nedful things

I awoke to separation
deep and anxious
scraping nervous nails
on inner surfaces

                 (I had known it well and long)

It was the Fear that
walked ahead of me
with mirrored steps
it paced with care

                (I had heard their echoes well and long)

so subtly slowing
until -
           just slightly ahead
of the time I was
prepared to meet it  -

               (the element of surprise)

I came upon it.

It was every bit as painful as I thought it would be.

The first thing I told the kid is, "your leg just fell asleep".  Friday night, the boy, five years old, had been scrunched up in one of those positions only five year old bodies can assume, watching his new favorite DVD, Batman and Superman - together! You may remember that the boy's secret identity is Batman.  Well, I didn't think very much about his protestations that he couldn't put his foot down or stand on his leg, this is the boy that just hours before had to be dragged out of the sand pit, where he was joyfully pouring sand down his pants in an expression of spring playground glee.  But as the evening progressed he continued to complain of his leg, eventually refusing to walk at all and I was not quite sure that he wasn't just stretching it a bit as he liked having Mom carry him from room to room.    

   I decided after he fell asleep that we would watch to see what he did in the morning.  He had suffered no injury, that was certain, so unless he strained a muscle or something, there couldn't be anything seriously wrong.  Or so I thought.

He awoke the next morning much as I expected.  He hopped out of bed and walked and ran around the house and I assumed I had been right, it was a little something blown up to appear to be a big something.  But within a couple of hours it was apparent that a real something was going on.  He started out walking stiffly and then limping and complaining of his leg again.  Soon he was complaining of pain in his leg, both feet, the left elbow and his wrist. There was a lot of edema in his hands and feet.  His doctor's office has a doctor in the facility on weekends for a few hours each day but as I knew they would just send us for to the hospital for x-rays anyway, I didn't  bother with that first stop but went straight to the ER.

 We had a torrential rain all day Saturday.  I had a 50 lb child who wouldn't walk.  The hospital had construction and no place to park.  On a normal day, the place we parked would have had to be explained as "I decided to park as far away from the emergency room as possible to enjoy the rain and lugging the kid through it".  In the end, I pulled out the old umbrella stroller though he barely fit, and wheeled him through the downpour.  Luckily, we were there for five hours so we had time to dry off before we had to go out in the rain again. There didn't seem to be that many people in the emergency room, yet we were assigned a low urgency ranking, a five year old child who can't walk apparently not being of much concern.

After x-rays and blood work, the only diagnosis they had was a reactive arthritis following a viral infection.  Except for the fact that he had no rash, I was of a mind to think it was Fifth Disease, having caught it from my daughter a year ago and having the interesting experience of going to bed perfectly well and awaking with rheumatoid arthritis in every joint, wondering how on earth I was going to get off the bed.  But the next morning the boy awoke, with no apparent pain and I thought we were doing fine.  Until he started scratching.  And scratching.  His lower legs had broken out in what appeared to be enormous hives or mosquito bites which within an hour or so settled down to a vast network of red lakes, rivers and tributaries all over his legs.  I will admit this, I did not want to go back to the hospital.

 I called his doctor's office and the doctor on call was of enormous help.  "If you are worried or his temperature is high you should go to the ER,  but if you don't want to, you don't have to, but if you think you should, then you can take him to the ER". What did he say?  That was just the kind of clear and concise instruction I needed.  We waited, I carried him room to room again as by evening he was unable to walk again and we waited to see his doctor the next day.

We saw the doctor the next day, and the next, and then two days later.  The real diagnosis was Henoch Shoenlein Purpura , or HSP, which is an immune reaction following a viral infection.  This seems to be a running problem in my family, the psychotic immune system.  I was not pleased to hear he had inherited this tendency.  Because renal failure, gastro-intestinal involvement and high blood pressure can result, the poor kid has to be checked almost daily.  He is getting very adept at providing a urine sample and thinks it is "besgusting" to pee in a cup and that someone actually wants his pee in a cup.  Thank goodness the blood draws have been few.

Well, the migrating arthralgia and arthritis seem to be slowing, the rash is fading and I thought we were sailing along. The sheer pleasure of a child who is able to walk to the bathroom on his own was overwhelming.  Until last night, while sitting quietly (amazing for him) on the floor eating his ice cream, blood began to pour from his nose.  This child has never had a nose bleed in his life.  Guess where we went?  Yup. the hospital.  After the five hour visit on Saturday, when Mom hadn't fed anyone lunch yet, nor had the foresight to bring copious change for the vending machine and the sheer boredom of the waiting room, the girl got smart.  She packed a bag with books, the Game Boy, some assorted snacks and juice boxes.  She is a born survivalist.

His blood pressure had been up some on his morning doctor visit, necessitating the scheduling of another for the next day.  His BP was even higher when we got to the hospital.  It was higher still when we got to the exam room and again higher when the doctor came in finally and took it once more.  Still, although the nose bleed was what had precipitated my visit there, I was assured over and over that it had nothing to do with the situation at hand.  I thought then, this is a marvelous coincidence, otherwise how would I know to have his blood pressure checked?

Only three hours in the emergency room last night, more urine samples, more consulting of physicians, more waiting, eventually allowed to go home with no answers or specific instructions.  Well, except the little discharge blurb on what to do in case of a nose bleed. Nothing about how to tell if his blood pressure rises, since the nose bleed is completely unrelated and probably caused by sitting on the floor quietly and not even getting to finish your ice cream.

Due to the boy's fitful sleep the night before, I had been awake since 2am. I calculated now, as the children climbed into bed that I had been up over 20 hours, so I did what any rational person would do.  I turned on the computer to check the blog and see how it was doing. It provided the only normalcy in my day.  At times like these it is good to have an obsession, umm I mean, hobby.

The smoke that curls from my lips
pushes away yet another deadline
another moment I hold as mine
lost in conversations that ignore
all consideration of the ashes
The spent (shadow) of the smoulder
that lurks in the tray
the lingering clouds
of not quite fire
a hand may,
(in a considered gesture)
wave away.

But like whispers in an empty room
they echo faintly and endlessly debate
Take the bold step and then berate
Accepting supposition only to revise
and disguise evidentiary clashes
Then fear (or truth) will tap my shoulder
lurking by my side
allowing no appeal
for the desire
my heart will,
(in sober deliberations)
call denied.

The clouds listless and lazy,
do not move against the sun
instead allowing the breeze
to drag fragments across the sky
until their edges are frayed
like a pair of cutoff jeans, worn
and fringed threadbare
by long summer days.
A common bird
of nondescript design
plays hide-n-seek
sounding his teasing call to another
as they dart in
and out
of the thick camoulfage.
The grass, having been beaten
into stiff brown patches
prickles its way between
shirt and waistband,  
scratches my back
reminding me
of time
and duty
and get back to work.
Stiffly now, it rises
and groans, a longing for
days of no particular beauty
save that of childhood dalliance
and the delicious sense of
nothing to do.

Before me ever, lay
blank pages
upon which I may not write;
yet words fill my days
until night
closes the book.
Another day in which
my heart found no strength
to brave the emptiness.
And when unrest
drives me from my bed,
I chide myself,
and blame the cabernet
for the gnawing sickness
that accentuates
the awareness that is morning.
Doubt revived, it
resides in my bowels
and with demanding growls
poses its questions.
My skull, loosened,
lifts and descends
until a cup of the bitter brew
forces the acute perspective.
A single-eyed view
upon a soul I no longer own.
And each day
newly arrived
threatens silence,
until you speak
and fill my day with words.

Four hundred and thirty seven miles and she had been chasing the sun all the way. It glinted sharply off the side mirror like a dagger pointed at enemies unseen. Except that Leah's enemies were not unseen, they were all too real and she counted herself amongst them. There was a reason she was here, but what was it? For a moment only she struggled to remember, then let the pain and the weariness wash all traces of acknowledgement from her.

The radio blared as it always did, she kept the volume high. The glare on the windshield formed a white tunnel in her path. She stared down into it, and found nothing. The light turned green but she kept her foot to the brake, unable to form the intent to move. A few seconds only and the first anxious motorist honked his horn, just once, as a friendly reminder, the kind of honk that means only to redirect the attention of a driver who has temporarily been distracted by the kids in the back seat or a ringing cellphone or who has momentarily looked down to change the radio station. A gentle honk and not insistent. It went unnoticed.

In life, Leah went unnoticed. That was her gift, invisibility. In ten years of marriage, he had never seen her. For ten years she had traveled down that tunnel, getting smaller and smaller until finally she had disappeared entirely. Eventually her presence didn't even cause a wrinkle in the huge bed. It increased in emptiness each night until she would not lie down on it for fear it would swallow her in its coverings.

The honking of the car behind her increased, and others joined. Cars began to find a path along the right of her where no cars were parked and slithered by before the light again turned to halting red. A considerate man unsure of her reasons for not proceeding, came out of his car to inquire. He knocked at her window but she stared ahead, did not acknowledge his presence. He shouted to her "Are you alright? Do you need help?" and his words going unanswered, he returned to his own vehicle. The light was green again, and more cars were finding an opening to go around, cutting across adjacent streets, traveling parking lanes, daring oncoming traffic.

The light lasts three minutes, she decided. Only three minutes to decide where you are going, to choose a direction. How many places had she been? There was nothing ahead, just that empty tunnel and everything behind weighed her down until she was incapable of movement. She had filled the tank with gas and checking the bank balance had set out to drive, to be in another place where no one knew her name. Today, she had lost even the will to run away, she simply had no place left to go. There was no point in going forward, even as the lights kept changing and the chaos around her increased, even as the sun began to move across the sky taking the glaring tunnel with it, even as the radio played music that sounded like her dreams, there was no going forward.

Another three minutes and yet another. Life ticks by predictably, you are always losing time. She had lost decades, struggling against the disintegration of her being. She had lost so much time, living in her prison. The struggle to be wears you down so that by the time you are free to go, you have lost the will to leave.

A cruiser weaving its way through the snarled street stopped near her, another stopped in the intersection to direct cars trying to negotiate the tangle of traffic. A uniform was standing outside her window shouting at her in some incomprehensible language, his voice growled and barked. The voices on the radio were now just plaintive moans. Someone was crying it seemed, and their tears were dripping on her cheeks and leaving their salty taste on her lips. The dusk had stolen the glaring tunnel yet, lights flashed incessantly. There was no escape now. Leah opened the car door, and stepped out.

The uniformed one was still barking and snapping. He forced her against the car, grasping her arms behind her and fastened some chain to her wrists. He then pushed her and threw her into his open cruiser door, closing it behind her. It resembled a cage with the wired screen separating the front from the back area where she was now being held.

People gathered at the side of the street, they stared at something. Leah looked around to see what the commotion was and saw a mass of cars jammed up. A uniformed man stood in the middle, trying to guide them around a car that was unoccupied, apparently abandoned. A tow truck valiantly attempted to remove the obstruction. She watched the traffic lights, waving in a wind that seemed to threaten their tenuous wire suspension. They changed from green to yellow to red. The lights changed every three minutes, and for some reason Leah couldn't remember, that seemed important.

I planted my soul among the thistles
I grew up among the thorns
I rooted my love in your stony ground
I left it in a dry, inhospitable land

You ration love
like rain in the desert,
a sudden burst
then grudgingly withheld.
Each word is life to me
it draws from me, unwilling
things sentenced to short span.
Exploding into being
but destined
to barren existence,
they quickly wither.

The poet
dropping dreams
by syllables
seems careless,
but orderly and sure
she arranges and stacks
a preponderance
of evidence
against herself.
A world created with
innuendo, implications
in unfinished thoughts
Her promises made
of desire.
But the poem
does not wrinkle
smoothed sheets,
its rhythms do not
beat or breathe,
it offers no comfort
to the solitary.
It mocks its creator
and confesses to one alone,
that is not what I meant at all.

Anticipation,
the silence
brittle, and aching
to be broken.
Words waited
behind your eyes.
I heard them call me
out of the street.
They played like
music in my head,
drummed anxious fingers
on my soul.
When you turned
you took them,
still silent.
I swallowed the silence
held it down,
a cutting wind
that sliced
through me.
Until the day
I returned it to you.
But now
those words
tirelessly whisper,
dart and taunt
in the might-have-been,
and I would have silence.

I wandered
overgrown places
of memory and heart.
The sun of golden days
Embraced me, warmed
the tender touches
of the breeze ,
So I danced for her.
Yesterday's winds
scattered my lovelies.
They grew untamed.
I chose them for beauty,
I loved them for their grace.
A simple basket
I filled with these,
My treasures.
But this love, I know
is a a wild thing
that crops up
unwanted, uncultivated.
It thrives because
there is no one to tend this place

It was a slip in time
a moment,
meant to be crossed.
But I, stumbling,
weighted by words
that drew me back,
hesitated.
Words that fed
with fear
dug nails into
my guilt
Words that
spoke delay
Those faltering
steps halted
to keep me
from an appointed moment.
And now,
in the wordless time,
Pacing thoughts of
what that moment
might have been
have worn a hole in me.

There are worse things than work. There are worse things than sitting at a desk all day listening to the pounding of fingers beating on keyboards in some disciplinary fervor. There are worse things than the telephone's jangling cries for attention and the cacophony of voices raised in greeting, laughter, anger and frustration as they deal with inconsequential people needing immediate assistance and insisting on being transferred to a higher authority whose reign is but a short eight hours. There are worse things than finding yourself pointing out to people that the coffee rings on your desk look like the Olympic flag symbol and realizing this is the most interesting thing about your day so far. (Yes, I am going to tell you what is worse...really. Just let me have one more colorful phrase and then I will get to it, okay?. Right.) There are worse things than watching your life tick away on a clock that seems to slip backwards one minute for every two gained until finally, it signals it is ready to call it a day. There are much worse things than these.

You could sit in Barbie Doll Hell. I suppose that after years of ignoring fashion trends, choosing shoes for comfort rather than style, being content to wear jeans that were outgrown castoffs of my nephew's school days, having never gone to a hairdresser or a nail salon, I deserve this.

In Barbie Doll Hell you are forced to listen to endless hours of prattle about fashion. Who is wearing what, and why it is such a tragic mistake. In Barbie Doll Hell one denizen will hug another with a congratulatory squeal if their hair appointment went well. And they are all engaged. They never get married, they just plan weddings.
They plan weddings all day, every day. These weddings never occur, probably because they are all engaged to Ken, but the planning is intense. The subject has endless possibilities, everything from dresses to halls, bridesmaids to shoes, flowers to limos, photographers and video to the reception and music. Occasionally to break the monotony, they will foray into gossip, hushed tones that indicate someone has broken a secret Barbie Doll rule, like having nail color that doesn't match her lipstick or something equally frightening. They make Jessica Simpson look like a rocket scientist.

In Barbie Doll Hell, everyone speaks in the same modulated voice that is reminiscent of the phony intonations of Donna Dixon with a little valley girl thrown in for effect. In fact, everything is done for effect. They are all on diets, but for people who don't eat, they talk about food constantly. Very little of what they discuss sounds edible but the mere fact that food is being endlessly discussed makes me hungry and I find myself visiting the snack machine much more often. No one in Barbie Doll Hell needs to diet but they obsess over every morsel they put in their mouths, I suppose in fear that their wedding gowns could require alteration if they indulged. But hey, that would just be some more wedding conversation so why not go for it? Have a cookie.

Yes, I am doomed, for if it is ever quiet in Barbie Doll Hell, there is always the American Idol Fan Club behind me. I worry sometimes that this is all having an effect on me.

Well, you will have to excuse me now. I have just noticed a chip in my nail polish.
Simon wouldn't like that.

Clean perimeter
sets the boundary.
Outline in blues
and greens making
easy constructions of
background.
Images cut into
scattered rubble,
to be sorted and
chosen for likeness.
This piece is different,
unmatched hues
untooled edges
spoils the picture
intrudes upon design
fits neatly on one side
complemented
and completed.
Yet, on the other
invades on peaceful view.
Aware of itself,
struggling to be included,
yet destined
to be returned to the box.
It dares hope only
to leave a void.
(The future requires so much
deconstruction
turning over brokenness
to build a view)
An inexperienced hand
would force it into place,
But I am practiced in puzzles.

The door swung open banging against the corner of the counter and a familiar click tore open the darkness with a sudden burst of fluorescence. Immediately hundreds of pink eyes blinked and darted; the hum of hundreds of feet scuffling sounded at once. Willoughby lifted his head and turned it in the direction of the door to see which human it was this morning. Of course, he had already determined by his scent that it was that oaf Porter, but his cool assessment of him was done for effect. Porter, like all humans, took no notice of the rat's disdain.

Willoughby thought about nibbling some breakfast but the food was overrun at the moment with rats that were over the initial shock of the awakening and crowding around the mouse chow. He would get to that later, when they had dispersed. He couldn't eat with dozens of bodies pushing and shoving and climbing over each other. These communal living arrangements were less than ideal. He sauntered over to catch a drip or two of water from the dispenser when the excited voice of young Scurry interrupted him.

"Hey Uncle Willoughby, want to go on the exercise wheel with me"?

Willoughby eyed the young rodent and, with a slight tone of exasperation, reiterated the same reply he had given him dozens of times.

"Scurry, first of all, I am not your uncle".

"Mom says you are".

"Scurry, without casting aspersions, let me assure you that your mother cannot possibly pinpoint the exact paternity of her offspring, conditions being what they are. There is no reason to suspect it was any one of my brothers. Secondly, and for what I hope is the last time, I do not run on exercise wheels".

"Hey, why not? They are fun".

"They are pointless. Tell me Scurry, when you are done running, where are you"?

"What do you mean"? The young rat was baffled by his question. "You are on the exercise wheel".

"Exactly". replied Willoughby. "You are exactly where you started. Pointless."

"Heh, you're funny Uncle Willoughby. Well, I'm going to go have a run, see ya". Willoughby shook his head as the youngster skittered off and turned his attention to Porter. He wondered what the routine would be today.

Porter conducted the most mind-numbing exercises of all the humans, of which there appeared to be about five or six. One or two of the humans had not returned for some time now and Willoughby wondered if they no longer existed. It was a strange species, consisting of so few and he did not have enough information to determine how they bred or what lay beyond the door. He had not ever seen an infant human, but he assumed they did breed since they had at least one female. He had decided that there must be more humans on the other side of the door but that only a select few mature humans were deemed worthy of coming here and learning from the rats. They must be the ones who show a slight superiority of intellect, he had decided; and yet, for the most intelligent specimens, they showed an amazing lack of insight. Willoughby felt sorry for them at first, and tried to instruct them; he had hoped to transfer some rodent knowledge to them and in exchange gather more information on these strange creatures. However, it seemed that humans were not intellectually advanced and his efforts had been in vain. All it had earned him was this irritating metal band around his leg and the increased attentions of that dullard Porter.

The door swinging open again caught his attention. It opened gently this time and did not go cracking against the side of the counter. Gloria. It was the female. He had long ago realized that the female was the brightest of these humans they had sent to him, but even with her, his attempts to communicate had been a failure. He had stopped trying for a while, he had decided they were not worthy of his attempts, but something about her gentleness and the music of her voice persuaded him always that she was different from the others and perhaps, the first human who would understand.

"Are you going to test them against 4251 again?" , Porter asked her.

"Yes, although he has been somewhat erratic lately", she replied. "I don't know what is going on. He can run this maze in seconds flat and yet the last few times, he has gone off into dead ends, and just sat there. Then he stares at me. I could swear it looks as though he is trying to tell me something".

"The rat is trying to tell you something"? Porter's eyebrows lifted and his brow scrunched into lines of incredulity. "Sheesh, women. Maybe he is just getting old, doesn't remember the maze anymore. Maybe he's sick. Hey, maybe the rat has a crush on you, that would explain the staring".

"I'm telling you Porter, something is going on, there is something different about this one", she insisted. "He hasn't forgotten anything, he just chose not to do the maze for some reason and I want to know what that reason is."

Porter stood behind her and looked over her shoulder at the chart she held. Putting both hands on her shoulders and nestling his chin in her hair, he said "Gloria, you and I both need a little distraction. Why don't you come out with me tonight and we can distract each other"?

"I study four-legged rats Porter, not two-legged ones". She shook her shoulders loose from his grip and turned to face him. "I could use your help in timing this but if you can't concentrate on that, then don't bother me."

Willoughby watched Porter's attempt to mount the female and her resistance. This was evidence then to support his theory that humans bred in the normal way, just as rats. He approved of her decision to reject this suitor, he had already judged Porter to be much inferior to her. Of course, he had very little data on human males to use for comparison, but the three or four he had observed were only slightly more advanced than Porter seemed to be. It could be, he supposed, that she was too old for breeding. He simply needed more information on this species to determine. If only he could get on the other side of that door, into the human world, he might be able to gather the data necessary, run the tests, and perhaps finally communicate with them. He would continue to try to reach the female, if he was successful, then perhaps he could complete his research.

Willoughby offered no resistance when the female reached in to scoop him up. He was suddenly looking forward to today's exercises. He had been planning his approach, working out strategies, hoping he had not made them too complicated for the humans to follow. He was pleased when she set him down at the gate to the corridors. This was going exactly according to plan.

The gate opened and a rush of rats raced into the corridors. Willoughby allowed the crush to pass him easily and then sauntered along his predetermined path. Scurry took a couple of wrong corners and passed him twice. On the second pass he stopped when he saw Willoughby heading down a narrow corridor to the right.

"Hey, Uncle Willoughby, what are you going down there for?" he called. "That's a dead end and you will be last. Remember, there's cheese at the end."

"Yes, Scurry, there is cheese. We have taught the humans well, they know what to bring us. But remember, they are only humans and sometimes there is only one piece of cheese. You had better hurry".

"Hey, you're right. You'd better get going too". With that, Scurry ran off down yet another wrong turn. Willoughby chuckled softly to himself. Ah, the directionless enthusiasm of youth. But he was not interested at the moment in instructing the youngster. Willoughby had bigger plans today.

Willoughby found the corridor with the hinged door flap. He stood in front of the door and looked up at the female. Her eyes were watching him intently and she scribbled something on her chart whilst checking her watch. Assured that she was watching him, he pushed his nose on the hinged flap and went through. He had been all through this area before and had mapped it out in advance. Two quick turns to the right and a left would bring him back to the same corridor and door again. He quickly returned to his starting point and again, stared up at the female to see if she had understood.

"Okay Porter, look at this and tell me something is not up with this guy". She motioned Porter over to the maze without taking her eyes off the rat designated as #4251. "Do you see what he has done? He went through the door and doubled back. Why is he doing that?"

"I told you Gloria, I think this rat is just getting old. Either that or the stress of the tests is getting to him. Even the slowest rats have completed the maze and he is roaming back and forth. I think it is time we retired him from the testing."

"Porter, you're a fool. This rat is doing this on purpose, anyone can see that". She scanned the chart, concentrating on the odd results, biting her lower lip unconsciously. "But why.. why is he doing it?"

"I'm sorry Gloria, I know how you feel about him, but I am going to have to put in my report that he is useless for these tests and recommend they send him to the medical lab".

"The medical lab!" She glared at her colleague. "You had better not even think of such a suggestion Porter or you will be sorry", she threatened.

Porter just shrugged his shoulders. "I am going out for lunch. You can stay here and watch the rat do circles all day if you want to". Exchanging his white lab coat for his sportscoat, Porter went out the door mumbling something about how women shouldn't be doing research if they are going to find all the test subjects cuddly. Normally she would have reacted angrily to his chauvinist statements but she was staring at the maze, watching. Over and over again, the rat went through the door, circled back and stood in front of it again, each time pausing and looking up at her before repeating the exercise.

Willoughby tirelessly went on with his message. He realized that Porter would have stopped him by now and returned him to the box. But the female was watching and he thought he saw a glimmer of understanding in her face. He had to keep trying.

Gloria was busy recording the details of today's session. The only thing that slowed down her furious note-taking was the pen running dry. Going to the counter to get a fresh pen, she gasped as she saw Porter's final notation.

Specimen #4251 exhibits signs of dementia and his continued participation in behavioural testing is not recommended. Specimen #4251 should be retired to another protocol such as the medical lab.

"And they call you guys rats..." , she muttered. The thought of this animal being used for medical experimentation was horrifying. She couldn't let that happen. There was something special about 4251 and she had to know what it was. In that instant she made her decision. She grabbed the inventory list. She wrote in next to #4251, unexpected death of specimen, sent to forensics. No one would notice he never arrived. But she had to do it before Porter returned.

The female scooped Willoughby up once again but to his surprise she did not return him to the communal box. Instead she placed him in a small wire box and grabbed her coat. As she opened the door to the lab and stepped out onto the other side with the small wire box in hand, Willoughby smiled in sweet satisfaction. Humans were not all stupid after all.

You must come in summer.
At dusk, we will linger
at the marina
when the seafarers return,
winching and hauling dreams
from the water.
Then night, falling
gentle on our shoulders,
will nudge us
to remembrances
rekindled, like chinese lanterns
waving on the water,
reflecting in your eyes.
The saline wind
impetuously
racing the sea to shore
will sweep over us,
baptizing with tears
sprinkled like holy blessing;
and the lie,
this is enough,
will sustain my heart.
But you will not come in summer
and autumn too, will pass.
Still even if by promise of winter
I would hold my soul in waiting,
gladly forfeit days of youth
if, when I pass into winter
you would come.

The last page of the proposal finally finished printing. With a flourish Candace pulled it from the tray, added it to the stack and tapped the papers on the desk to line up the edges then stamped it P.K. Pesterman. He didn't bother to sign letters anymore, not since he was promoted to East Coast Regional Vice President. She should be happy that he liked her work well enough to keep her as his secretary when he moved into the corner office, but ten years of working for him was beginning to show on her in the form of wear and tear on her spirit. Mr. Pesterman had a penchant for revisiting his own conversations and re-stating his opinions (which he held in high regard) throughout the day, each time demanding her full attention away from her work to listen to him as he dragged that poor dead horse back in for just one more beating.

With relief she saw the clock said 10:30. Time for coffee break and a smoke. She didn't continue to smoke because she didn't understand the risks, she wasn't a stupid woman. When friends or family asked her why she never tried to quit, they didn't understand the reason she cited as the most compelling one. "If I quit, it would make Mr. Pesterman happy". Nothing that made him happy was an acceptable idea.

Candace slid her purse out of the desk drawer and pulled her coat from the hanger on the coat-tree. Just a few moments of peace awaited her but they would suffice. She had nearly made her legitimate escape when the all too familiar voice began its mocking.

"Time for a fix, is it? Got to have that puff-puff to keep your hands from shaking?" Mr. Pesterman loved his little jokes, he found himself so amusing. What a gift, she thought, to have such a pleasure in one's self to the exclusion of consideration for anyone else.

"I would have thought Miss Justis, that you were too smart to smoke", he continued. "I guess the draw of the little coffin nail is just too much for you".

"I suppose we all have our little vices, Mr. Pesterman", and yours is being a loathsome and annoying boor, she thought. "Do you want a coffee from the truck while I am down there"? she asked, pretending to be solicitous.

"No, I don't think so today, Miss Justis" he answered. "I am trying to cut back on the caffeine, it isn't good for you, you know. I am following a healthier lifestyle these days, you should take my lead. You'd be healthier without the coffee and the cigarettes, you wouldn't look so old."

She surprised herself by not striking him at that very moment but instead smiling weakly and heading quickly down the stairway to avoid his possible company while waiting for the elevator. It had been like this for ten years, ten long and soul-killing years. He was possibly the most odious man on the planet. His obsession with her smoking habit had become more and more a source of amusement for him and rage for her as the years passed. He could see how it irked her and so he continued, like a demonic mosquito that was forever buzzing around her ear, impossible to silence.

He emailed her website links about the hazards of smoking, clipped newspaper and magazine articles and left them on her desk. He watched her constantly to ensure she never took an extra break, he nearly followed her to the bathroom. Smoking had been banned in the office for many years but if he could he would have it banned from the office building's grounds, her car, city streets, anywhere he might wander. He was paranoid about the effects of second hand smoke and would quote any statistic that supported his view that smokers were killing off unsuspecting strangers by simply exhaling in the general atmosphere.

She stepped out into the drizzly grey day and felt a release as the cool moist breeze ran into her face. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath and managed to silence the insistent voice inside that told her to run. The emptiness of her life overwhelmed her in that moment, the only true emotions she was able to muster were those of hatred for her boss. How sad. She laughed bitterly. He certainly knew how to find the tender spots to poke. Looking old, she thought, how about being old? How about wasting your life working for just a little less than you actually need to survive? How about finding at thirty-nine years old that all your options are gone? How about realizing that the only meaningful relationship you have had in the past ten years is going nowhere? How about spending nights alone, dreaming of someone who won't even think of you until he needs someone to listen to his problems? Pathetic, she thought. Her image reflected in the glass door mocked her, slightly out of focus, reminding her of how she once was when she thought life was going to take her somewhere. She turned away back into the rain and walked across the parking lot, drinking in each drop of fear as it fell. She lit a cigarette and walked past the truck, sucking in the warmth and comfort of her favorite companion, her life dissipating into the air with each wispy blue-grey puff.

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The next morning began in its own version of sameness. The same face in her morning mirror, the same traffic blocking her attempts to make progress, the same sinking feeling that grabbed her and pulled her chest muscles into a tight knot as she pulled on the door to the office.

"The Dangers of Second Hand Smoke". The bold words lying on her desk greeted her instead of "Good Morning. How are you?". But if Mr. Pesterman had spoken those words instead of leaving this headline on her desk, it would have interrupted the sameness, she saw the logic in this. She noticed that her tan dress blended with the only slightly varied shades of tan and brown in the carpet and the walls and the partitioned cubicles and she laughed out loud at her unconscious acquiescence to the sameness. It was logical, it was the same, it was empty, it was her life. Then, she stopped laughing and she sucked in a breath that wanted to be a sob and it scraped and cut the back of her throat as she pushed down the cry within.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It came up as the perfect opportunity, it presented itself to her with a grin on its face and she smiled in return. Poor Mr. Pesterman had to leave his car at the shop, a problem with a tire and a flat in the rain. He called from his cell-phone, could she pick him up and drive him back to the office? Of course, she was always happy to comply with any request.

She knew then, she had to do it. She had it well planned, she had it worked out, she had the apparatus. It would be simple and it would be horrible and she would enjoy it.

She had already planned it all, everything was in the car. She started it as a game, something to exercise her anger and bitterness. She giggled over her secret plot and believed it was all a game she played in her head. But when she got to the garage where Mr. Pesterman had his car towed to, she asked him to please help her move that big box from the front seat to the trunk, and when she saw no one looking she had taken the tire iron and landed it squarely on the back of his head as he leaned over. The mechanics were all in the bay and her car parked in the back of the building, any view from the road was obscured by the trees and shrubs on the hilly embankment surrounding. He fell forward and she used her anger as her strength, pulling the dead weight of his legs up and into the trunk, closing the lid and driving off without any notice as the rain pelted the windshield and the wipers swung back and forth keeping a perfect rhythm with the music on the radio.

She drove far to the west, far from the densely inhabited suburbs, past the exclusive communities where the houses were set back to isolate their owners from the inconvenient reminders of civilization that even the occasional passing car would bring to intrude on their pretention. She drove into farmed land, rows of corn, dotted with black and white cows and then finally found the dirt road she sought. A mile, mile and a half only and she was there at a muddy pond, a place she knew well from high school make-out sessions and drinking parties, a place where they had gathered to indulge themselves in grown-up games newly discovered and ineptly played in secret.

She stopped the car, got out and stood at the edge of the still body of water. It appeared deceptively shallow but she knew that it plunged at its center to a depth no one had measured.
She pulled the hose out from under the seat and attached one end to the exhaust pipe. The other was pulled in through a back window and inserted into a hole she had made in the back seat. She started the car again. She thought she heard some muffled sounds of movement in the trunk, then it increased and she heard the sound of hands, striking out at their dark environ, not sure which direction might be the way out. She didn't want to hear his voice. Turning on the radio, she lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. She knew the trunk was filling with exhaust fumes, and she filled her lungs with the satisfying fumes of her last cigarette. Smoking was not going to kill her. But Mr. Pesterman was going to die of second hand smoke just as he always predicted he would. She wondered if he found that as amusing as she did.

The windows all rolled down at the touch of a button and she stubbed out the cigarette in the ash tray. Closing her eyes she put the car in gear. Her foot pressed the accelerator flat to the floor, propelling the car into the pond with enough speed to ensure it would go far enough to sink.

The water was cold as it surged through the windows and she felt clean and new. As the roof finally slipped beneath the surface, she slipped into the dark silence with it, embracing it.

Every once in a while I like to check out my junk mail folder on my Yahoo! account. It's really the only one I get spam mail on and they usually do a great job of weeding it out and sending it to the bulk mail folder. Occasionally one or two friends will end up there though, so I will go in and fish them out. I know that they automatically empty the folder on a regular basis, but I like to peruse it, in case there is anything there I can actually use. The other day I had 404 spam mail messages. I find it disconcerting to open my email and have it tell me I have 407 unread messages. I feel like a slacker. I don't know what sites I visited or left an email on that caused this, but I get mighty interesting spam. And everyone is so nice and concerned. For instance, Bob wants to know if I am still dealing with tuition payments, he obviously has a solution for this. Bob most likely has an even better loan opportunity for me or a way to lien my social security so that I can pay off my loan at a later date. As a high school drop out, tuition payments are the least of my worries. Susan wants to introduce me to beautiful women in my area for dating. Umm... no thanks Sue. Ned is just a nickname, really. Another Match Makers organization asks "Are these dates free?". If you pay for dates, don't they call that something else? Well, at least I don't get those advertisements for enlarging anatomical parts I don't even possess. I am very excited about the number of things I have won, all waiting to be shipped to me. So far, I have unclaimed: an X Box, a 42 inch plasma TV, a flat screen monitor, an Apple iPod and assorted amounts of cash on hold for deposit immediately into my bank account. I got a "Deposit Notice" of $25,000 payable to me, all I have to do is confirm. I must admit, I was a little curious so I read this one. I thought it might be from that prince who is being deposed and needs to transfer his personal wealth. He will electronically deposit it all to your account if you just email him your bank information. However, this was just a sweepstakes. (how did I know there would be no princes in my email?). They guarantee each entrant will receive at least $1.00 deposited directly into his account. I think $1.00 is a fair price to pay for access to my bank account. It's more than I have in there. Which brings me to the law firm that wants to crush like a grape the heads of all my creditors . I am all for that, but if I could pay them to do that, why wouldn't I just pay the bills? Actually, this is not bad considering that AOL and Hotmail are so much worse, couldn't identify spam if it came in a can with a label and actually are responsible for most of the spam themselves whilst trying to sell you services that will weed it out more effectively. My AOL email was hijacked several times just to send spam. My escape from AOL is still my proudest day, considering the tenacity it takes to out-talk the customer service people who are able to offer you almost any service free on a trial basis if you will only stay 30 more days. Right, and after having spent nearly an hour on the phone trying to cancel, why would I want to hang up and go through this all over again next month? Which brings me to my Gmail account. I have had this account for over three months and in that time I think I have had possibly three emails identified as spam and sent to the spam mail folder. It is entirely empty today and I can't remember the last time the spam mail folder contained anything. Google doesn't automatically sign you up for newsletters or business opportunities or any other kind of junk mail service. But they do burden you with 50 Gmail invites that you feel somewhat obliged to disseminate. So, if you want one, just leave a comment with your email address. Please.