Handcuffed

There is always advice to stand back when your kids have kids. People will tell you to keep your distance and let the kids make mistakes, but what do you do when these young/new parents are a disgrace. Furthermore, the grandchild has learning disabilities and is on the spectrum. I stand back and watch as these new parents - who are no longer together - force this academically challenged child into a “normal” or regular classroom where he is totally lost. I offered to pay for a private speciality school and somehow they screwed it up thus he returns to the public school system with more harm being done. The most recent episode involves the child writing on a book and not doing assigned work. A text from the teacher has been shared, and it clearly states the child will not do the work so this has been happening all year.

“He doesn’t need to be in a regular class.”

“No, he usually is quiet and does his work, he just had a bad week.” The baby momma responds in a way that reveals her ignorance and possible inability to understand what the teacher was expressing.

This conversation punched me in the face and kicked up my anxiety as I realize, maybe finally fully realize, that there is nothing I can do. I cannot fix this and I cannot do anything immediate as this is not my child so everything is out of my reach and I have no control.

I sit here tonight in a funk as I now have to watch this young child continue to fail, fail, fail and fall further behind as neither parent wants to put in the work with the little one. My son complains that he has to do everything and she (babby momma) will do nothing. I want to scream at him that it does not matter, you must do it. Also, he needs to be reminded that his own father did nothing, it was all his mother and me.

I want to run away, I want to no longer be connected to this, I want to be gone.

Mom called

It's just, 

your mom

I guess, 

you do

not want, 

to talk 

to me,

anyway

I will 

talk to,

maybe,

someday,

you will 

call me

Clear

I am suddenly awake, sitting upright, I hear a noise. I squint and survey the room before realizing the pounding is in my head. 

"What the fuck?" I close my eyes and slowly rub my temples. I lie back on the pillow, staring at the ceiling. Finally, I push back the cover and swing my legs, my feet hit the floor. I do everything in slow motion as to not wake her, slowly creep downstairs into the kitchen.

The plastic container of pills bounces off the linoleum floor, echoing through the house like a bomb was dropped.

"What, everything okay down there?" Despite all of my efforts, I have woken her.

"Yeah, just a headache, getting a couple Excedrin, all good, sorry I woke you." Usually, I would yell upstairs for her to hear, but the stillness of the night - noise travels easily.

"You should turn the light on."

"As always, you're right, go back to sleep." I drop to one knee and scoop the pills, form a cone with my hand and drop them back in their container. I make a mental note to search for stragglers in the daylight. I hold two pills in my palm and slap it against my mouth and swallow - she always grimaces when I do it without water.

I decide against returning to bed and descend the stairs to the lower level. I drop on the couch and grab the blanket as the banging in my head continues. I sit up and lean forward, head in my hands, attempting to will it away.

Leaning back again, I close my eyes and rest the back of my head on the cushion - it is momentarily cool to touch, feels good. Blood pulsates through the back of my head across my skull and down to the top of my eyes across both the sides of my face into my temples and down to my nose, splitting and into my cheeks. I press my thumbs just under my cheeks and press upward - "Ouch" - I mumble to myself.

As I remain there an hour later, it dawns on me to check my blood pressure. I scramble to the bathroom, finding the device in the back of the cabinet. Of course, it does not work so a return trip upstairs to the kitchen for batteries is necessary but much less quiet this time as I know the route by heart.

160/120 flashes at me with a red warning signal in the upper right of the lcd display. I repeatedly check it finishing with six readings. I quickly compute their averages in my head - 155/121. I think back to similar tests with dad.

"Sit still and keep that arm outstretched with palm facing up." I open the instruction pamphlet and point it at him to further illustrate how to get a proper reading. 

"These things don't work." He grumbles while fidgeting in his seat like a kid.

"Sit still, it hurts the reading if you are moving, take a few deep breaths and relax, sit still!" It feels like the fifth time I have said it, and upon reflection it is in fact the fifth time.

"Where's your diploma?"

"I'm just taking this test to check as the nurse instructed, so shut the fuck up and sit still, goddamnit." I remember cursing is the only thing he follows.

"You do have a diploma, ain't that right?" He glances at me with his hardened, wrinkled face and blood shot eyes. What little hair he has is going in every direction. The look in his eyes catches me off guard, like it is expressing something to me as a real father.

"Yes, I showed it to you, shit, I don't even know where it is now." I search my mind for the whereabouts of my hard-fought diploma, the first in the family. Now that I think about it, it seems to be in the closet in my office. Those things are so important at one point in life, we finally get them, show them and then forget and no job ever asks about them again. Was it worth it?

"Yeah, yeah, I member, pretty piece of paper, you know, I am proud of you, you know that?"

"That right?"

"Don't be a wise ass."

"Well, no, I did not know that, I appreciate you saying it." It is true, it is the first time he has ever said anything like it, maybe the first time he has acknowledged my schooling in positive terms.

"Can I get that in writing? You know, nobody will believe it without proof."

"Fuck you."

"Let's see, looks like you are in the 128/90 range. Not the best, but no where near bad, especially some of those readings when you had the strokes." I hold up the monitor and my hand written notes to show him.

"That right?"

"I seem to remember 170/130 with your first stroke, the doctor told me."

I look at my own 160/120 again and think at least it not as high as Dad's so many years ago, then a part of me feels like I should be able to beat his score. This makes me briefly smile before returning to the here and now of a blinding headache.

This time, I explore my office and quickly find the Lisiniporol in my desk drawer. I grab two and swallow, this time with the rest of a nearby Gatorade. I know the pills take a long time to hit, so probably no help tonight. I return to the couch and try everything to calm myself with the theory it will lower my blood pressure.

"Deep breath 1-2-3-4-5, hold it 1-2-3-4-5, exhale 1-2-3-4-5." I whisper the deep breathing technique from a therapist - it was supposed to help with anxiety (did not) but maybe good here, I repeat it six times. 

Somewhere along the line I do fall asleep.

The sun peeks through the wide slat blinds and I slowly raise my head - still pounding. The blood pressure monitor routine is repeated now with a 163/124 average. With the wife gone to work, I pull on my jeans, grab a t-shirt and head to nearby hospital as I am officially worried.

"Your ID please? And you have to wear this." The security guard stops me at the emergency room entrance where I hand over my ID while securing the mask in place.

"How can we help you today?" I almost ask for a number one with coffee as it feels like a question at McDonald's. 

"My head is pounding, body aching, foggy and blood pressure consistently 160/130 range." 

"Mr. Patton, have you been taking the measurement yourself?" The non-so-perky nurse in blue scrubs speaks slowly as if I am either or both hard of hearing or an idiot. She taps the keys to record my answers - she already has my ID info from the guard.

"Who else would take them?" I am not trying to be trouble, I sincerely want to know who else she thinks was going to do this.

"Your wife or husband, significant other, son, daughter ...?"

"Just me."

"Do you own a device that records the measurement?"

"No, I just squeezed my arm, counted the pulsating blood and guessed." It is clearly apparent she thinks I am an idiot.

"Well, some people have the real or official blood pressure cups that doctors use, so just wanted to check." She is not amused by my answer.

"Oh, no it is a device I found at Walgreen's."

"Did you bring it with you?"

"No."

"How are you feeling right now?" She stops typing for the first time and looks up at me from her seat. She looks tired, it is 7 AM so I wonder if she had been there all night. She has a hardened look, demeanor, she has seen things.

"Like shit, dizzy, head feels like it is going to split open and hatch." I absentmindedly rub the sparse hair on my head. I know the hair is sticking up in all directions, makes me think of my old history teacher in college who seemed to prefer his hair look like that - I always called it the bald Einstein look.

"Mary, can you put him in a wheelchair?" She motions for another young woman to assist.

"Thank you Mary, and what is her name?" I point at the woman behind the desk, banging on the keyboard.

"Oh, that is Sophelia, but we all call her So. She's pretty, you think?" Mary secures me in the chair and pushes me in front of So.

"Yeah, all of you young kids are pretty, I wasn't trying to flirt and be a creep, I was just wondering." It felt weird for Mary to comment on the other's appearance. I always worry that women think all men are creeps. I guess deep in our minds we all have thoughts, but thoughts are just thoughts for most men.

"Okay, now Mr. Patton, I just need you to sign and initial a few things using this device." She slides a small black rectangle electronic device in front of me. I initial and sign using it as she instructs.

"Thank you." I so want them to know I am not the creep that Mary implied.

"Mary, take him to bay 5 and Dr. Philstance will be in shortly."

"Thanks again."

"My pleasure Mr. Patton, I hope you are better soon." So flashes a smile and small wave as I roll away.

"Okay, let's go, it'll be a bit bumpy, so hold on." We traverse a few hallways with ongoing construction before finally rolling into a new area with curtained areas lining each wall - these are called bays, staging areas for patients. You either go in there and leave or stay longer and get a room.

"Mr. Patton, so the blood pressure again?" Dr. Philstance appears much sooner than expected as Mary had just instructed me to line in the bed and hooked up a IV.

"Yeah, it just happened, no warning. Fine yesterday, no sleep and now here I am." I gesture wildly with my hands.

"Well, we have seen this before with you, any big stressors these days?" He looks up and makes eye contact, holds it about 5 seconds too long, and returns to feeling my body and checking and rechecking the chart.

"The normal, work, travel, raising the grandson, son got laid off, marital issues as wife finally realized I am an idiot, roof needs fixed, dryer broken, car making a noise, Mom won't shut up, Dad is gone but still lingers, bored with work and layoffs loom, getting old and now blood pressure skyrockets."

"Whoa."

"Well." I feel like I've only told him a quarter of the things running through my mind.

"Your wife here today?" He looks around for another person who obviously is not there.

"No, I didn't want to disturb here, waiting until she left for work and then came here."

"You thinks she'll be worried?"

"I'll tell her later."

"Interesting."

"I guess."

"You don't think it is odd to keep this from your wife?"

"You ever feel like you made the wrong choice?"

"What?"

"Nevermind, anyway, not a secret, I'll tell her later, besides, she had big meeting today."

"The IV has brought it back down to normal - 115/78. You still taking the Lisiniporol?"

"Yes."

"Every day?"

"Yes."

"I was going to say increase it, but is it fine all other times?"

"Yes."

"Well, maybe you can stay for a while, we'll see about overnight, to monitor you."

"No."

"No?"

"I am not staying, waste of time and money, besides I need to get to work."

"You should really rest for a couple days, your body has been through a lot of stress today and yesterday."

"We'll see, but I am not staying."

"Alright, well I think we're done here, do you have any questions for me?"

"No." 

Hm

 Sometimes we do what is wrong to get to what is right.

The End

I can't think of a lot of endings that I have loved as I usually don't want a book - that I love - to end. One fresh in my mind is Gone Girl as I recently rewatched the movie and the ending is the same as the book and the ending is just crazy. The ending is unsettling as Nick stays with Amy despite her insanity given that she is having her baby. Wow, I just reread that line and that seems like a summary of a Young and the Restless story. Meanwhile, Amy believes she has won and succeeding in keeping her husband with her forever. I read one review or summary that it highlights the complexities of a marriage/relationship, really? It makes me think of another one of my favorite books, The Talented Mr. Ripley, where the main characters gets away with everything and gets a reward at the end. A lot of books have endings where everything is wrapped up with no loose ends like Crime and Punishment where Raskolnikov goes to prison for what he has done.

Order Up!

I pulled the spray handle down and rinsed the dishes, placing them on the trays before pushing them onto the conveyor belt pulling them through the washer. Steam rolled from the floor length contraption as I, the lone worker in the kitchen, emptied the bus tubs were loudly placed on the shiny, stainless steel counter to the right. I wiped the sweat from my brow, dumping the uneaten food through the hole in the counter into the trash bin below. I looked up at the clock, nine o'clock, only two more hours before I was free with a book report needing completion for school tomorrow. I absently tugged on the trash bin. You had to be careful with how much it contained as water was deposited with the food. The result was a tripling of the weight, the one time I had let it completely full resulted in recruiting two other guys to lift it into the dumpster outside. As the washer whirred, I turned and leaned against the counter, suddenly realizing I had not seen another person in quite some time. We were nearing closing time, so where did everybody go? Where was my help? I strolled through the swinging door out of the kitchen into the open cooking area and the restaurant. There were seven, seven individuals including the manager. They were sitting, laughing, talking about who knows what with all of the customers gone. There were still tables to be cleaned, which went with kitchen duty. "There is a lot to clean back there before closing." I announced to the gathered group with no response. The irritation gathered in my system, percolating. "I really could use some help." I turned and directed this to the night manager - a man I had delivered money to a few weeks prior to cover gambling debts at a local pool hall. He raised his hands as if he had no control. The agitation within me grew, my body tense, I stood motionless for a few minutes, staring straight past everybody, through the front windows and out into the now empty mall. I could see the nearby fountain, remembering a friend and I scooping out the loose change depositing by shoppers making wishes. It was enough to buy us a pizza that night. I smiled for just a minute before turning and returning to the kitchen. I tossed my apron on the counter as the dish washer continued to run, now with nothing inside. I hit the button to shut it down. I walked to the far wall, removed my time card, clocked out and returned the time card to its slot on the wall. I found my coat and slowly put it on, one eye on the door as there was still time for somebody to step through that door and provide assistance. The silence of the storage room surrounded me before the decision was finalized. I picked up my apron before walking through swinging door again. "You'll have to find somebody to finish the dishes and cleanup now." The manager looked up and turned towards as my apron hit his face and landed with a thud on the edge of his desk. "Hey, calm down." He stood and faced me, letting the apron fall to the floor. He stepped over it towards me. "I quit!" I raised my hand and flashed my middle finger to all of them. The car started easily for a change with an uneventful and peaceful drive home.

Show Up

In the grand panorama of life, in this story, that is your own, Listen, dear graduates, to the wisdom, age-old and known, You stand on the precipice of dreams, of possibilities unfurled, Ready to etch your vibrant colors on the canvas of the world. Show up, dear dreamers, show up, let your presence shine, In moments great or humble, in the ordinary, find the divine. Awaken in the dawn of every day, every moment seize, For the magic of your journey lies in these myriad entities. Each tick of the clock, each beat of your heart, Is a chance for you, a new path to chart. Every choice you make, every step you tread, Lays the foundation for the life ahead. The classroom, the workplace, the world so wide, Need not only your mind, but your heart beside, The power of presence, so simple, yet profound, In the echo of your footsteps, let this truth resound. Showing up, isn’t merely about being there, But weaving threads of empathy, of love, of care, For life is a mosaic of moments, strung like beads, And the beauty emerges when each one intercedes. Show up for the laughter, the joy and the cheer, But also for the trials, the struggles, the tear. Show up for your loved ones, in their joy and strife, Because your presence might just be the light of their life. To show up is to honor the precious gift of time, To echo back to life, a melody sublime, It's the soft whisper in the silence, the strength in the crowd, The courage in the chaos, a voice gentle, yet loud. So show up, dear graduates, for this journey, so vast, Embrace each sunrise, be present, till the very last. Remember, every moment is but a brush stroke in your art, So show up, be present, gift the world the grace of your heart.

Namesake

I had a friend, or so I thought, in middle school and halfway through high school that shared my first name - the two Tony's. We were always cutting up and laughing in middle school, teachers would separate us to stop the disruptions. The one and only time I was disciplined was because of him - both of us standing facing the wall with hands on it like we were being searched by police. Mr. Williams proceeded to get a fellow teacher to witness as he delivered a blow with his paddle that he nicknamed The Enforcer. It was punishment for throwing water in science class that finished with a note to my Mom stating "Tony was throwing H2O in class" and my convincing her that was water and not acid or some other harmful substance. He was a Jehovah's Witness that was only a problem when we attended sporting events and his refusal to stand for the national anthem was an issue for those around us. His family called me a Worldly, but they never recruited me which seemed odd. We often played basketball together and he would demean me as teams were chosen. He would never choose me and as we entered high school the unkind treatment increased. He gravitated to more popular classmates and often ignored me until the others were not present. I detached from him during our sophomore year as his attitude worsened. Also, he basically gave up doing schoolwork since his religion discouraged higher education. It is odd to reflect on our so-called friendship and realize the pervasiveness of the bullying. One positive for myself is I faced him (his team) in a local basketball tournament a few years after high school and my team winning and my outperforming him. He tried to reconnect after that game, but I moved on to better people and friends.

Refuge

I love libraries and bookstores and the only explanation I have for that (other than loving books) is they were refuge during my formative years. I did not spend a lot of time in my school library other than assigned class time in there, but I did spend a lot of time in the main branch of our city library system. I would beg my Mom to take me there every chance possible. It is located at the edge of downtown Louisville. The building itself is grand with it described as a Victorian-style Carnegie structure. There is a library museum in the basement and a display space on the main level where art installations and historical presentations are setup. Any time I could get a ride to the library, I would walk through the giant doors and breath in the wonderful library smell. I would browse the display space and possibly learn something before heading upstairs to the main stacks. I would grab books on any subjects that were in my mind at that point plus some fiction selections. The limit was ten books at a time, and I never had less than ten. There were numerous fines to be paid, and I always had to pay with my own money. As we rode home, I would run my hands over the books, pull out the check out cards in the back and view the other times the books had been checked out. Once home, I would disappear in my room with the stack and tackle a few books - I can remember many times trodding through a book that was clearly over my head, but I tried and many other times the books were just what I needed. The books served as my companion during many hard times and the library itself was like a cathedral. My brother often teased me about the books and library and Mom never liked driving downtown, but I appreciate the fact that she did. As I reflect back on those days, I see the books provided plenty of learning and fantasy, but they also provided hope of better times which did happen. I actually lived close to the main library branch in college and it never lost its luster. While I don't go there often these days, I still provide support and hope it helps others but now the Internet offers a gateway not available long ago.

Streble

The bell rings ending fourth period, everyone grabs their belongings and bolts out the door into the crowded hallway. I put the completed handout in my folder, stack my books and stand in no rush since my fifth period class - Algebra - is only a few doors to the left down the hallway. "Mr. Patton!" I am startled as Mr. Streble approaches me, his standard disheveled wardrobe consisting of dark dress pants, plaid shirt, wide tie and well-worn brown shoes that I now know are wingtips. "Mr. Streble." "Your paper on Garfield was excellent." He reaches out and hands me the graded report with a nice fat red A at the top. "Thank you, his time in office was limited but he had a long political career before that." The assignment was a biography of a US President - any president. "Yes, your paper provided great details of his time in congress and his poor upbringing." He stands with hands stuffed in trouser pockets and grins. "It was interesting to read about somebody that is never discussed." I did not remember why I had chosen Garfield, but I had found a few books in the school library that provided all the information needed for five pages. "You actually read the books listed in the bibliography, didn't you?" "Sure, your assignment said to use two sources." I take a step back as his infamous coffee breath spreads and begins to fill the space around me. "You are probably the only one in the class that followed those instructions and read the material. You read, gathered your facts and crafted the paper. It is great." "Thank you." I am uncomfortable with the kind words. "I am serious, do not let anyone change the way you approach your work. I am not sure why you are in this level of class, but you are a great student - very smart. None of the others care about any of this." He waves his hand across the room while staring past me. "I do appreciate that." I have no clue what to say. "I am not kidding, keep up the great work, never stop." He leans in close to me and pats my shoulder. I thank him again and float out of the classroom to the next class.

The stranger cont.

I know something is amiss as my feet hit the floor Sunday morning. I look around, I am not alone - it is quiet, too quiet. I rub my eyes and forehead, unable to fully wake. I hear footsteps and then the grandson bolts through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I can say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He lies back, giggling, his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seize the opportunity to lie back on the bed, wrap my arm around him with a big squeeze. I just want to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the little one are priceless. “Rush?” He whispers unequivocally and look at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I explain while feeling dryness in my throat. I feel a lump as I swallow. I feel like coughing but somehow avoid it. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with math and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispers facts or highlights from his week with his mother, it is the highlight of my week. I feel blessed to have these moments. “What is wrong with your head?” He sits up, watching me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, and I need some tea to start the day, maybe with some honey.” It was a small lie, or I think so, as my head pounds. I can close my eyes and count my heart rate with the throbbing. I am not sure if the hot tea will help, but it sounds good. Besides, this is how our Sunday morning talks end. I feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking. He bounces from bed, grabs my hand and I follow, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I start the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joins and takes over. I shake a couple Tylenol from the bottle (in the back of my mind, I remember all the covid posts on the Web saying avoid ibuprofen), chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger taking over. I lower my increasingly achey body into a chair at the table as the little one finds a seat directly across from me. I smile while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sits a cup of tea in front of me while rubbing my shoulders. I mumble something incoherent while shaking my head yes. As I sip the tea (it does feel good on my throat), I wonder if I should isolate - it begins with a sore throat, right? “You don’t look good.” She leans on the kitchen island while eyeing me suspiciously. Thirty years together means a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.” "Pop pop, is Godzilla bigger than King Kong?" The smile flashes in my direction from the other end of the table as he scoops up oatmeal. "Of course, he is the King of the monsters." This is not the first time I have been asked this, I know the answer because he is obsessed with Godzilla. I carry my cup and slowly return to bed. [The new part] The stranger completely consumes me over the next few days. The aches in addition to the throbbing headache explode across my body with fever alternating extreme cold with tropical heat. The covers piled on me and then on the floor and then back again. The only interesting aspect of the ordeal was the dreams - at one point I am walking the dark subway tunnels of New York and playing with rats while a stranger chases us, and then the rats chase me. It was a few days before the fever “broke” and the cough appears. The sleep was something to behold since I am a well-known insomniac. How could anybody sleep so much, but then my body reminded me of the how and why. I push forward with the commitments of my day job, but all of the coughing in zoom meetings was too much. Also, the few times I turned on my camera during calls is met with gasps and genuine sympathy and pleas to go rest and return another day. Eventually, I relent and retreat to bed and long stretches of sleep. At this point, everything comes to a screeching halt with not much fuss. The time leading up to my illness is a time of mounting tensions at home. Like a cliche, we had grown apart, each doing our own thing. “When do you think the stranger will be done with me?” I mumbled this to myself one night riding the wave of a fever. "What did you say?" She appeared at the door, wondering about the chatter. "It was nothing." I did not have the energy to explain. The many days of care somehow reconnected us - providing ample opportunity to demonstrate and accept love. "How is my patient today?" She would push open the door, mask firmly in place and disinfectant spray in one hand. At first, the precautions angered me, but I did not wish to make anybody else sick. In the midst of the covid pandemic, who really knows what to do? "I am good." I always say this even when laying on the floor covered with sweat. She caresses my forehead with a wet rag when the fever persists. She brings me food and drink followed by long talks once I turn the corner and the stranger walks away. These are talks we would never have if permitted to work and follow the routine. There was lots of talk of the many adventures, the sparks return - it is surprising to be reminded of why you are with someone. I shrug off the reminder of how many times I had mumbled the words “I don’t need you” while realizing that was far from true.

Don't forget to breath

"Have you been practicing your deep breathing? Being mindful?" The therapist looks directly at me, holding an iPad, awaiting my reply. "All the breathing in the world is not going to help." I cover my face with my hands and rub, wanting to scream while avoiding eye contact for as long as possible. I finally lower my hands and watch as she makes notes on the iPad. I feel old that I remember when they held actual paper and pen, but then feel odd that I have been seeing these people for so long. Ancient Greek physician Hippocrates described symptoms resembling anxiety and melancholia, referring to an imbalance of bodily fluids or "humors." "Well, nothing will work with that attitude. Do you actually want to improve?" "I think so. I am here, I showed up, right?" The question is jarring. Of course, I don't want to have a total meltdown that requires me to run and hide in my office until I can gain some semblance of composure. And, does she not realize I don't really want to be here talking to her. "Well, you do still keep showing up, that is a positive. So, what was the trigger this time?" "There was an interview, can't remember if on tv or online, but it was a convicted child molester describing how he picked victims. The guy said he looked for loners, kids without fathers around and those without heavy parental involvement." My face felt flush, I could feel panic sweeping over me, I took another long deep breath - maybe the breathing did help? "Oh wow, so this would definitely trigger you, it took you back to being that little boy? We've discussed this, we need to talk to that little boy and offer help." "There is no help, unless you have a time machine." I lean back and stare straight into the ceiling, willing the tears to remain in my eyes, I stretch my jaw and take yet another deep breath, exhale and return to the moment. I lower my head and realize she is watching me, but then again what else would she be doing. Sigmund Freud, a prominent figure in psychiatry, introduced the concept of neurosis in the 19th century, which encompassed various anxiety-related conditions. Freud's psychoanalytic theories focused on the unconscious mind and childhood experiences as determinants of anxiety. His work played a significant role in shaping the understanding of anxiety disorders. "See the breathing can help, provide some relief." She smiled watching me exhale. "Yeah, it's a life saver." I look at her, but my mind is back to being that little boy. I am helpless. The DSM-III, published in 1980, introduced specific diagnostic criteria for anxiety disorders, including generalized anxiety disorder, panic disorder, and phobias, among others. Initial medications for these ailments included Xanax and Valium. Later, selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs), like Prozac and Zoloft, gained prominence. "Well, it is just one of the items available in our toolbox." She makes more notes on the iPad. "Yeah, but the pills cause too many other problems, not worth the trouble." Today, the treatment of anxiety disorders often involves a multimodal approach that combines medication, psychotherapy (such as cognitive-behavioral therapy), and lifestyle modifications. "Are you ready to try another EMD session? I know they are taxing, but the trauma needs to be addressed." She sits back with arms folded across her chest, we keep going round and round on this topic. "Ugh, I dunno, not sure, it put me in a bad place for a week. I was exhausted." I fidget thinking of a past session where EMD was introduced and performed, I felt like I had been in a fight afterwards, but there had been some revelations. I'm just afraid of what else could be uncovered, not ready for more surprises or discoveries as she calls them. EMD therapy refers to Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing therapy. It is a psychotherapy approach that was originally developed to treat post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) but has since been applied to various other mental health conditions.

Home

I wake, look at the clock in the still strange room and the clock screams 4:00 AM in red lights. I hit the bathroom and stand at the window, staring out at the street, nothing moving in the darkness. I return to bed, close my eyes and unsuccessfully try to not think or say it - I want to go home. As I descend the stairs, Alison, the Boston College student wishes me good morning as I hold the door for her. We walk and share small talk until reaching the corner when we go in opposite directions. I want to go home. I drop in line with the rest of the commuters, walk down the steps of the Copley station, quickly scan my T card and walk to the platform. The sign says the next train will arrive in six minutes. I want to go home. I squeeze through the doors and find my way to the back of the car, packed like sardines, I'm tall so I can see across the sea of hats, hair, bald spots and heads. I see my reflection in the window at the far end of the car. I know the look in my eyes. I switch trains at the Park Street station and get lucky as the train is just ready to leave, I bound up the steps and find a seat. I lean my head against the window, I want to go home. I exit at the Quincy Center stop, stand on the platform and look out at the myriad of office buildings. I have been going through this routine for six weeks. This assignment seemed like a great opportunity, a couple months in Boston working at State Street Bank. It got old fast, I miss the routine with my wife and son now a thousand miles away. The daily phone calls are nice, but I want to go home. I scan my badge, nod at the security guard and setup in a meeting room. I talk to Patricia about her Ireland trip while grabbing some tea. I sit, waiting for the rest of the team to show up, I wonder about traveling to Ireland. I want to go home. The meeting spins up, I turn and stare out the window, watching a plane emerge from Logan not far away, it turns and quickly disappears. I want to go home. The day goes as usual as the anxiety escalates. As the clock shows 6:00, I am consumed with thoughts of home. People hurriedly leave, heading home to family whereas I stay sitting with nowhere to go, staring into space, unable to move, I want to go home. I return to the platform to reverse this mornings commute with the anxiety slowly escalating in my mind. I see a woman that reminds me of her, suddenly I am going home. I pull out my phone and make arrangements, telling work there is an emergency at home while it is really in my mind. A smile forms on my face, I jump on the train, full of energy, I am going home.

Take a deep breath

I went to bed at midnight and sat up staring at the wall at 2 AM. “Are you okay?” She leaned up, rubbing one eye, clearly having been asleep seconds earlier. “Yeah, just amped up, nervous about going. My heart is racing. Its okay, go back to sleep” It was the truth, but only part of the truth as I felt much worse. It felt like my world was crashing. I walked downstairs for a quick drink of water. “Just stay home if you’re not feeling well.” She was still awake when I returned. I glanced at the clock, the flight was 5:30 AM so only a couple hours of sleep possible besides possibly sleeping on the plane. Not going meant failing and I don't do that. “I’m okay, I just can’t get my mind to stop.” I stopped myself from saying more, from saying I felt panic, that I wanted no part of sitting on an airplane, that I actually wanted no part of anything, that I wanted to run out the front door and keep running. I didn’t mention that I felt like my heart was going to burtst through my chest at any moment, I absently placed my palm on my chest. I was scared, scared to travel, scared to sleep, scared to drive, scared to live, but that’s hard to admit - even to myself. It seems like whining and really made no sense and sounded silly when I repeated it in my head. I pushed it all further down and tried sleep, knowing it would never happen. The 4:45 alarm hurt as much as a punch in the face although I wasn't really asleep. I fumbled with it to ensure it was turned off as my feet hit the floor. I sat motionless staring at the wall, still time to cancel and lie down, perhaps call a doctor, perhaps scream. Nope, I summoned my father and “sucked it up” as he said men had to do. I quickly dressed, grabbed my bag, gave her a kiss and was soon speeding down the highway - no traffic in sight at such an early hour. The option to keep driving North to Chicago instead of going to the airport popped in my head, but I locked the doors in the parking lot and quickly walked to the terminal. I stopped just before the moving sidewalk and tried to do deep breath exercises as I popped a couple Klonopins with no water available. I could feel the nervousness or anxiety building as I rode the escalator up one floor and strode towards to security area. I immediately stopped when I saw my flight delayed on the electronic flight board, people behind me cursed and sighed while making their way around me. The delay escalated the situation as I now had too much time to think. My head pounded and I wondered what my blood pressure could be as my temples pulsated. I found a long hallway to the right and fell into a seat, I wanted to lie on the floor in fetal position. I leaned forward, staring at the ugly carpet, searching for something inside me that could make me move in the right direction. I reached deep down inside me and came up empty handed. I looked up at the faces of the people everywhere, I just knew the panic and pain were clearly visible on my face, but apparently not as nobody stopped. Even the police and health workers walked by and smiled in my direction. My body was covered in sweat, I could feel my left hand shaking and my heart was winning a race with nobody. I leaned forward and almost fell over, fell back to the seat and stared at the ceiling. I suddenly felt the overwhelming need to be out of the airport - chaos erupted in my mind and spread throughout my body. I grabbed my stuff and headed for the exit, finally I was sure of something and it was to get out of that building. I was sitting in my car in no time - the fallout from the last minute cancel would hit me later. I sped out of the parking garage and back onto the highway, windows rolled down even as outside temperatures barely hit forty. For a brief moment, I felt free, but the emotions returned twofold - stopped and forced fed myself donuts and coffee (I never drink coffee) and before long I was lying in my bed, the house eerily quiet, a time of day I was never there and especially not supposed to be there today. I felt guilty for being there, and it was not too late to do what I was supposed to be doing. I fell into a fitful sleep, wild dreams and one hyperventilating episode. Shame washed over me in the late afternoon. I put on a good face for the wife’s return from her workplace - she was able to go, so why not me? “Oh, you decided to stay home after-all.” She greeted me with predictable surprise as I had told her nothing since leaving that morning. “Yeah, it didn’t go well, it’s hard to explain.” I rested my forehead in my hands, I was embarrassed to have no solution. I fixed things and never needed help. “Well, it’s okay, do you still have that number? That card for the therapist? You should give her a call.” She sat next to me, arm around me.

Irresistibly smooth

My world crashed down with a panic attack at the airport a month before the pandemic shut everything down - the stomach issues began as well. That was a horrible morning of dreading the trip, sweating profusely, overwhelming anxiety that I ignored and shoved into the deep recesses of my soul. I trudged into the airport, approached security when I saw the flight board that listed my flight as delayed. You may think that is a good thing, but this just provided more time to dance with the dread. I found a long lonely hallway, sat down and the squirrel caging in my mind amped up ten, twenty, fifty times - it was debilitating. There were several bathroom visits before I finally grabbed my stuff and walked out of the airport, found my car and sped home - the rest of the day hiding in bed. I visited a doctor, then another doctor, downed anxiety medication and then off to the gastroenterologist - the colonoscopy and the endoscopy were scheduled when the pandemic lockdowns eased somewhat - multiple very long Q-tips jammed up my nose into my brain (I'm not crying, it just hurt). Nothing was revealed, the doctor's eyebrows raised. There were more doctor visits and pills and then over-the-counter solutions with lots Internet searches with discussions on IBS, Crohn's, various diets, anxiety and on and on. At one point, I went to the emergency room and the doctor refused to enter the room - peeked in with mask firmly in placed, asked questions and disappeared. After some time, I felt alone as the doctors basically told me to go away and therapists told me to just do yoga and learn how to breath better. It is funny, the anxiety only appeared after the stomach issues arrived. I lost 30 pounds, but I received compliments instead of concern. I found a holistic practitioner, had a food sensitivity test and eliminated a lot of foods. The problems persisted. I took vitamins and supplements, more money down the drain. I'm not big on social media, but I often scrolled through Twitter as the world continued a partial shutdown (what else could I do?) and a post from The J.M. Smucker Company grabbed my attention - an enormous peanut butter recall due to salmonella which could lead to gastrointestinal issues and nausea. My jaw actually dropped, I jumped from my recliner and went to the kitchen - you see I am (or was) a huge peanut butter fan. No, seriously, I ate it ALL OF THE TIME. This was especially true when my stomach ached or I felt nauseous, I would eat a peanut butter sandwich since it was simple and plain. I pulled all of the jars (four) and checked their serial numbers with the list from Twitter - all a match. I immediately texted the wife, she was shocked (I suspected she thought I was losing it). The peanut butter was discarded or returned and yet another food was eliminated from my diet. I had a doctor appointment (check-up) shortly after where I excitedly shared the news, she shrugged and went through her checklist. That was a year ago and while I still cannot eat peanut butter. I tried to join a lawsuit, but there had to be proof of salmonella in my stool (yeah, gross) and it was no longer present (yeah, I had it check, and gross again). The stomach issues have calmed down, not completely gone but I have always been an anxious person so some of it was always there. I've slowly reintroduced long-forgotten foods to my diet and a lot of the weight is back. With all of the trouble and sickness, nobody ever raised the possibility of food except for the food sensitivity test but it identified a bunch of other foods (that was worthless) and it never crossed my mind that I had poison in my cabinet. Upon doing some research, these type of product recalls are common, so now I am always on the lookout. One doctor related fact, all the of the weight loss and diet changes made no dent in my high cholesterol numbers - hilarious.

The Stranger

I know something is amiss as my feet hit the floor Sunday morning. I look around, I am not alone - it is quiet, too quiet. I rub my eyes and forehead, unable to fully wake. I hear footsteps and then the grandson bolts through the door, landing in the middle of the bed before I can say anything. “Hey Pop Pop, it’s time to get up!” He lies back, giggling, his feet on my back. “What’s the rush?” I seize the opportunity to lie back on the bed, wrap my arm around him with a big squeeze. I just want to close my eyes a bit longer, but these quiet times with the little one are priceless. “Rush?” He whispers unequivocally and look at me. “It means hurry, like why are we hurrying? We have all day, right?” I explain while feeling dryness in my throat. I feel a lump as I swallow. I feel like coughing but somehow avoid it. “Blake at school said the F word Friday and he got in trouble. Nina helped me with math and I gave her one of my cookies.” He whispers facts or highlights from his week with his mother, it is the highlight of my week. I feel blessed to have these moments. “What is wrong with your head?” He sits up, watching me rub my temples. “Nothing really, just a headache, and I need some tea to start the day, maybe with some honey.” It was a small lie, or I think so, as my head pounds. I can close my eyes and count my heart rate with the throbbing. I am not sure if the hot tea will help, but it sounds good. Besides, this is how our Sunday morning talks end. I feel its presence with us, the stranger lurking. He bounces from bed, grabs my hand and I follow, making our way to the kitchen. Oatmeal is his favorite breakfast, so I start the process before grandma (oh yes, she loves being called that) joins and takes over. I shake a couple Tylenol from the bottle (in the back of my mind, I remember all the covid posts on the Web saying avoid ibuprofen), chasing them with water while rummaging though the cabinet for other remedies - the stranger taking over. I lower my increasingly achey body into a chair at the table as the little one finds a seat directly across from me. I smile while examining him, wondering if he had brought the stranger into the house. “You okay?” She sits a cup of tea in front of me while rubbing my shoulders. I mumble something incoherent while shaking my head yes. As I sip the tea (it does feel good on my throat), I wonder if I should isolate - it begins with a sore throat, right? “You don’t look good.” She leans on the kitchen island while eyeing me suspiciously. Thirty years together means a kind of familiarity that cannot be easily explained. “I am tired, and throat a little dry, but this weather is crazy - 70 one day, 40 the next and then all of the rain.” I motion at nothing specific with my hands. “You should go lie down. We’ll be okay, get some rest.” "Pop pop, is Godzilla bigger than King Kong?" The smile flashes in my direction from the other end of the table as he scoops up oatmeal. "Of course, he is the King of the monsters." This is not the first time I have been asked this, I know the answer because he is obsessed with Godzilla. I carry my cup and slowly return to bed.

You are right

Mom and I sit in her family room - each in a recliner. I have finished today's chores, drinking water as she tells me about her day and then my father is the subject. I decide to take another approach with agreement. "It just isn't right, you deserved much better." I lean over and hug mom. I immediately think of the line from the movie The Unforgiven "Deserve has nothing to do with it." "Yeah, well." She pulls away, clearly uncomfortable with the hug, closeness is not the norm in our family. "We all deserved better, it'd been nice to have a good father. Thankfully, you did your best with the hand you were dealt and it is appreciated." I continue, pulling back to not lay on too thick. Actually, I do believe what I am saying as she does deserve to be treated well and to be happy. "He did better with you than your sister. You were his favorite." She pats my hand and leans back in her chair. "God can bring forth good even in the midst of suffering - it is an opportunity for growth, purification and deepening of faith." I fear I have gone too far with the biblical reference, but I am trying to tap into her weekly attendance at Our Mother of Sorrows. "Mmm hmm." She nods in agreement while staring past me out the window behind me. There is a bird on the windowsill, but it quickly flies away. The room is silent. "Was that a sparrow?" I have no idea about birds, but she likes to watch them. "No, that was a finch." She smiles as she loves to be correct. "Ah, okay, well I may have ruined its nest while trimming the tree, a nest fell to the ground, but it was empty." I had raked it up with the limbs and leaves, dumped into the trash. "I remember your dad killing a nest of them when we lived in Portland. He was good at ruining things." She smiles, the hate returning, normalcy restored. "I thought that was an accident, he fell back into the tree while working on the gutter." This is how I remember what she is referencing, this is how everybody remembers it as it is what actually happened. I guess it is true he killed a couple of young birds, but the how and why are very important. The rest of the conversation resumes the normal thread of the old man's evil ways. I lean back, disengage (as the therapist prescribed) and stare out the same window, the bird has returned, we make eye contact and this time it does not fly away, but I want to.

The good son

We talked last night, or rather I called and listened for forty minutes. I told her I had just returned from a trip, but there was no acknowledgement or questions. The conversation follows the usual pattern - it begins with an updated list of ailments followed by upcoming medical appointments. With that covered, the next segment begins where she disparages just about everybody - her friends and family, and especially those that have not NOT called or visited. This often makes me wonder what she says about me and my family. The final part of the conversation centers on dad - a trip down memory lane where the memories are horrible. It is worth noting that they were married twenty-one years and divorced for the past 43 years while he has been dead three years. Her stories and memories are always bad and they will always top anything you share - martyrdom seems like a lonely place to me. Anyway, the main theme of her stories is my dad was a monster. While I would never say he was a great person, turning him into a demon is a bit much. I used to counter her stories with some of his good or point out inconsistencies, but a therapist advised me to stand down and no engage. In addition, I have asked her to no longer tell the stories as my relationship with Dad was much different, but that request was rejected. Mom likes to point out how Dad was against my choice of spouse, but she easily forgets that she agreed with him for a long time. Now, she no longer asks about the wife or even the grandson that is such a big part of my life these days, it is all her tales. Does listening to her stories, which I could recite if asked, make me a good son? Why do I see it as my duty when my two brothers are absent most of the time? It can't be good that I listen and then roll my eyes and dismiss all of it, can it?

Live and let live

The hostess looks at me and then past me when I request a table for two. She asks when my companion is expected as I motion to my wife. With eyebrows raised, the hostess retrieves two menus and silverware bundles. "Do you have a booth or table preference?" She turns, still only addressing me, awaiting my reply. "No, well a booth, if one is available." I change my answer mid-sentence as I remember my wife prefers a booth. "Is this okay?" She sits us at a booth in the farthest corner of the restaurant and quickly disappears before either of us answer. "Is it me, or is there a pattern to the seating?" I motion to the rest of the room where it is obvious, or seems to be, that all of the minority patrons are in our area. She agrees and returns to the menu, more comfortable or accustomed to these facets of our society. We order drinks followed by entrees whereas my chicken selection comes with gravy. "Do you want white or brown gravy?" The waitresses eyes widen and silence envelopes us. Her words linger as I consider the question before processing how the question was posed. "I guess the brown is the obvious choice?" I laugh as it seemed like the only response that fit the situation. "I am so sorry, I didn't mean anything with the question." The waitress is fumbling over herself to explain something that was never said, but the apologize reveals so much. "It's fine." My wife ends it with two words and the waitress disappears. We have a laugh over the incident, briefly contemplate speaking with the manager and possibly getting a free meal. Does that really solve any problems? She more easily accepts these incidents whereas I still blindly think I can alter things, but I guess that is the definition of white privilege? How does this still happen today, over 50 years after the Supreme Court case Loving vs Virginia made such a union legal? Then again, fifty years is a drop in the bucket with history. Of course, not long ago one of our current Supreme Court justices discussed the possibility of rolling back laws pertaining to interracial marriages. He says these even while he is in such a marriage, is that the definition of self-hatred? The Respect for Marriage Act of 2022 provided protection as it provides statutory authority for same-sex and interracial marriages. Why is this necessary, so much has changed yet so much has not.

Registered

This is quite a loaded prompt, revealing a dirty secret. With today being election day in Kentucky, I think the fact that I am a registered Republican would surprise quite a few people given my opinions and actual voting record, but I'm not worried about being exiled - the peace and quiet would be nice. Actually, I leaned more to the right during my much younger days as I checked the Republican box when I first registered to vote over 30 years ago and, simply put, I have never bothered to change it. I can proudly say I voted for Obama and many other Democrats, but I have voted for plenty of Republicans as well. It was not so divisive in the past. Kentucky is a notorious "red state", so much so that Republican Presidential candidates don't bother to campaign much here as the state is locked up - usually the same for our neighbors to the north (Indiana) and south (Tennessee) and don't get me started on the nuts in Ohio. The larger cities in the state (Louisville and Lexington) lean more to the left or center, but that seems to be true across the country. Kentucky has closed primaries, so I choose Republican candidates (like today) while my wife, a registered Democrat, chooses the other side and we often discuss what was on each ballot. There are proposals to end the closed primary system, but we'll see if that ever gains traction. And, don't forget that you can thank Kentucky for Mitch McConnell and the Rand "what's with that hair" Paul. Every six years there is a big "Ditch Mitch" campaign that somehow never gains widespread support and he always wins, his son-in-law is his handpicked candidate for governor this election season, so we'll see how the general election goes in November. In the end, we all get our ballot and (hopefully) vote in private without much pressure. However, I do know my staunch Democrat grandmother would be rolling in her grave with news of my registered party affiliation.

The dutiful son

I am a bad son because I view the mother-son relationship as a chore, a duty, a burden plus there is a lot of resentment bubbling under the surface from so many past events. I do love my mother, but it's just not that simple. People view my relationship with my mother as perfect. I talk to her at least every other day and visit in person once a week. Last week, I was with her as a precursor to Mother's Day as I had to travel on the actual Sunday. As usual, she had a list of chores - trim the hedges, trim the trees; fix the fence (a portion fell); replace the living room outlet (bigger problem, called electrician) and take Mom to the store. The trip to the store goes as usual, meandering the giant box store with her grabbing random items (no list) and my paying. I grab her a meal on the way home - her favorite burrito. The rumble in my stomach is audible, but no way am I eating there. We return to her house, store the groceries, she eats and I am gone - the weekly visit checked off the list. I exhale while rubbing my temples, leaning back against the car as gas pours into the gas tank. I survey the old neighborhood, odd how little it has changed since my youth. I speed down the road and race up the ramp before hitting the highway to head home. I plop down on the couch with leftovers from the fridge and fumble with the remote to find the game. The tension in my shoulders eases as I lean back, pushing my shoes off while savoring the spaghetti. I am so glad the visit is over and the rest of the week is mine.

Do you know who I am?

I stood at the hotel front desk as chaos erupted. I was being kicked out of my room due to a scheduling mixup by our company's representative. I'm twenty-five years old and standing in Berlin - the older part of the city, East Berlin as the tour guide instructed us the prior day. Leading up to this trip, I had been repeatedly assured that everybody knows English, but apparently these people had never stepped foot in Germany because I knew I was in trouble as soon as I descended the staircase from my Lufhansas flight from Frankfort - nothing but blank stares as I spoke. I rummaged through the documents in my backpack, finding papers with some German phrases written and used my wits to find my bag and then a taxi. The printout (this was before smart phones) picture of my hotel proved to be a life saver. Later, a taxi driver would teach me how to curse (of which I'm very fluent in English) properly in German with Scheisser my favorite, but right now I was being kicked out of a hotel at 11:00 at night and my flight home scheduled later the next day - what was I to do? I summoned my best Tom Ripley and began dropping names of a few people I had actually met along with other names I had heard from others. I cringed as I uttered "Do you know who I am?" following by explanations and names and my importance and where I needed to be and who was expecting me and repeatedly saying that I am an American (that part makes me cringe now). This was a good thing back then, not sure about now. Thankfully, the hotel staff spoke (or understood) English and eventually straightened it out. I never had to impersonate another person like Tom Ripley (nor did I hurt anyone) but I took on an air of importance that somebody believed or rather I am an idiot and they were just doing their job. Eventually, I was transferred to another hotel with room charges covered and all was well. I landed home just over 24 hours later.

Be Him

I loved both The World According to Garp book and film (I actually just reread the book and it holds up for me), because he led a less than normal life, embraced it (mostly) and made his own life. He had a goal and attained it (not has much as his mother but still respected). The book was so detailed (long like most of Irving's books). He chased his dream, made friends, fell in love, had kids, survived the battle that is marriage and enjoyed a full life. These are all things I wanted and the fact that his experiences were less than normal made them more attractive as my own life was chaotic with daily surprises. I had dreams and I did get the chance to chase them and build my own life with great (and some not as much) adventures. The dearth of details within Irving's book captivated me, he described things to the point where I could feel or touch them, taste them.

Garp

Garp's life is marked by a series of tragic and bizarre events. He faces personal loss and undergoes numerous challenges, including dealing with never knowing his father, a feminist mother who is a prominent figure in the women's movement, and the complexities of love and relationships. He arranges a meeting between a prostitute and his mother (a feminist) and it displays the humanity of the stranger and then unravels into comedy as Garp admits attraction to the woman and goes through with a transaction as mother leaves. As a character, Garp is known for his resilience, perseverance, and determination in the face of adversity. He possesses a strong moral compass and is willing to fight for what he believes is right. Garp's experiences shape his worldview, and he often questions societal norms and confronts issues such as sexuality, gender roles, and the consequences of violence. Upon reflection, the Garp character (and mother) were ahead of the curve with Garp’s best friend being transgender (former professional football player). Garp's character embodies a blend of seriousness and playfulness, with moments of introspection and moments of humor. He is driven by his desire to create meaningful stories and leave a lasting legacy. Garp's journey throughout the novel explores themes of identity, family, love, and the complexities of the human condition. It is funny his desire to be an important writer while his mother had no such plans but greatly exceeds Garp. The book is so rich with the details of Garp’s life - one part I remember is how he cooked peppers on the gas burners of a stove (and later peeled them). He loved his children while being very involved. As a couple, the experiment with an open marriage (in the book not the movie) with disastrous results for one young man. Anyway, my attraction was Garp’s life and all the details in the book.

Searching for normalcy

Reviewing my list of favorite books, as well as thinking of others not listed, demonstrates my affinity for books focusing on relationships and families. I was always searching for "normal" thinking a book would lay it out for me. Growing up in a tumultuous, chaotic environment, left me starving for a different lifestyle, but I desperately needed to know how.. It is the same reason I watched Leave it to Beaver and Eight Is Enough. Just to be clear, I never wanted to be a psychopath like Tom Ripley, but I loved Highsmith's writing and the ways Tom navigate society. Nick Flynn's This Is the Night Our House Will Catch Fire: A Memoir is one of the most recent additions to my list, I love it as Flynn's approach to a memoir is completely different from the so-called "norm", plus it detailed a chaotic upbringing to which I identified. Growing up, I would beg my mom to take me to the large, main library downtown - I could spend hours roaming the expansive rooms and brushing my hands along book spines. It felt like I belonged, but mom was always in a hurry so I would find a few tomes along with slim volumes and we'd hit McDonald's upon leaving. I learnt the need to go the library was unique in my family, neighborhood and friends, so it was never mentioned - keeping secrets was normal.

I have to choose just one?

So many books, so little time - these are the titles that popped in my head. The World According To Garp - John Irving The Quiet American - Graham Greene This is the Night Our House Will Catch Fire - Nick Flynn Little Children - Tom Perrotta The End of Alice - AM Homes Seven Types of Ambiguity - Elliott Perlman The Talented Mr Ripley - Patricia Highsmith High Fidelity - Nick Hornby Seven Types of Ambiguity sticks out as I loved the writing. It was a very long book, but it fascinated me as it presents one story through the lens of six characters. Their perspectives and delivery of the same story are wonderful. It shows how people can have vastly different experiences with the same event. It is a work of fiction, but I see it every day in life whether talking to my partner, siblings or friends. It is revealing to pose the question "what did you hear me say" after a conversation, although it can be weird to ask it. It's like a therapist or colleague saying "okay, this is what I hear you saying" and you either agree or correct them. The book may not be my favorite of all time, but it sure made an impression on myself. Nick Hornby's High Fidelity is a great book (especially if you love music), I am a big Hornby fan - loved his regular column in The Believer where he rambled on what he had been reading and books he had recently purchased.

Father-sons

Father-son relationships are a popular subject throughout history. The relationship is complicated, emotional, and sometimes, destructive. One of the most famous examples comes from Greek mythology with the story of Oedipus and his father Laius. Oedipus unknowingly kills his father and later marries his mother, fulfilling a prophecy. This mythic story illustrates the complex nature of the father-son relationship, where love, betrayal, and tragedy can all coexist. In Arthur Miller's play Death of a Salesman, the relationship between Willy Loman and his son Biff is fraught with tension and disappointment. Willy has high expectations for his son, but Biff fails to live up to them, leading to a fractured relationship between the two. In Cormac McCarthy's novel The Road, a father and son navigate a post-apocalyptic world together, forming a bond that is both strong and fragile. The father's love for his son is tested by the harsh realities of their environment, and their relationship is a powerful exploration of the depths of paternal love. The portrayal of the father-son relationship is also prominent in popular television shows. In the hit series Breaking Bad, the relationship between Walter White and his son Walter Jr. is strained by Walter's secret life as a drug dealer. In The Sopranos, the relationship between Tony Soprano and his son AJ is complicated by Tony's involvement in organized crime. Both of these shows illustrate the ways in which a father's actions can impact his relationship with his son. The implications of a bad father and son relationship can be far-reaching and damaging. A strained relationship can lead to feelings of abandonment, rejection, and resentment in the son. It can also affect the son's ability to form healthy relationships with others, and impact his self-esteem and sense of identity. A bad father-son relationship can also have an impact on future generations, perpetuating the cycle of dysfunctional relationships.

What do I know?

I loved television shows like Leave it to Beaver where the father figure loomed large and provided guidance to the children without any abuse. There is an abundance of writing about father and son relationships - good and bad. One example of a quote about father and son relationships that incorporates literary allusions is the poem "Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden: Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? It explores the complex relationship between a father and son. On the one hand, the father is portrayed as a hardworking provider who sacrifices his own comfort to take care of the family. Conversely, the son is depicted as distant and unappreciative, unable to fully understand or express himself. My favorite line is "love's austere and lonely offices" where a father's love (or any parent) is seen as a duty or a job and often not fully appreciated. My father chose to ignore the duties of his job most of the time, but he showed up just enough to keep my hopes up. He never got up early on Sundays as the poem says, he was usually partying into the wee hours of the morning. I try or have tried to put myself in his shoes as the poem says "What did I know, what did I know" as I never really knew what made him tick or what dreams were forfeited for the family before he forfeited the family.

I plead the fifth

Middle school, the seventh grade to be exact, is where I learned my father had little authority beyond me (even that was short lived). Fourth period music class was the scene of the showdown between myself and Mr. Wilson. Yes, the same Mr. Wilson that played Santa Claus in the local television ads and numerous plays. He actually did look like Santa Clause from his white hair and beard down to his rotund stature. I always wanted to ask why Santa never seemed to visit our mobile home park. The assignment was simple, listen to Beethoven's 5th Symphony, no really listen (as in more than once) and learn more about it and Beethoven - it was laid out in our textbook. Like any good seventh grader, I had an attitude. I explained the assignment (mostly complaining) to dad as we ate pizza and watched a horror flick. I said the assignment was stupid and dad readily agreed. Furthermore, he told me to not do it if I did not feel like it. He posed the rhetorical question - why should we do things we don't want to? I smiled as the discussion ended, looking at dad like he was a genius. It was all so simple, just refuse to do it. I closed the music book and forgot all about it, proud of myself and the solution. Fast forward to fourth period on Monday and me proudly announcing the results of my conversation with Dad to Mr. Wilson and the class. An uncomfortable discussion in the hallway with the assistant principal followed as my classmates watched in awe. It is to my credit that I quickly realized the error of my ways and learned the hard lesson that Dad had no power - I had to be careful listening to him. I retreated with Mr. Wilson, licked my wounds and worked hard to complete the assignment that night. It was submitted the following day with little fanfare and a smugness from Mr. Wilson that I never forgot. He gave me an A for the work before bumping it down to a B for the commotion and being a day late. I never told Dad about the events at school. It was another lesson that he never asked. Likewise, I never told Mom as it would have provided more ammunition against him when he picked me up every other weekend.

Connections

In the end, the stranger that knocked me down also helped to reinforce my own core beliefs which includes: Empathize with others to walk in their shoes and know something of their experience Best laid plans never go as laid out, It is okay to not be okay and health is fragile. Live life to the fullest as you never know what tomorrow brings The final point needs repeating - If you put something off to tomorrow then it may never happen, like when/if you are laid up with a virus. I realize these are all cliches and my ideas continue to form (and are not unique), but my biggest ah-ha moment (which is a repeat event in my life) is the importance of connections. The connection with my partner had been frayed for some time, but it was not dead and the illness provided the time to repair, remembering why we have put up with each other for so many years. However, connections with others is important as well to live a good life and my connecting with a group of friends at a user group meeting led to an illness. And, my strong connection to my work (both day job and side gigs) strained my connection at home, so never forget to maintain balance and set priorities while maintaining connections. Proverbs 27:17 proclaims: “As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another”

Empathy

In the end, I had a terrible flu or maybe it really was covid as my doctor kept saying tests could not be trusted (then why have them?). The fever took me to the brink of a hospital visit, but thankfully it never happened. It makes me think of a recent American President whose schtick was nothing could be trusted and question everything. Not the worst way to approach every day life, but it falls apart when the same person denigrates everything and acts like an idiots while thinking he is above the law, but I digress. Our health and bodies are fragile, they can be damaged or incapacitated at any moment with no warning. There is that moment of reflection when you try to remember when it may have happened, but it really serves no purpose. Illness teaches us many things, but in my situation it stressed the need to surrender and teaching it is okay to not be okay. Our society is goal or results driven that it can be hard to just retreat from the everyday, disengage and rest or heal. At some point, you have to surrender to it, accept the situation and do what is necessary to recuperate. In my case, I surrendered to my partner who, in turn, took care of me and restored, or repaired, our connection. I watched this beautiful person, I remembered this beautiful person that only I know to this extent. She took care of everything as I languished in fever-induced delusion and sleep. She was patient, thoughtful and loving, and it created another memory with this wonderful person. I called my illness, the stranger, as I did not see it coming, never knew it when it arrived and still have no definite terms to describe it. It will always remain a stranger to me other than the symptoms I experienced. She never became ill, so I am thankful that it appears I introduced no others to this stranger.

The Culprit

As my health improved and I got near to returning to “normal activities”, I or we wondered who invited the stranger into my body and when it occurred. The usual suspect is always the grandson who I always call a walking petri dish with his many hours spent at school. We had a bond, so there were lots of hugs and affection thus he was the number one suspect. However, the wife went another direction. This is no surprise as the grandson could do no wrong in her eyes. Like a game of Clue, she placed my best friend (outside of her) in the cross hairs as we had previously attended a local user group meeting following by group dinner and drinks - close your eyes and you can easily visualize the laughing and loud talking and aerosol droplets filling the space. We can all thank covid and the CDC for bringing aerosol and droplets into regular society. She smirked while pointing the finger at me and my friends. A couple texts and an email strengthened her case as a few of the attendees, including my friend, had been sick all week. The covid term had been volleyed around, but nobody ever secured a positive test - neither the at home version or the more painful doctor where the worlds longest q-tip is jammed up your nose until it hits the base of your brain. It makes my eyes water thinking of it. Meanwhile, the grandson has not missed a day of school and no outbreaks within his school building. In the end, the wife is right (as usual?) and I easily accept the verdict - something that would have erupted into a fight only a couple weeks ago. Actually, I am glad she is correct as I did not want the little one going through anything like I had experienced.

Realization

The stranger completely overtook me the next few days. The achiness and headache exploded across my body with a fever alternating extreme cold with tropical heat. The covers were piled high one minute and then on the floor. The only interesting aspect of the ordeal was the dreams - at one point I am walking the dark subway tunnels of New York and then playing with rats while a stranger chased us following by a gathering with other students pointing out some students had posted nothing all week (and I instantly know it is me) and how it is not fair and something needs to be done. It was a few days before the fever “broke” which led to the coughing. The sleep was something to behold since I am a well-known insomniac. I kept wondering how people lived like this, how could anybody sleep so much, but then my body reminded me of the how and why. I had a lot of time commitments as well as work deliverables, so it was a terrible time to be ill. Also, I never got sick, so it was a surprise for everybody. I wondered if people really believed I was sick, but I actually did see a doctor and got a note if ever questioned. Just thinking of a “doctors note” made me laugh, it reminded me of missed school days when such items were a requirement and often greatly scrutinized. I missed many school days of which my mom knew nothing, I had stolen a note pad and mimiced her writing. I tried to push forward with the commitments of my day job, but all of the coughing on conference calls was too much. Also, the couple of times I turned on my camera during Zoom calls was met with gasps and genuine sympathy and pleas to go rest and return another day. Eventually, I relented and retreated to bed and long stretches of sleep. My side projects were pushed out with not much fuss and of course I was stripped of all duties at home. The time leading up to my struggles with the stranger (as I loved to call it, like “when do you think the stranger will be done with me?”) came at a time of mounting tensions at home. Like a cliche, we had grown apart with animosity and accusations leveled. The accustations were pointless but could not be ignored. Therapy had been initiated, but it was put on hold as well. The many days of care provided by my better half seemed to reconnect us - providing the ample opportunity to demonstrate love (and accept it), and it was (I hate to say this) heartwarming to see the concern on her face. After all, we are no spring chickens and many wonder when an illness is really an illness or just the beginning of the end (yeah, people can be morbid). She caressed my forehead with the cold rag when the fever would not relent. She brought me food and neceeary medications. There were long talks once I turned the corner, talks we would never have had if permitted to work and tackle other commitments. There was lots of talk of good times and some bad, the sparkle seemed to return to her eyes (it had never left mine). I shrugged off the reminder of how many times I had mumbled the words “I don’t need you” while realizing that was far from true.

Beep continued

I stand at the check-in station just inside the main entrance, the guard holds up a hand to stop me as they push off their stool to stand. She grabs an infrared thermometer and points it at my head. It makes me think of the famous Vietnam War photo of the soldier pointing a gun at a young man's head. The thermometer beeps, she squints while reading the display before announcing I have passed or I am fine, not sure what it is called. I ask about the results and she says 98 degrees. Now I am humming Because of You by 98 Degrees, both surprised and ashamed of it. The standard covid questions follow before I am given a pass granting access - a simple yellow sticker with today's date written with a Sharpie. I thank her and make my way to the elevator bank, pressing six, stepping inside and waiting for the doors to close. Everything seems so deliberate. As usual, a brief panic overwhelms me while contemplating being trapped in the elevator before there is a beep and the doors slide open. I step into an empty hallway, looking over my shoulder, watching the doors close. I silently read the sign to myself "Palliative Care", nodding to the nurse before strolling down the long, mahogany lined hallway. I drag my hand against the wall and wonder what focus group or study led to the dark wood atmosphere and decorations. Does it justify the cost? Is the wood calming? Is it easier to accept the inevitable in a ski lodge type surrounding? I find room 620 and stand at the door, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and entering. A faint rhythmic beep reverberates around the room, the only monitoring device in use. I cannot shake the sense of finality. The shell of the man who helped create me lies in the middle of the bed - covers piled on and wrapped around the shrunken body. His jaw is open, uneven breathing, death is near or that is what they told me two days ago when I was asked (forced?) to make the "pull the plug" decision. Everybody told me it was the right thing to do (after I did it), but none of them would make it. We stood in the hallway that day, all eyes seemingly on me - waiting. Now, all I can think is that I made the decision to kill him. I wince at the irony of making that decision many times over the years. I slide the chair close to the bed and sit, placing his boney hand in mine and gently rub. I read somewhere that touch is important for healing and when spending time with the sick and elderly. Then again, there is nothing healing about this situation, so I am probably not correctly remembering anything. I feel self conscious, I lean back in the chair and survey the room. Upon reflection, this is probably the first time I have touched his hand since I was a kid. We were or are not the family of closeness and touching or any type of healthy communication. There was that fight when I was in my twenties, but no hand holding, just swinging. It feels weird that it makes me smile. Everybody loves to to retell the bad stories, but there were good times. I survey the frail body, shaking my head as I remember how safe he made me feel - a tear rolls down my cheek. I sit and let more flow, finally grabbing a tissue and drying my face. I take a deep breath and lean very close to him while placing his hand in mine again. I whisper to him, tell him I do love him and appreciate everything and forgive the bad. I swallow hard, looking around again to make sure nobody can hear me (but him), and apologize for telling the doctors to halt further efforts to fix him. I explain what they told me, they said it was hopeless. I stop and silence swallows us, I wonder if there is a chance the doctors were wrong. The silence (and darkness) is pierced by the door opening, I look up and watch the nurse enter and approach me. She pats my back, expressing her sorrow as I slowly realize the beeping is gone, he is gone. I look at her and back at him, there are no more tears, just realization. I stand and thank her, walk to the door while retrieving my cell phone. I look back as she disconnects the wires. I expect to see her cover him with a sheet, but no. I guess I watched too many police shows. I pull up my sister's number and press dial, it rings as I lean against the mahogany wall and stare down at the floor.

Simple Joys of Life

Discussion: It is an interesting piece, but I admit that I struggle with it - from mimicking it to fully understanding. It makes me wonder if the memory of the items and situations is the beauty and not the actual things. Can we find beauty in everything/anything? The repetition with the field mouse seems out of place as not used elsewhere in the piece, but it spans life with the first line covering death and the third showing birth. The gentle rain on a hot Summer day. Walking slowly, enjoying the raindrops, a reprieve from the heat. Birds dancing on the sidewalk in the aftermath, making their own bird bath. A warm mug of tea, honey and lemon infused. Bringing it to my lips while preparing a quick breakfast - who would think I would actually like avocado toast? Watching the birds from the kitchen window as they circle and dance on the feeder, mentally identifying as many as I can. The smile and giggles of my grandson as he wakes me early in the morning. I pull him into the bed as we talk in a whisper about whatever pops in his head, holding him close, cherishing the moment. He cracks the eggs as I warm the griddle for Sunday pancakes - our ritual. Feeling the dirt between my fingers, placing the flowers in the ground, patting the ground before spreading mulch. The gentle breeze as I water the fresh flower bed. Sitting on the porch, watching the sun set as another summer is upon us. A good song, transported to another time and place - dancing with mamaw; singing with my sister; jamming with my brother; showing her I am worthy, so many journeys. I hum one of my favorites while working. The surprise of water flowing down my back as another water "fight" begins with the little one. Balloons filled and thrown, water guns quickly emptied until tired of their temporary usefulness and grabbing the hose to cover everything in water. Gathering with friends and family, sharing stories. The laughter is cathartic as we reminisce on both good and bad times, reflecting on those no longer with us. Sitting at the kitchen table as mamaw fixes chili. I sit on my special stool as she tells stories with the occasional song. She is in her element, loves cooking and family. She places grilled cheese in front of me - the crust cut off, and kisses my forehead. The engine springing to life with the turn of the key, wiping the steering wheel with the rag. Slamming the door, leaning against the door, swallowing the water and wiping my forehead - admiring my handiwork, another job done. Arriving at the ballpark, watching the ground crew prepare the field. Players playing catch in the outfield, the sun slowly setting. Anticipating the first pitch when there still are no winners or losers, the sound of the ball hitting the leather. The sound of water lapping against the boat, reaching for an old stump on the bank to secure the rope - secure the boat. The nearby trees providing comfort with their shade. We settle back and pull out the fishing poles, Dad points at a good location for my line. I laugh as he shares stories, loving this time together. Why couldn't it always be this way? Sharing knowledge, teaching others, urging them to avoid your mistakes and be better, get farther. Teaching skills leading to self-sufficiency. Admiring the results and their successes. The smell of a baby, wrapped tightly in their blanket, holding and listening to their coos and ahs - wondering if he will call me Pop Pop like his brother. Looking forward to watching him grow. The few weeks leading to Christmas. Everyone is cordial and there is so much to do. Admiring the decorations, sitting, listening to holiday tunes the day before it is all over. Her smile after a long day, chasing the worries of work from my head. An embrace and laughter, sitting, sharing, adding to our memories and the reminder of what is most important.

Beep

Discussion: The twist in the story is quite a surprise as we're reading along with a feel good father/daughter tale. The story shows the effects, the trauma, of such poor parenting and the abandonment. Rachel clearly wants her father's approval, we all want that (need?) from our parents. I stand at the check-in station just inside the main entrance, the guard instructs me to stop while standing. She grabs an infrared thermometer and points it at my head. It makes me think of the famous Vietnam War photo of the soldier pointing a gun at a young man's head. The thermometer beeps and she squints while reading the display before proclaiming me fine. I ask about the results and she says it was 98 degrees. Now I am humming Because of You by 98 Degrees, both surprised and ashamed that I know it. The standard covid questions follow before I am given a pass granting access - a simple yellow sticker with today's date written with a Sharpie. I thank her and make my way to the elevator bank, pressing six, stepping inside and waiting for the doors to close. Everything seems so deliberate. As usual, a brief panic overwhelms me while contemplating being trapped in the elevator before there is a beep and the doors slide open. I step into an empty hallway, looking over my shoulder, watching the doors close. I silently read the sign to myself "Palliative Care", nodding to the nurse before strolling down the long, mahogany lined hallway. I drag my hand against the wall and wonder what focus group or study led to the dark wood atmosphere and decorations. Does it justify the cost? Is the wood calming? Is it easier to accept the inevitable in a ski lodge type surrounding? I find room 620 and stand at the door, taking a deep breath before pushing the door open and entering. A faint rhythmic beep reverberates around the room, the only monitoring device in use. I cannot shake the sense of finality. The shell of the man who helped create me lies in the middle of the bed - covers piled on and wrapped around the shrunken body. His jaw is open, uneven breathing, death is near or that is what they told me two days ago when I was asked (forced?) to make the "pull the plug" decision. Everybody told me it was the right thing to do (after I did it), but none of them would make it. We stood in the hallway that day, all eyes seemingly on me - waiting. Now, all I can think is that I made the decision to kill him. I wince at the irony of making that decision many times over the years. I slide the chair close to the bed and sit, placing his boney hand in mine and gently rub. I read somewhere that touch is important for healing and when spending time with the sick and elderly. Then again, there is nothing healing about this situation, so I am probably not correctly remembering anything. I feel self conscious, I lean back in the chair and survey the room. Upon reflection, this is probably the first time I have touched his hand since I was a kid. We were or are not the family of closeness and touching or any type of healthy communication. There was that fight when I was in my twenties, but no hand holding, just swinging. It feels weird that it makes me smile. Everybody loves to to retell the bad stories, but there were good times. I survey the frail body, shaking my head as I remember how safe he made me feel - a tear rolls down my cheek. I sit and let more flow, finally grabbing a tissue and drying my face. I take a deep breath and lean very close to him while placing his hand in mine again. I whisper to him, tell him I do love him and appreciate everything and forgive the bad. I swallow hard, looking around again to make sure nobody can hear me (but him), and apologize for telling the doctors to halt further efforts to fix him. I explain what they told me, they said it was hopeless. I stop and silence swallows us, I wonder if there is a chance the doctors were wrong. The silence (and darkness) is pierced by the door opening, I look up and watch the nurse enter and approach me. She pats me my back, expressing her sorrow as I slowly realize the beeping is gone, he is gone. I look at her and back at him, there are no more tears, just realization. I stand and thank her, walk to the door while retrieving my cell phone. I look back as she disconnects the wires. I expect to see her cover him with a sheet, but no. I guess I watched too many police shows. I pull up my sister's number and press dial, it rings as I lean against the mahogany wall and stare down at the floor.

Rainy Night

Discussion: Kids usually love music and songs, and it is funny when they actually hear the words - possibly understand them. Songs often transport me, Motownphilly by Boyz to Men was popular when my wife and I began dating, so it often takes me back to those happy days. My dad loved George Jones and sadly tried to live the same life style. Now that I think of it, I can label family members by artists or songs: AC/DC is my brother; Mom is Neil Diamond; my sister loved Peter Frampton while my son was a big Jay-Z fan. I think of my grandma (aka mamaw) and Eddie Rabbit's song "I Love A Rainy Night" every time it rains while I am driving. I am nine years old again, we are in her living room with the shag carpet - funny, she had a rake to maintain the shagginess (Note: Googled it and those rakes are still used). She had the Eddie Rabbit album among her countless Elvis records along with Nat King Cole. The stereo, or hifi as it was called, was a console model, its wood veneer finish spanning six feet. The top opened on a long hinge that could be locked open as you worked with records on the turntable inside. The song blasted from its built-in speakers - she really liked to crank it up. "Showers wash all my cares away. I wake up to a sunny day." She belts out the lyrics, this seemed to be her favorite lines outside of the chorus. She grabs my hands and we dance. I am mesmerized as she transforms from the quiet, serious mamaw into a dancer, surprisingly light on her feet. I concentrated on the lyrics, memorizing them so I could sing along - she looked at me as we danced, but she was in her own world. The song ends and she plays it again before removing the record and closing the "hifi". "Puts a song in this heart of mine. Puts a smile on my face every time." The song is stored away in my memory and it does put a smile on my face every time it plays. Of course, it lives on my iPhone as the magic of modern technology simplifies trips down memory lane. "Well, I love a rainy night. It's just a beautiful sight." I actually do love rainy nights, the rain dancing on the roof of the house, the rhythm of the drops making sleep easier. It is ironic that it poured rain the day of her funeral, maybe God sent her out in style? I expressed this thought at her funeral and received odd stares, it seemed nobody else knew (or remembered) her love of this song. It made me question my memory, but a quick survey of her record collection revealed Eddie Rabbit's face. It makes it more special to think of it as our song.

Broken

Discussion: I had to read it a few times to understand who is saying they are sorry (and maybe I still got it wrong). Now, reading it, I cringe at the constant "I'm sorry" as I have seen that a lot with others in "situations" and you want to shake them and tell them to run (or swerve) away. I hand him a wrench, 14 mm and then the pliers. He is impressed by my knowledge of tools - "..at such a young age", he says. The hood slams and he motions for me to get in for a test drive. I hesitate before he assists, pushes me into the vehicle. He says I helped him fix it, so now I can help determine if the problem is fixed. Deep down I know this is a lie, but it makes me feel good that somebody is finally listening to me. I fasten the seat belt and he laughs as a cigarette dangles between his bottom lip and mustache. I wonder how the mustache does not make him sneeze. He slams the recently installed gear shit into reverse and we speed away. I watch our trailer, my home, get smaller in the review mirror before it is completely gone. I surprise myself by wondering if I will see it again. My arm dangles out the window as the car speeds down the highway. He slaps the steering while while pulling a cigarette from his shirt pocket, he seems happy, everything working as expected. I revel in the moment, losing myself in the false freedom of being away and on my own. The trance breaks as he squeezes my shoulder, I turn to meet his gaze, like I am being measured. The convenience store is a blur as we fly by - I wonder if Denise is working, maybe she saw me in the car window. The park is strangely empty, but then again it is a weekday afternoon - people do have to work, as Dad says. I sway side to side as he navigates the car down the tree-lined roads, getting darker as we go deeper into the park. A lump forms in my throat as I think of the missing girl’s bike found at the mall - whatever happened to Ann Gottlieb? The dying leaves, wet from the recent rain - their distinct aroma fill the interior. I reach out attempting to grab a handful from the branches as we creep past, closing my eyes while taking a deep breath - opening them when he turns off the engine. He flicks the cigarette butt out the window before rolling them up. I turn and meet his gaze. He seems reluctant, unsure of what to do next. It is a skill, my ability to read people, often rightly guessing their next move. His hand strokes my leg, a squeeze of the knee, grabbing and pulling. The sound of friction against the vinyl seat as he leans closer. I close my eyes as I hear the click of the door locks. His breath is sour, a mixture of tobacco and the Coke he had been drinking - it covers the top of my head. I hold my breath as his other hand is on the back of my neck. Time seems to stand still, I want to yell but nothing comes out. Suddenly, we are both still, his heavy breathing the only sound. I am pushed back, we are now back in our starting positions. He leans forward, mumbling, berating himself. He grabs my hand again, ordering me to bow my head as the Lord's Prayer is recited. I mumble, not fully remembering the words, I want to go home.

Guilt

Discussion: I love the way the short piece flows, like stream of consciousness - all of the random (or maybe not so random) things lost, so visual in its simplicity. I struggled with anything comparable with many, many false starts. Guilt can be a heavy burden. The mistake at work resulting in a huge outage and big delays. That simple exaggeration on the resume. Professing your love of a coworker's cake while mentally searching for a trash can. The "sick" day taken when you sped down the highway to watch your favorite team. Over promising and over committing, hoping nobody will remember when it is all over. Guilt weighs you down. Glancing at your phone, seeing the picture of mom on the caller id and looking away. Missing your cousin's wedding when you had to work, but really spending the weekend in bed with a special friend. Telling them they are special and you've never felt this way. Saying it's me, not you. Saying you understand when none of it makes sense. Telling your significant other you were at your friend's house and not with the other. Posting that 15 year old picture on your dating profile. Telling others you love spending time with your family. I lay bare my own sources of guilt. Saying you love the gift while pulling it from the gift bag and making plans to deposit in a trash bag. Telling the police officer you were unaware of the 35 MPH speed limit. Telling the dentist of course you floss daily. Telling them I will see you tomorrow when you will never see them again. Saying you are sorry when you really do not care.