prayer books or
quietly say the rosary while she went to see what was delaying Father
Booth. As soon as she was out the door both classes started accusing each
other of snitching about the marijuana incident.
“You should be expelled
too!” A tenth grader from the front pew stood up and pointed a finger
“Shut-up candy-ass or you’re
gonna get pants’d during lunch.” Pat shouted back.
Blame was echoing all the way up
to the exposed wooden beams of the tiny chapel when Sr. Sheila, the principal,
finally came in and slowly walked up to the podium.
“You’re a goner now, Pat,”
Yvette whispered and then made the sign of the cross and sat back in the pew.
Sr. Ursula and Sr. Sheila
scanned the chapel from front to back with solemn faces of disbelief, seemingly
searching for someone to blame, something to scream at. Gads, had we been
The chapel went completely
“I have some disturbing news...”
Sr. Sheila hesitantly said.
The pause was almost unbearable
for Patricia. She closed her eyes and bit down on her lower lip.
remembering the moment
Patricia opened her eyes.
“President Kennedy…has been shot
Pat turned her head towards us
and let out a scream then quickly covered her mouth. Yvette’s face went pale as
Gabby gathered our three bodies together and cried. Two boarder students from
Venezuela fell to their knees and started praying the Hail Mary out loud.
Elizabeth from Connecticut fainted. One by one bursts of tears and
gasping screams emerged from each pew and flooded the chapel as tenth grade
girls comforted ninth grade girls. Elaine Bronson threw up.
Sr. Sheila tapped the
microphone. “Girls, girls…now girls, we have to be strong and pray for
the departed soul of our fallen President, for his wife, his children, and our
saddened country. Father Booth will not be available for Mass at this
time so please return to your homerooms for further instruction and
She then excused herself, her
black veil rhythmically flying up in an angry breeze that was powered by her
hurried exit back to the privacy of her office.
Stunned into silent weeps, we
filed out of the chapel, past the nurse who was tending to the bump on
Elizabeth’s head, back down the stairs to the lower court and up the second set
of stairs, without complaint, holding hands and comforting each other as we
returned to our homerooms to listen on the PA system to the sparse details of
what had gone so wrong in Texas.
The mundane childishness of
ninth and tenth grade bantering and silliness seemed pointless. The purity of
innocence was shattered. We were thrown into the grown up world, by
tragedy, by default, by necessity.
We did not know it then but we
were changed in many ways; many ways that we had yet to discover and fully
how green the grassy knoll
Published in SIMPLY
HAIKU, Winter 2011, Vol.8 No. 3