Aloneness
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Christmas Lights
Dec 22, 2022
Christmas lights of memories
blinking on
blinking off
oops one went dark
but the tree still shines
with beauty
Where are my kids
Did my dog get out
I know I parked my car close
Are we in town
Did Momma say she’s coming back today
Remnants of you
pieces of an old torn quilt
Still stitched with threads hanging on
to warm the wearer
you always
give smiles
Why yes good to see you I am fine
Why yes the sun is beautiful today and the trees so green
Why yes God is so good
I leave the home
wondering if I
am ever the child you
sometimes seek
when will my light
turn dark for you
you beautiful woman
wife mother daughter grandmother
Finales
Feb 1, 2024
Mom
the ache. it remains. flowing through the length of me. Like breathing. in, out. up, down. i listen. i yearn for my name, a soft touch, tenderness. a chord of life, of love. the music of you. play for me again. for me.
finales should be grand, bold, not wisps of legs shivering under a bland quilt. eyes staring with no words. discordant notes with no melody. the length of you melding into the mattress- a last symphony for souls without song, no music for the last audience.
listen…
ah, but some notes no one hears, playing only for the musician’s own ear. as your voice fades for me, may it rise in each cell, a multitude singing for you each note of your life, each refrain a part of you and all you are, once were, will be. a crescendo of you, Mom. a beautiful woman who loved and was loved and forever will be.
music.
you are every note you ever played.
and what a masterpiece, your melody.
Scenes of a Life- One Hot June Night
A rough draft written long ago…
The night air, heavy with humidity and for Rhonda, resignation, weighing down on her when the blazer roared into view as it squealed into the ballpark. The day had been long yet perfect—hours spent at the ballpark. Images of sun, laughing boys, t-ball, family, friends, hotdogs. These images would stay. His absence now seemed fitting, like it was meant to be that way. Her boys had played the last t-ball game of the year earlier that hot, June afternoon. Her dad had watched and cheered his Adam and Aaron superstars from the stands while she had coached and cajoled from the field. The five and four year old boys- bronzed, mischievious, smiling, bundles of look-at-me—had performed even harder for their number one fan grandfather in the crowd. Missing and noticed had been their father.
Now, forgiving and innocent, they looked to the blazer with joy.
“Dad!”
“Hey, Dad!”
“I hit a homerun today!”
“I did, too! Watch me ramp, Dad!”
Todd lurched to a stop and jumped out to the still screaming boys, “Hey, that’s great!” The next look was for her. “It’s 9 o’clock. What’s for dinner? It’s late, haven’t you fed them yet? What are ya’ll doin out at the ballpark still?”
The look on her face was unreadable, but saved and grateful, she listened to quick-witted Jennifer say, “Your dinner’s at the sonic, son!”
Laughs all around with Todd laughing the loudest, yet his eyes squinted with a slight arrogance as if to say, “not really funny. Do you know who I am?”
Rhonda, recovered slightly, smiled as well. “We already ate, of course. About 4 hours ago. Right after their t-ball game was over. You remember? Their last game?”
“Yeah, hon, I’m sorry. I tried to leave the club but got stuck in a game. I had to stay to make the 4th man. You know how it is!”
Anyone watching her closely might have caught a glimpse and wondered. To Rhonda, it came blaring through her head, the obviousness of it screaming to her.
“I hate him. I do not love my husband. I hate him.” The hate did flare in her eyes, then quietly and obediently hid behind her smile, her perfect facade. One would think that such a revelation, an epiphany, should be heralded with trumpets, shouts and screams to the heavens. Yet the momentous occasion, the signal for change to come, passed unnoticed by all but the main player, the heroine, newly finding her strength. It was true then—that thin line between love and hate did exist. She had simply and silently crossed over. “What now?” rang through her head as she passively watched her husband, the high school sweetheart she was supposed to love forever. He looked the same—beautiful, blue eyes framed with the thickest lashes, high cheekbones, brown bangs tossed carelessly back from his forehead, a smile to charm, well anyone—he could be a model, still. Yet to her, the beauty was now the ugliness. It spoke of his lies, his cheats, his late nights gone, with her the strong mother of the house left to wonder while she tended her angels. And, now her disappointment was also to be for her sons to share? “Who will they become then?” was her last, long thought as she turned back to her friends and monstrous husband, for that is what he had become in her eyes. How could she ever look and see the beauty? She couldn’t. She didn’t.
Donna and Jennifer looked on with sneers. No one had to guess what they thought of the man who had missed his sons’ last t-ball game of the year.
Todd called the boys, “Let’s go, kids! Get those bikes over here, now! Load up!”
To anyone watching, the perfect little family was loading up after a long day of playing and going home. Off to the happy, little home.
Forgiveness came easily to the two little souls who ran alongside Dad as he lifted their bikes with his sturdy, strong arms into the blazer, smiled, and said, “Load up! You riding with your Dad?”
“I’m riding with Dad!”
“Mom, I’m goin with Dad!”
That same forgiveness that had always found a place in Rhonda’s heart now turned and fled. No goodbyes, just the sudden absence. And her heart hardened to him and would open no more. She still smiled, waved to her babies and friends, and slowly walked to her old Chevy for the short drive to home. The heaviness, now lifted, was replaced with a gnawing feeling, a fear, and almost sickness in the pit of her stomach.
She put the Chevy in gear and slowly rolled into the dark of that country road.
Thoughts of her passing
June 22, 2024
Awake
Sun on back… weeds. Daisies. Colors. Strong roots. Lantana bed. Edging… shadow… where are the-
Mom, let’s work a bit longer. Just a few more beds, rows. Trim the azaleas. Sweep the street. Neat rows. Straight. Sidewalk clean. Hmmm where are my glasses- dad, I can see the-
Mom, look who’s here. You feel the hand on your leg. Gentle pats. a stroke of the brow. Hair pushed behind the ear.
What is she looking at? Her skin looks almost glowing.
She’s quiet today. Has she eaten anything? Drank water? Where is-
Rhythm of the chop chop chop
Onions- ah I’m tearing up again. Really hate that. Garlic? No dad doesn’t like it. Hm hm la la… carrots, better chop the celery so fine dad can’t tell it’s there. Guess I’ll put it in the food processor. Tomatoes. Broth- in the fridge. Grab it. Will you. Top shelf, Tupperware labels broth. Potatoes… let’s get the chopped chicken, too. Okay, it’s all in the pot.
Let it boil a minute then you turn your simmer. One more piano lesson- I hear the door! Where did she-
Now let’s get these curlers out… head over the sink, mom. Is that water warm enough? Yes I think you’ll like the lift and color this time. What do you think? Let me grab your glasses. Where are they-
Bringing in the sheaves, bringing in the sheaves, we shall go rejoicing…
camping in Canaan’s land-
Beulah Land… it is well…
Where’s that sheet music? Phyllis-
Here, let’s get it down. This cold rag will cool your forehead. Hmmmm hmmmm hmmmhm, take this pill, drink this water. I’ve got you some broth. You’ll feel better with— where, where did dad
Mom, Pat- we are almost done. Yard looks great. Wipes brow. Smiles. Look- sun heading down- beautiful glow on top of Methodist church. Few rays hit eyes. Warm face.
We should- no, I think it’s enough today.
But those bulbs we could plant in the back. I think it’s ok. We can wait. Look- the kitchens lit. Dinners on the stove— it’s ready. Take my hand. Wipes sweat from her eyes— smiles.
Look- she’s smiling. So content today. I’m so glad she’s not hurting.
We’re here. I wish she could… one more time.
But she’s done enough. It’s okay, Mom.
It’s okay. A touch on the brow. Hmm hmm hm
Where did we put-
Everything is in its place, Pat. Everything.
But did you-
Yes. The storeroom is locked.
Lights off.
I smell your soup on the stove. Let’s step in. Soon enough it’ll be time for bed. There’s a new day tomorrow. Holds hand. Kisses it. Holds open door.
One last look. Where-
Light from kitchen glow. Warm. Tendrils of light pulling expanding melding. Smells of cornbread. Chicken soup. Safety. Family pictures on the wall. Sigh.
Home.
The door closes behind them. And the sounds of the summer night remain. Light from open window shines onto patio. Shadows inside moving in sync to a dance long known by ancestors before them.
Reflections on a Another Year Passing
Another New Year’s Eve. Another invitation to think about goals, beginnings, resolutions. Another moment when many of us try to distance ourselves from the past, to escape what didn’t go as planned and lean toward an imagined future.
But this year, the past didn’t cooperate. It arrived uninvited. No easy escape. No clean line forward.
When I try to recall past New Year’s Eves, I’m struck by how few come with fondness or nostalgia. I question why. My life has not been especially difficult. I was raised by solid, lower-middle-class parents who believed deeply in Christian values and tried to live them. I was encouraged to play sports, to study music, to read and write, to get an education because my parents hadn’t had that chance. They expected me to do what was right, not because it was easy, but because it mattered. They were shaped by the beliefs and blind spots of their time, as we all are, but they worked earnestly toward their version of goodness.
Perhaps I told myself a simpler story than the truth.
I have hazy memories. Fireworks from a sidewalk. Dick Clark on television. Parents asleep by ten. A curfew in high school. A boyfriend who left for after-parties once I had to be home. Marriage. Small children. Did we celebrate together? I don’t know. I can’t remember.
One night stands out. I was in my mid-thirties, before Kristy died. We bought fireworks, drove to her house, sat on the back of her dad’s truck, and took turns lighting them in the street. The boys were young. Happy. I don’t remember what we talked about. Knowing us, it was men, sports, school. What stays is the feeling. That the night happened. That she was my friend. That I was hers.
At that point in my life, I was working myself thin. Teaching high school math for little pay. Sponsoring student council without compensation. Saying yes too often. Carrying institutional weight because I could. Because I didn’t yet know how to say no. I marvel now at the energy I had then. I would protect it fiercely today.
Other years blur together. Relationships where anxiety outweighed joy. Nights marked more by worry than celebration. After loss, there were years of escape. Then marriage again. Then sourness. Then distance. Okinawa brought friendship and laughter and a sense of shared life, though even those memories feel dreamlike. Later still, New Year’s Eves with my children and grandchildren. Those were the best. In those moments, I felt settled. And still, I failed to hold on to the details.
I wish I had catalogued more. Conversations. Exact words. Instead, I retained only the feeling. But those feelings do matter.
Perhaps this night has always been less about the calendar and more about me. It has taken me nearly sixty years to truly inhabit this skin and almost like the person living in it. Many people would never guess at the struggle. I learned early how to deflect, smile, redirect. I came to Italy with hope. I’ve had beautiful experiences here. I’ve also been tested in ways that dimmed that hope and fractured something in me. There was darkness. A period when I didn’t recognize myself.
I still don’t fully recognize the face or body I see now, but I like her. The feeling this New Year’s Eve is unresolved. Still forming.
Maybe it’s freedom.
Maybe acceptance.
Curiosity, certainly.
And yes, still a little hope.
Thoughts on Death
Don’t Hesitate by Mary Oliver
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy,
don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty
of lives and whole towns destroyed or about
to be. We are not wise, and not very often
kind. And much can never be redeemed.
Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this
is its way of fighting back, that sometimes
something happens better than all the riches
or power in the world. It could be anything,
but very likely you notice it in the instant
when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the
case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid
of its plenty. Joy is not made to be a crumb.
I learned yesterday of an acquaintance, a friend really, placed on hospice. Thoughts of his imminent departure joined the already crowded musings in my overcrowded mind of life, death, love, duty, joy, family, failures, the undone, loss, goodbyes, sadness. Ah, the mind of a 50-something! Americans as a whole tend to view death in unhealthy ways-I get it. Goodbyes are the worst. I struggle at the airport each summer, each Christmas. The death of each relationship has gutted me, even the unhealthy ones. I’ve always hated the American funeral; I’d prefer a concert of my favorite songs, a performing comedian roasting my life, friends telling exes what jackasses they were to lose me! my personal poetry writings read aloud for all to suffer through, my belongings donated to someone, anyone who’d appreciate the painting by Chou, the deaf mute from Taiwan, or the Japanese tea set I once gifted my mother, or the hundreds of books- some I never got around to reading and some I read countless times for the passages that moved my heart. My dear mother lingers on hospice care, stuck somewhere in time- happy moments of the past visiting her I do hope- while those hands who tend her belong to those who do not know who she was.
“There was someone I loved who grew old and ill
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do
except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.” – At the River Clarion by Oliver.
But she will pass on… as will I… as will you… as is my friend. We oft receive, and then we give back. My mother loved big, she found joy in the small and insignificant, she found herself in the beautiful flowers she grew. What a life. This post may read maudlin to you, BUT IT’S NOT. Of late, poet Mary Oliver’s words resonate with me more than any I’ve read, and in thinking of the leaving of this life, I turned to her once more. I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world. There’s joy to be found. I miss so many who were dear to me, my Stanley, my Boomer (yes, pets), my Kristy, my dad- yes, my mother even now. but laughter, beauty, love still await me. The world waits for us to notice. And to my friend, what possibility awaits you. May you be filled with a sense of who you were, who you are, as you transition. Man, to find joy in each tender moment is a gift.
“And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,”
– When Death Comes by Oliver
I struggle some days. Others, I push myself outside to the quiet spaces, to listen to the trees, the birds, feel the wind, gaze longingly over the ocean. I text my son, my sister, my friend. I make plans.
Here is my reminder to find joy.
“Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.”
Thanks for reading my TedTalk 
When death comes.. whole poem: http://www.phys.unm.edu/…/oliver_whendeathcomes.html]
At the River Clarion, whole poem:
https://wordsfortheyear.com/…/at-the-river-clarion-by…
Circle by Florian Christl- perfect song for these thoughts on life.
A Saturday in November, 2017
Hey Bug, my little Laila girl, the sweetness of life,
I’ve talked to your future-able-to-understand-grown-up-topics self this week, quite a lot, actually. So much going on these days- in the world of women and politics, and in my own life here in Oki with friendships and school politics. So much advice to give you so that you feel empowered and don’t make the same mistakes as your Nonna, and so that you never feel small and unheard. Yes, these things are out of my control, but one day, I hope you realize that they are in your control, my sweet Bug.
Spending much of my alone here in my big white house with Asscat and Little B could mistakenly label me as cat lady, loser, middle aged boring, but don’t let my current state of UNactivity fool anyone. I’m quite aware of my surroundings and myself. My alone is pretty damn good, except for the missing my boys and girl and girl thing- I’ve grown to appreciate myself and my own company quite a bit as I navigate what I want to do, where I want to go from here. To quote UK immigrant poet Warsan Shire,
“My alone feels so good, I’ll only have you if you’re sweeter than my solitude.”
How powerful those words make me feel. Never let your sense of self and worth be dictated to you by a man. or another woman. or anyone else other than yourself. (Check out her poetry and her life story. Just wow.) Do not be afraid to be alone. Solitude and loneliness, not quite the same, not always existing together– sometimes, yes, they live in the same house, but learn to embrace solitude as a time to learn about yourself. Know yourself.
