nedful things

It made sense now, why his camera bag was home the night he had taken these pictures. It made sense that he lied about target shooting with Joe. It was a sensible lie to say that they had filled condoms with blood and used them as targets. But it was obviously true that he had used Joe's digital camera that night, for he never could have had these pictures developed anywhere.

Her name was Vicki. That was the name on the first set of photos. She was dressed in a schoolgirl uniform, with knee socks and short skirt, collared shirt and tie. She was less dressed in subsequent shots. The innocence destroyed, a theme he probably relished.

The second set of photos were much more disturbing. She lay still, eyes open. Her shirt was torn from her, exposing her breasts; her skirt hiked up over her hips. Blood ran from her mouth and pooled beside her on the floor, soaked into the light colored shirt, splattered on her hands and on her legs. Her blonde hair was matted with blood. She had seen photos like these many times, crime scene shots of rape and murder. They were common fare on the true crime stories of which he was so fond.

Suddenly fear gripped her and she closed the files, took out the CD and tried to think of a place to hide it. It was 1am, no one was there, no one to see and yet she was afraid, afraid he would know she had it, afraid he would return to retrieve it. She put it at the bottom of a dresser drawer and sat on the edge of the bed.

There was no one to call, no one to help her think this through. Thoughts assailed her from all angles. This was the fake blood. This was real. This was staged. This was really twisted.
Was a girl missing? Why was there no mess from having mixed this up? Had he ever cleaned up a mess before? Was the fake blood an elaborate alibi? Anything was possible. Strangely, a few months before, anything wasn't possible, she assumed he had limits. Then there was the strange phone call her sister had intercepted, the one from the life insurance agent. On an application for a $100, 000 life insurance policy on her, he had given her mother's address as his and said he owned the house. Yet, she didn't really understand until the day of the "incident" that he had no limits. After that day, nothing seemed beyond him.

When morning came, she called the social worker. To even her own astonishment, she had initiated social services' involvement in her life. Years of attempting to extricate herself from this relationship had always failed, she needed help. She knew reporting her suspicions about that incident would automatically result in their intrusion into her life and although fearing their power, strangely she welcomed their presence. A back-up, a voice that would advocate for the children, if not her. And she hoped, a voice to guide her next step in this.

"You are only assuming it is faked" the social worker advised. "You don't know that. Take it to the police. Let them decide what it is".

It made sense, but filled her with dread. They would contact him, he would know what she had found and what she knew. But what did she know? And what would happen then?

The police officer who greeted her looked about 20 years old. He listened, he took a copy of the restraining order, he examined the CD, he asked questions. Then he asked the one question that she hadn't thought of. The words that drained her of her last drop of hope.

"Is he in any of these pictures? Is there any proof he took them"?

Of course, there wasn't. He said they would contact him, they would talk to him and ask him about it. She saw it in his eyes though, it was written all over his face. Nothing would happen then. Nothing ever happened no matter what. Nothing. She walked out, defeated, the words of the one friend she had confided this to, echoing in her head.

"The girl in the pictures looked so much like you".

 

It was emptying the dishwasher a few days before that had led her to the first discovery. Putting things away in the cupboards she was perplexed to find two bottles of red food dye and a box of corn starch. She called out to her daughter, was this a school project? Of course, that made no sense really, she didn't buy any of this but she was distracted as usual by the business of life. She moved the cornstarch and red dye to the other cupboard and there she found two bottles of corn syrup and two new tupperware containers that she never purchased. Then it started to click into place. These were the ingredients for fake blood.

It was such a strange question he had asked her, but so many things were strange, she had forgotten about it. It had been a typical evening. She came home and he was at the computer. She made the children supper, bathed them and put them to bed and he was at the computer. She climbed into bed and dimmed the light overhead slightly; she wouldn't be allowed to turn it off, he was at the computer. She turned her head to the pillow to diminish the glaring effect of the light and was thankful that at least he wasn't playing a game. He was obsessed with first person shooter games and the chances were that she would be jolted awake later by the sounds of machine guns or bombs dropping so she had better sleep while she could. Eyes closed, she attempted nothingness, it was all she could find peace in. His voice interrupted her.

"What's Sorbitol"?

"Sorbitol is a sweetner". she replied. "Why"?

"Where can you buy it"? he continued without answering her question.

"I don't think you can buy it, it is an ingredient in gum and mints. I think years ago you could get tiny little bottles of it to sweeten coffee, squeeze a couple of drops in, you know? But why do you need Sorbitol"? This was certainly one of the oddest things he had ever asked her and she was interested now.

"Never mind, I found another one. Can you buy corn syrup"? he continued to just stare at the screen.

"Yes, you can buy big bottles of corn syrup. But what do you need this for"? she asked.

"It's nothing, just a recipe for fake blood", he replied, as if that were a perfectly sensible answer.

He always thought he was perfectly sensible. A few nights earlier he had rented the Hannibal Lechter movie and thought it was perfectly sensible to watch it with the children home and further thought it was perfectly sensible if she had to take the children and go out while it was on, for it was perfectly sensible for him to watch what he wanted in his own home.

He was always obsessed with death. He watched every true crime show, he ordered videos about serial killers and autopsies, he tried to make her watch Faces of Death. Her distaste for anything gruesome grew more acute, until she feared exposure in a way that was close to phobia. And so, she had to decide, did she want to know?

"What do you need fake blood for"? she asked, not knowing if she wanted an answer, fairly sure the answer she got would not be the truth.

"It's for something Joe wants to do, vampire stuff. Pictures for his website".

He considered himself a great photographer. She had to admit he did have a talent but his chosen subjects were not of her taste. It was a source of constant conflict. He always promised to stop. He simply lied and chose to pretend she believed him. She simply existed without knowing why.

And now it seemed, he had indeed made and used the fake blood. Still, she was struck by two things: the unused containers and the lack of a mess. Red food dye is hard to clean up once spilled. It leaves a nearly indelible stain on skin. No matter how many times you wash, it takes days to disappear. She found no stains on the counter and could not remember seeing any on his hands. But she knew now, what it was he had been doing the other night that he did not come home until after midnight. At least, she thought she knew.

She thought she knew until she loaded that CD and saw those pictures on her screen. At that moment, she was no longer sure what she knew.

In the corner of the darkened bedroom, the blue light of the monitor flickered. It eerily illuminated her face and her blue eyes appeared luminescent as they searched the screen.

The children had fallen asleep in her bed and lay there now, arms and legs thrown over each other in a togetherness not often seen when awake. The video they had been watching long over, the television screen became another square of blue light staring back at her. When she had ascertained they were truly asleep, she had kissed them lightly on the forehead, pulling covers over them and slipped quietly into the computer chair, her task before her.

There were hundreds of them, literally. She set out box after box and sorted through the one closest to her chair. The ones with manufacturers' labels she set aside. Games mostly, the occasional piece of legally purchased software. They were of no interest to her, he could have them. But they could return any day and time was short. She had to find them all.

When she had returned home, four days after she got the restraining order and after he had made two visits accompanied by police officers, she had found the hard drive stripped bare; lists of empty directories mocked her. But they were here, and she would find them.

She knew better than to load the contents of the CDs, she simply opened the directory and looked at the list of files. She did this over and over, CD after CD. Once sure they contained no harmful file types she could check out the files. The jpeg files all showed as thumbnails anyway. The names were unimportant, Stephanie, Nicki, Lisa, Tiffany, the pictures were all the same after a while, occasionally straying from the artistic to the pornographic. Often the subjects were slightly less comely than they obviously thought themselves to be. She was filled with a strange mixture of loathing and compassion for the low self esteem or conceit or both, that made these women want to display themselves to one such as he, and the ambition that was so misdirected.

Once or twice she was confused by copies of emails, information on the whereabouts and time schedules of security guards at a closed facility; where the monitors were kept and how to go about stealing one effectively. Uneasy, she checked the manufacturer's name on the monitor, and breathed a sigh of relief. The nagging thought came to her that this monitor was a replacement for another, did that one say NEC on it? She couldn't remember but realized it didn't matter. He had stolen from places he was supposedly guarding before, it was no new revelation.

Box after box, she sorted and reviewed long into the night, making a pile of things to keep, such as those emails, another pile for things she had no use for. Once the virus scan popped up a stern cautionary window, alerting her to the presence of a trojan. She wondered to whom he had sent that, and the prospects were numerous. Anyone who had ever supported her or encouraged her to do what she had ultimately found it necessary to do. Instructions for hacking certain web accounts were contained in another file. Texts of promises and threats he had made, rambling and incoherent documents dotted the directories. Phone numbers, reminders of appointments to meet women. These she kept. The picture CDs she placed in a pile to be returned to him.

CD after CD, image after image, revelation after revelation, the night wore on and her reactions were becoming more and more flat. It was a glut of degradation such as she could not have imagined and had always tried not to; even while knowing, somehow, that it existed.Then it happened. Images unlike any she had seen so far burst onto the screen and made her gasp in sudden fear. This she had not expected to find and a tiny, frightened "ooh" escaped her.

She had found the blood pics.

if one
long dead
lifeless and cold
came alive
through pain
then pain
would be
exhilarating
all-consuming
welcome
compared with
the vacuum
of that death

but because

this moment
this drop
of life and pain
is yet, an eternity
I will live
this eternal moment
a moment beyond
takes it
I then fear
Time's advance

but because

this moment
is an eternity
there is fear
for only
a moment
and love
for a moment
only

With a single wash
The walls
She created
Sameness
Uniformity of white
Blank pages
Upon which no memories hung
She surveyed
Emptiness

Among the castoffs
Another's walls
She found
The Chair
Plain back with woven seat
She hung it
Shaker style on the wall
She found no
Place to rest

In the places where
Others discard
She found
Small treasures
Carried them away with her
Filled up
Empty corners that echoed
Past voices
Not silenced

Laying back her head
Strange cushions
Which imprints
Formerly held
Of the heads of those unknown
Fought off
Images of dreams
That belonged
To others

Chest for memories
Wrought in oak
Stained grain
Solidly made
Treasure of her father's hands
Now it alone
Spoke in his voice
Her childhood
Unsilenced

Stills of life
His bible inscribed
She placed
In hands
Still strong and vascular
They held
Treasures not given coffee-ringed
Remnants of
Garage sales

Trevor Rabbit sat in glum silence under the Meeting Tree and watched the bustle around him. Everywhere he looked there were Tucker rabbits engaged in tasks of preparation for the Tucker Family Reunion. Tupper, his best friend, was helping Uncle Tooker string garlands of flowers to decorate the bandstand while the musicians tuned their instruments. The air was filled with competing strains of music and with the smell of Granny Tucker's baking. No one was as good a cook as Granny Tucker. She had just finished two carrot pies and set them out on the windowsill to cool. There hadn't been such excitement around the burrow for years, although Tucker Family Reunions were held every year on the day following the first full moon after the leaves began to turn. But this year would be more exciting than ever, for it was to be the biggest reunion ever, even the Tucker Rabbits from beyond the far hill were coming. They hadn't been to a reunion in a long time, longer than even Grandpa Nippin Tucker could remember.

Trevor wasn't a Tucker rabbit. He didn't know what kind of rabbit he was. He was just a baby when Tupper's mom had found him, whimpering and wet, all alone in a thicket and shivering in the cold. He couldn't remember anything of his family, the Tuckers were his only family now. They took him in and made their home, his home. Every once in a while though, when he curled up at night to sleep, he had a drowsy dream of memory, a warmth surrounding him; his face buried in his mother's fur.

Trevor sure didn't look like a Tucker rabbit. They were mostly brown and blended well in the brush of the thicket. Trevor was cream-colored all over except for one distinguishing mark. A spot, just about the size of a dingleberry above his right shoulder. He knew he stood out and it made him easy prey in the games of hide and seek that Tupper and the other Tucker children liked to play. He never won a game.

Trevor sat under the tree, thinking about his real family. He wondered who they were and where they went. Could it be they had left him on purpose? He looked about him and everywhere were Tucker rabbits who knew their families and who looked like their friends and he felt very alone. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Suddenly, Trevor jumped out from under the tree and snatched a carrot pie from Granny Tucker's windowsill and started to run. Granny Tucker called out in surprise and Tupper chased after him. He ran faster and faster, so fast in fact, that he didn't see a tree root in front of him and snagged his foot on it. Down went Trevor and down went the pie. When Granny and Tupper caught up to him the pie was in ruins, broken and spilled over the ground and over Trevor.

"Trevor, what in tarnation did you do that for"? asked Granny Tucker. "If you wanted some pie, you knew all you had to do was ask. And that pie was for the party. Now I got to start baking all over again and time is running short". Granny picked up her pie plate and hiking up her long skirt she started back up the hill, muttering about reckless kids and how many carrots she had left and whether or not another pie could be had out of them.

"Hey, you almost got away with it" Tupper shook his head. "But you're lucky Granny is so busy baking food for the party, or you would have got a whoopin' for sure". He looked at Trevor with something like admiration in his eyes.

Trevor didn't answer. He wiped a little carrot pie from his forehead and then he started to cry. Trevor didn't know why he had taken the pie, he hadn't meant to ruin it and he didn't want to hurt Granny or anyone else. He didn't know why he did it. Suddenly he felt sadder and more alone than he ever felt in his life.

"They're coming"! A sudden shout reached Trevor's ears. In the distant horizon, just coming over a crest he could see tiny figures approaching. These must be the Tucker rabbits from beyond the far hill, he realized. He got up and walked back up the hill to the Meeting Tree for a better view.

A steady stream of rabbits were parading over the hill. There seemed to be no end of them. He could just catch the sounds of laughter and excited chatter as they drew closer and closer. The band, fully tuned now, began to play "The March of the Hare" and shouts of "Welcome, welcome" were being offered to the newcomers.

Trevor watched the approach of the family from beyond the far hill, his eyes growing wider. The first of the party were now close enough to see and Trevor saw something that made him gasp. Then it made him stare. Then it made him gasp and stare some more. He stared until he thought his eyes would pop out of his head.

The Tucker rabbits from beyond the far hill were not all mostly brown, some were brown and some were grey, a few were cream-colored but they all looked the same anyway. For just above the shoulder of every one of those Tucker rabbits, was a spot about the size of a dingleberry!

They say the Tucker Family Reunion that year was the best one ever held. The whole of the Tucker clan was there, everyone had the best fun and the best music and the best food and no one even complained about the shortage of carrot pie. Best of all, there was a brand new addition to the Tucker family, one who was lost and now was found. The whole of the Tucker clan rejoiced and Trevor rejoiced. He knew now where he belonged and discovered he had been home all along.

But you already knew that, didn't you?

He was the most beautiful man she had ever seen. Tall with long arms and legs that moved to a rhythm that beat from his innermost soul. He didn't walk, he experienced each step. As he moved his whole body expressed the music within. She watched him approach her in this fluid dance of his, her eyes taking in the whole of him. His skin exactly matched her coffee, a dark roast with just the slightest infusion of cream to make it smooth. Sometimes the Human Resources department lived up to its name.

He smiled.

Smile hardly described the transformation in his face. The brilliance of his wide expression was a dazzling beacon as it shone out of the dimly lit hallway. She had seen it break forth a thousand times in the months he had worked there, and it always triggered a like reaction in her. He was infectious in his good natured manner and sense of fun. And underlying it all was what? A camaraderie, a mutual affection, something more? She never quite knew, but the sound of his voice and the sight of him electrified her in anticipation . When he looked at her she fell into eyes black and deep, and he consumed her readily with a steady gaze that held her, hypnotized. His voice was smoothly flowing molasses, a thick and enticing sweetness that flowed from a spring of sensuality deep within him. It called to her now. She stopped and held onto the door that she was about to exit through before his appearance drove from her mind all thoughts but those of him.

As he came closer he held up one hand and waved something at her.

"What do you think this is"? he asked.

"Peanut butter and jelly on wheat", she stated confidently.

"Damn, you're good", he said.

"I could hear it in your voice. I knew it wasn't tuna, what you had in your mouth was thicker. Your enunciation gave it away". She laughed and then...

He was right there next to her, the scent of him enveloping her. The heat of his body warmed the fibers of the cotton shirt he wore and it became the air's perfume. It was a masculine smell; all him and not sullied by cologne.

She looked straight into his face as she mustered the strength to speak in the face of such an overwhelming of her senses.

"And now I can tell because you have a little peanut butter smeared on the side of your mouth, just there". She pointed at his cheek and smiled. He flicked at the side of his mouth with his tongue.

"It's still there, you missed it entirely". She fought the urge to reach out a hand, to dab it off with a finger.

A flicker of mischief went across his face, making his eyes flash and pulling one eyebrow up slightly. He gave her a knowing look.

He turned his back and closed in on the opposite wall. What was he doing, she wondered? As she watched in disbelief, he put one cheek against the wall and wiped his face side to side on the white paint.

"You are a total freak" she said, laughing hysterically. Of course he had only pretended to wipe his face on the wall, for the peanut butter was still there when he turned again to face her.

"Freaks only come out at night" he replied. "Meet me after eight".

"Okay", she said. She resumed her passage through the door as he continued on. His smile still reverberated through her and mixed itself with her smile until she felt that the pleasantness of his company was a treasure she had never known the like of. She sighed. He was just a little chicken soup for the soul of the working girl. She vowed to write Human Resources a nice "Thank You" note.

The best way to avoid stress they say, is to be prepared. The Boy Scouts have always practiced this, ever seen a stressed boy scout? This morning, an email arrived in my inbox at work that contained all the keys to reducing stress. They find stressed employees worrisome and to avoid getting stressed about our stress, they have a few suggestions for behavior modification that will allow us the peace of mind to function better, thus providing them with a larger profit. Their concern really touched me.

Some suggestions for reducing stress:

Get up 15 minutes earlier. Part of my stress is that I never sleep. According to my calculations, if I got up 15 minutes earlier each day, within two weeks I would be getting up before I went to bed.

Simplify meal times. There is something simpler than calling for pizza delivery?

Prepare for the morning the night before. I refer you back to the one on sleeping. The morning and the night before are the same thing.

Work at being cheerful and optimistic. Anything that starts with Work, can't be good. I don't like the looks of this one.

Stop thinking tomorrow will be a better day. Okay, how does this one fit into my new cheerful and optimistic attitude?

Get enough sleep. Uh huh.

Get to work early. I was expecting that one.

Buy yourself flowers. I have done this. This only means everyone will stop by and ask you who sent the flowers and you have to keep repeating over and over that you yourself bought the flowers, thereby reinforcing the depressing idea that if you want flowers you have to buy them yourself.

Say something nice to someone. Who's the sniveling rat who complained I wasn't nice?

Say "NO" more often. More often than I do now?

Walk in the rain. This would mean my car broke down again. Dealing with mechanics is stressful.

Avoid negative people. If I keep saying "NO", isn't this me?

Take time to smell the flowers. I already told you, not falling into that flower trap again.

Don't know all the answers. I thought the answer was "NO".

Maintain your weight. One of my goals has always been to eat enough to maintain my weight. Occasionally I exceed even my own expectations.

Always have a Plan "B". I only have one plan, the "worst case scenario" plan. It covers everything that may never have happened ever to anyone but I want to be sure doesn't happen to me. I don't want to end up on the front page of the newspaper with the words "freak accident" next to my picture.

Don't rely on memory...Write it down. I did that. The trick is to remember where I wrote it down.

Get in touch with your inner child and play. My inner child is on a time-out.

Take a relaxing bath. This is a marvelous idea. Relax in a hot tub with bubbles while the girl throws herself at the door, crying and insisting she needs to use the toilet and the boy picks the lock. Very relaxing.

Quite honestly, anything that comes with a list makes me stressed. I think I am going to delete this one.

Freedom
is an empty thing.
Freedom
is from
not for
by,
to.
Freedom is without.

Threaded dance:
I've twisted and turned
Jumping from
Conclusions inescapable
Keeping silence,
Dumb
but not without
knowledge.
Turning
with every turn of will,
I've turned
the blind eye
but not without
having seen.
Accepting
Freedom is without
and I am not free.

Freedom is an empty thing.

When my daughter was a baby and through her early years, she spent the hours I was at work with my mother and father. This was a great help, as daycare is expensive and who gives more loving care than grandparents? Their house was convenient to my workplace and I often visited her during lunch hours. I knew she felt happy and at home because she rarely cried when I left after such a brief visit.

My mother was born to take care of people. It was a family trait, her sisters were all the same way. Just try to get out of one of their homes after a visit without eating something, it couldn't be done. A visitor would be asked every three minutes if they wouldn't like a cup of tea, or a blueberry muffin baked just this morning, or perhaps a three-course meal. If you wanted to be doted on, this was the family to visit. My daughter had all the pampering necessary to make a little girl the center of the universe (which is exactly what she ought to be). My mother lived to lavish attention on her.

My father always had a dog. He was good at lavishing attention on dogs and good at using the attention he required you to pay the dog as a way of disrupting your day. My mother was a little bit hard of hearing and my father mumbled and so conversations didn't always go as you would expect. And usually, the conversations were about the dog. My father insisting we find something for "that poor dog" to eat and my mother exclaiming "Jack, all you ever think about is that dog" and cursing the dog for being underfoot at mealtime. Pets have a way of really cementing family relationships. Every child needs a pet.

My daughter didn't talk much for her age when she was two. We didn't realize it at the time but she had a hearing deficit that made it impossible for her to hear all the sounds and imitate them. I shouldn't say she didn't talk, for she vocalized constantly in a steady stream of vowel-heavy utterances and I had simply come to the conclusion that she spoke Chinese. I thought it was quite an accomplishment since none of us did.

My older sister used to insist she was speaking words and even purported to understand her. I didn't hear it myself, and as you know mothers are generally very attuned to the language that their children use. A mother can distinguish one word from another even when they sound exactly alike and determine the child's need immediately. Also, because children talk at you constantly, as a mother you just naturally learn to adapt your brain to their pronunciations. By the time my daughter was in first grade, I thought she spoke very well, but for some reason she was surrounded by people who must have had their own hearing losses, for they looked confused a lot. But as a baby, she only spoke Chinese.

One day in my kitchen, I was explaining to a friend that my daughter had picked up quite a few words in Chinese and she was displaying these international language skills for our company as she sat in her high chair, nibbling away on some chicken nuggets.

"Hoi wa wa yi ee yata mung" she exclaimed, giggling at the obvious humor of her story. "Haha ay wa shing ti watu"

We continued our lunch, with the happy little girl warbling her chinese folk tune as accompaniment. My friend was very amused with her ability to continue seamlessly and without pausing for breath. And then suddenly, we heard:

"Hoojoo eewai shing wa wa Jack shoo choo that damn dog"!

I looked at my friend and she at me, each wondering if we had really heard what we thought we had heard and then we both burst out laughing. I clapped my hands in excitement.

"Oh honey, your first words", I said as I rushed to kiss her cheek.

It was a proud moment.

(See) I caught it today
the merest glimpse of you,
something of you in my eyes.
A smile began to play.
It teased, then pulled a face,
and took my mouth by surprise.

It was but a moment.
I seized it, held it tight
for soon enough it would pass.
Love stayed only a moment,
yet I spied it briefly,
reflected there in the glass.

These are the homeless. Cast off, abandoned, orphaned, left alone to exist on scraps. They huddle together in corners and mutter against me. When the time came they were found wanting and discarded. They tell stories of the early days, when they were all-important, standing proudly. Yet here they lie, formerly cherished, now forsaken.

They see the work that went on without them and envy consumes them. Once they were part of it, the construction, the vision. But the vision changed without notice. Suddenly and without warning they were deleted out of existence. Muttering in mutinous anger they haunt me, and call to me.

I turn back to them for a moment, remembering my love for them, and yet they are not part of the work that goes forth and I cannot heed their calls.

Even amongst themselves there is division. The "ands" and the "buts" are considered to be common and unworthy company for the likes of "splendiferous" and "mellifluous" and are spurned. In the darkest corner "wrath" and "ruin" join "desolation" in a cacophany of grievous moans at their fate.

Once they were inspiration, scribbled hastily on bits of paper and store receipts. Carried home proudly and introduced. Now they are set adrift in forgotten text files, victims of the editor's cut.

These are the homeless words.

As I sit at my computer, after the natural end of the day, after the sun has long set and the early winter night settles in, I reflect on the day and all the days behind. It is at times like these, in the stillness of life, the quiet times, relaxing in the warm and familiar surroundings of home, secured against the onslaught of the bustling world outside, that deep contemplation settles upon us and our focus becomes clear.

The washer chug chugs, sloshes and glugs along, a soggy but consistent percussion as the high pitched shriek of a clarinet pierces my ear drums. Musically gifted, my daughter is fingering out, note by note, the melodies she hears in her head, beautifully complex compositions such as the Barney theme song brilliantly intertwined with Beethoven's ninth symphony. My heart is full of pride as I realize that she has an ear for music that is so natural as to be able to play without having sheet music to follow, that the notes find their way from her head to her fingers, punctuated by the syncopated rhythm of a severe case of the hiccups.

My son joins us and finds some drawings that have caught his artistic eye. Here is a rendering of a tree in bright and bold Crayola. Who has created such beauty? The girl abandons her pursuit of Ode to Joy briefly to discuss fine art with him. Why, none other than their mother has depicted nature in such waxy loveliness. "Why do you say you can't draw"? she asks. "You lied to us" the boy chimes in. "You are a liar".

As an accent to our pursuit of these finer things, I download an actual recording of Beethoven's ninth symphony and play it as a backdrop. My son, wishing to be dressed for the occasion, ties a towel around his shoulders as a cape and assumes his secret identity, Batman. Inspired to artistic endeavour, the girl pulls out pencil case and begins a few sketches that later I know will be hung at the most exclusive of showcases, the refrigerator.

How glad I am to be far from the noisy business world of jangling telephones, the jostle of hurried and inconsiderate crowds in the supermarket, far from the lonely environ of my car, battling the traffic with only my finger upon the radio pre-sets.

It is too quiet, I don't think I can blog today.

I collected for myself
Words. Sharp little
Words I owned
Whetted upon my experience
and honed
to an advantageous
Edge.
Words that I heaped
upon my Unrest.
They spat and wounded
Would not be silenced
Until I turned to face them.
I chose the words that cut
I put them in little boxes
Tied them shut
so they would not escape me.
If I wrapped a box for you
could I say why?

(I hid them in little boxes
Kept them out of sight
Yet, I opened a box for you
And I can't say why.)

Intently I watch
the word
carefully formed
and considered,
drip onto your tongue.
When it is weighty enough
you drop it;
and I, bending to catch it
struggle to reply.
What words are left for me?
You start every sentence
with goodbye.

They strolled through the store, occasionally plucking a wanted item from a shelf and placing it in their cart.They chattered constantly in a happy banter, punctuated occasionally by lighthearted laughter. A white-haired woman leaning on her cart giggled slyly as she watched the young man reach out and take his love's hand.

He held it up to his cheek, guided its caress, his eyes closed, experiencing only the warmth of her touch, whispering a gentle "I love you". She drew closer to him, her lips grazed the hand that held hers. "I love you too". He was obviously so young, his face smooth and open with expectation . Her face wore a look of experience but her eyes shone with the love and purpose he had created within her. The elderly woman smiled as their carts passed, gave them a knowing wink as she remembered a life long gone by.

The scene was repeated throughout the store, young love demanding sometimes a hug, at times stealing a kiss. They were no different than other twosomes; perhaps it was his eyes and smile that drew attention to them, for he was beautiful in every way. She knew some envied her his ardor.

Shopping done, they retreated to their car. As she drove, his voice called from the back seat.
"Mom, can I kiss your hand"? She laughed and extended her right arm behind her. "Here, have at it". "Mom, you're so beautiful", he said as he kissed the hand she had given him. She glanced at the five year old in the back seat and thought "That kid is so smooth, gonna have to watch him when he grows up".