Preparation

The birds are lined up on the garage roof, waiting their turn on the feeder. How do they know the line up? A blue bird; a red bird, now that's a cardinal; a dark black bird, is that a crow? tiny tan colored variety, I should Google bird types. How do they all know when I fill the feeder? Sun is missing, clouds everywhere, I guess the weather dude was right this time - it could rain any minute now. I really need to trim those bushes. The black cat strolls through the yard, I still don't know where it calls home. The deck is a mess, but I would rather not power wash and stain it ... again. I see foot prints on the steps, squirrel? rabbit? nah, probably that cat as well. I look down at my watch, fifteen more minutes until the meeting, I am not sure what I will be asked but it should be fine. My eye rests on the sink full of dishes, I will tackle them later, why is it always me doing them? I see my reflection in the window and scrutinize my shirt as it will be a video meeting - always awkward for some reason. A dress shirt and pajama pants, a remnant of the pandemic? But, I've worked at home for years. How is the bird feeder already empty? Am I the only one feeding the birds? The bell returns me to the moment, I turn and lift the cup of tea from the microwave - add sugar and head to my office reminding myself to sit up straight and look into the camera, focus and actually listen to what others are saying, for once.

Negative Space

You write? Do we really need to hear more about your father or they your so-called funny observations? The couch is so comfortable, and this is a playoff game, you can tackle the writing tomorrow. Seriously, how can you write when there are so much going on? You know you can’t say no to anybody. Furthermore, at your age, why do you even try to write? What is the point? Now that I think about it, nobody reads anymore - you know Borders went bankrupt. Nobody wants to read your trivial drivel - there is nothing unique about you. Honestly, writing is the last thing you should be doing, unless it is a check to a home improvement company.

Writing? Like letters and things? You think you have talent? Well, tell a story now, oh well, never-mind. Do you really think you can write a book, do you know how long they are? Look at all of those filled journals, anything useful?. When does anybody read them? Everybody knows you wanted to be a writer. That is so original, but you don’t always get what we want. Besides, what have you ever written that is worthwhile?

You have never done anything right and that includes writing. Who do you think would read anything you write? You love creating characters? What does that even mean? You once told me writing is therapeutic and you didn’t care if anybody ever read it, so why do it?

I may be wrong, but you as a writer? Get real.

Almost there

I know things seem bleak now, but actually your journey is just beginning. High school is almost over and then you are free. I probably should not do this, but here are a few suggestions as you move forward:

- Quit hoping, because he lives a lot longer than any of us ever dreamed.

- When opportunity arises, take it, it doesn't often come back again.
- Check the heater vent when the keys go missing.
- Your bad attitude is not a fad as most people think.
- Don't get too attached to the pile of hair on top of your head.
- Ignore him when dad promises to pay for college.
- Remember when the counselor told you "lying will get you nowhere"? Well, they were wrong.
- Invest in Amazon.
- Don't forget to take a jacket when you go to Chicago.
- When you get to college (yeah, you do get there), go to class.
- Don't be too hard on your brother when he is not faithful. Trust me, it'll make sense later.
- Don't answer the phone when Lance calls in June 2014.

- Cherish your time with loved ones, life is a blip.

- It is okay to be wrong.

- Trust your intuition, empathy is one of your strengths.

- Your only real competition is yourself.
- When it comes to the redhead, don't do it, it isn't worth it.

Darkness

The darkness of the piece immediately draws me to it as I wander the gallery. I stopped in the museum during a brief stay in Cleveland. I always thought paintings were supposed to be colorful and fun. It is a solitary figure on a horse on what appears to be a track, but going counterclockwise. The dark colors, the pale horse, I can feel the sorrow and seemingly impending doom in the scene. I stand staring at it, step closer to read the placard - The Race Track by Albert Pinkham Ryder. I look closer and I see it has another more appropriate title - Death on a Pale Horse.

The grimness of the piece is haunting, it stays with me for many days and even now. It reminds me of my darkest days, how my thoughts were that horse and rider going round and round the track of my mind. It doesn’t scare me, but rather makes me think about life and the journey. A closer look at the piece and it seems the track goes on and on and on, so leads me to thinking of the track as the life that we all follow with death always on our heals. The snake by the track is the temptations we all face along the way. Isn’t that uplifting? Ultimately, it is just a haunting piece that moves me in ways most pieces do not.

What do I need?

As usual, I have forgotten my list and slowly walk the store grabbing items I think we need. Chills cover my arms as the store is freezing.

“I told him it isn’t his anyway, so don’t worry about it.” The woman grabs a can of baby formula and hurries down the aisle. I wonder if the phone conversation and item are related. I return to my shopping.

“It isn’t a bargain if we never use it.” The man is borderline yelling at another as one pushes the cart and the other walks to the side.

I see her to my left as I scan the shelf for a particular soup. She is leaning forward, it looks like she wants something on the lowest shelf. I glance down at my reflection in the floor as I think about helping her, the last time I tried did not go well as they acted offended. 

It seems like slow motion as I watch her knee give out and fall to her left and onto the floor, one hand still grasping the cart. I rush over, kneel down and ask if she is okay.

“I think so, just embarrassed. Can you help me up?”

She grabs my hand and I slowly help her stand and make sure she is steady. She looks around as I grab the saltines from the shelf and hand them to her.

“I don’t think anybody seen me, do you?”

“Nah, it is all good.”

“Well, I guess you saw me, thank you so much, I’m not sure what happened.” She smiles and pats my arm and takes the crackers.

“Are you sure you are okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

I stand and watch as she shuffles towards the checkout lane. I walk in the opposite direction scanning the shelves.

I love a rainy night

 The raindrops hit the window sill, the sky lights up and I am suddenly sitting in Mamaw's kitchen. She is baking her famous apple kuchen, baking it just for me. I can smell the rain through the screened back porch, it mixes with the dog pee as the porch is their bathroom as well. I sit on my stool and smile as she sings her favorite Eddie Rabbit song - I Love a Rainy Night - you see a rainy night washed away all of  his cares and just makes him feel good. I think of my time with Mamaw the same way. A big hug and my troubles were gone. She would send me to the utility room - washer/dryer and storage area - to fetch a bottle of soda, a bottle just for me. I'd open that bottle sitting at her table, savor every drop as she worked her magic in the kitchen or told me a story. I was one of her ten grandchildren, so one-on-one time with her was extra special. Like the Eddie Rabbit song, I always woke up to a sunny day after time with her. The power of a song to transport is amazing - Mamaw loved country music, so I am forever tied to Merle, Conway, Dolly and many more forever embedded in my memory.

Over there

 I didn't say where
especially not the street. 
Was it wrong

for a house to have wheels?

I lied and said

the neighborhood behind us.

Nobody pressed the question

as I am sure they really did not care.

There was no chimney

which explains Santa's absence.

I was not scared 

as the front door would not lock.

But every December

couldn't Santa just walk in?

We often laughed

as there was nothing to take.

I heard the sneers 

as I collected my free lunch at school.

My stomach often growled

as I inhaled every bite.

Nothing is ever really free

as you give up your dignity for sustenance.

There was no dad as teachers suggested

for the many projects.

Mom tried her best

as I died a little looking at others work.

Everybody had the new shoes

while mine were called out as 'buddies'.

My Star Wars shirt from Goodwill

as I had never seen the movie.

My JC Penney plain pocket jeans

as everybody else had the famous stitching.

Dad had said he'd be there

but never showed as I sat waiting.

Every Monday the room roared

as weekend stories were shared.

I never shared

as there was nothing to say.

Did I see the latest movie?

No.

Did I see the new store at the mall?

No.

Did I get the latest game?

No.

I made jokes

as comedy became my protector.

I pushed it all down

to avoid an implosion.