The Peace of Her Own Quiet by Zoo-Lady

While driving to work this morning, an old neighbor, Mrs. Bryant, came to mind. She was over 80 years old, a widow and lived alone. It’s funny how old folks we knew decades ago waft their way into our memories, intertwined with little revelations we somehow missed those years. She had a daughter who checked in on her daily, who was about the same age I am now. Aside from her, she was largely isolated. This would have been early 1976 through mid-1977. I only remember the years because that was the extent of the time I lived on her block.

Mrs. Bryant was fragile, with thin skin, purple splotches and tears. She moved slowly and carefully, because it seemed new bruises arose faster than the old ones could heal. She would smile and invite me in for coffee. She ate a lot of fresh fruit, especially blueberries, long before any of us knew anything about antioxidants. Excited to have a visitor, she led me to admire her indoor garden—assorted plants carefully arranged on a library table in front of her dining room window, accented with a sheer white lace curtain behind it. She noted the healthfulness of growing indoor plants, “It’s important to let the light shine in when you’re house-bound.” Her rented apartment was well-kept, exuding the atmosphere of an old classic movie. Her vintage sofa was covered with a pastel floral tapestry, using doilies for arm covers. She had a heavy, solid wood dining room table that was elegantly decorated. Aside from her daughter, no one ever came to dinner, but she did it to please herself. When I went into her apartment, she’d turn off her black and white television, so it wouldn’t distract us from talking. Sometimes when she was home alone, she left it on just to “look” at it. After all, octogenarians didn’t “watch TV,” they “looked at television.”  

I was always fascinated with that generation of Americans whose lives spanned from the pre-WWI days past the Viet Nam War and flower-power era of the hippie generation. They experienced the automobile and air travel coming into common use, radios, Prohibition and the Mafia, telephones, the fallout of the atomic bomb, Penicillin, Polio vaccination, television, colored television, and eventually, microwave ovens. I viewed Mrs. Bryant’s generation as having seen an entirely new world evolve like no generation before them, relished hearing their stories, and held the highest respect for them. I remember wondering what it would have been like to fall in love during the roaring 1920’s, the dancing, lacy dresses, big hats, and vintage jewelry—being courted by a chivalrous young man.

Mrs. Bryant was warm and welcoming, and didn’t make a habit of complaining about her aches and pains or the pitfalls of living alone. Before the advent of cell phones or remote control medical alert lanyards, it must have been a little scary for her. Still, she loved the peace of her own quiet, taking pride in caring for her roomy two-bedroom apartment, cooking for one, and having the independence to live alone. She didn’t pry into my business and she didn’t try to offer advice. She simply and purely offered her hospitality and friendship.

Mrs. Bryant loved it when I allowed her to hold my baby daughter on her lap. Sometimes she’d sit on the front porch rocker with her, looking into her face with awe, as excited as a little girl being entrusted to hold a newborn for the first time. It brought her joy in the moment. Honestly, isn’t that the most any of us can hope for in any moment?

Mrs. Bryant never talked about her marriage or earlier life, or dwelled on the loss of her husband. The only story I remember her telling me about him was how he disapproved of the Social Security Act. Amused, she said “He was only supposed to pay thirty-seven cents a week, but he adamantly refused, and you didn’t have to back then. After he passed away, my daughter paid the government back for all those years he didn’t pay in, so I could collect a window’s pension. I have to say, thank goodness they allowed me to do that! Otherwise, I don’t know what I would have done to get by.” Barely out of my teens and a working mother, the thought of opting out of the Social Security program never crossed my mind. That payroll deduction was a “given” in my generation, and I learned from Mrs. Bryant never to complain about it.

I don’t know how long Mrs. Bryant had been a widow, but it was long enough for her to have grown beyond the past, and simply lived, each day as it came, to the best of her ability. She was the only elderly person I’ve ever known that didn’t complain about the immorality or disrespect of my culture, the noise or opinions of neighbors, cars with faulty mufflers or motorcycles screeching down the street. Mrs. Bryant never heard the reverberating crash or screams of the woman whose car rushed into the telephone pole on the corner, her face broken through the windshield, just one house over. She couldn’t hear fire trucks, patrol cars or ambulances, any more than the neighbors calling to round up their children for dinner. She didn’t hear the young couple upstairs; the quarreling, cussing, objects being thrown, or stomping on the stairs, but she may have felt the vibrations. She couldn’t hear the German shepherd barking wildly next door whenever that occurred, but could have seen him jumping around on his chain through that dining room window.

She he never had to listen to another word of criticism or condemnation from anyone. Sometimes I wondered what was going through her head when she looked at television. Was she trying to connect the parts of conversation she could see onscreen and piece together a scene, or was she creating a dialogue to her own liking to go with the images? Perhaps she was mentally sharpening her non-verbal communication skills. I wondered why she bothered to look at television at all.  

Mrs. Bryant couldn’t hear my baby crying. I think she might have liked being able to hear her laugh and cry, but eye-to-eye, she could see her funny faces, read her expressions, and coo gently to her. Long before I had the privilege of her befriending me, Mrs. Bryant made peace with her aloneness, much like she made peace with her age-induced deafness. It was comfortable and safe.

And I’ll bet she knew a lot more about what was going on around her than she ever let on to anyone. Instead, she chose to embrace the peace of her own quiet.  

Sanity by Zoo-Lady

I'll be turning 56 in eight days. Three days after that my little, self-defined "crazy bitch," sister will be turning 53. So much of the world around us simply sucks. I never thought I'd survive this long. What happened to the dopamine?

I found a quote to send my sister: "I found my inner bitch and ran with her." Courtney Love

I found a quote for myself, too: "Sanity is a cozy lie." Susan Sontag

Here's one for the rest of you: "The statistics on sanity are that one out of every four Americans is suffering from some form of mental illness. Think of your three best friends. If they're okay, then it's you." Rita Mae Brown  

Finally, my own thoughts on the issue: "One in four is a cozy lie."  Zoo-Lady

Crazy Bitch by MaeB

-->

I am at war with myself

but I'm angry at you

you say, I saw

and I'm broken in two

Now rising bile

and heavy arms

stop the brain

sound the alarm

Progress made, then

Backward vault

Unending spiral

Not my fault!

Stuff it in

Push it down

The windup, the pitch

Can’t stop this

Stop this

just one crazy bitch!

Boulder by MaeB

What says the stone, 

transformed into Trevi?

I am the light of the world, 

and you are just heavy.

I am boulder.

I have to be.

If you can move mountains,

you can move me.

Pardon my Universe by MaeB

Universe by definition:

1. The whole body of things and phenomena observed or postulated;

a : a systematic whole held to arise by and persist through the direct intervention of divine   power

b : the world of human experience

c the entire celestial cosmos

2. a distinct field or province of thought or reality that forms a closed system or self-inclusive and independent organization

3. Population

4. a set that contains all elements relevant to a particular discussion or problem

5. a great number or quantity to choose from 

 

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/universe

I was once accused of living in my own universe.  To say one is living in their OWN universe would contradict the meaning of universe, wouldn’t it? Are we all part of the same universe or not?  To have your own universe would imply that there are all these mini-universes which are like peanut M&Ms in a candy jar.  I shall eat your universe and all universes before you.  I will eat and eat until the only universe is mine and then the definition can remain peacefully tucked away in Webster’s crack or somewhere in cyberspace, which kind of has it’s own universe too.  I shall have to acquire a great hunger for that to happen.  Good thing I like peanut M&Ms.

Number 2 is worth a pause...can one person constitute a universe, Miriam?

Friends by Edgar A. Guest

Ain't it fine when things are going
Topsy-turvy and askew
To discover someone showing
Good old-fashioned faith in you?
Ain't it good when life seems dreary
And your hopes about to end,
Just to feel the handclasp cheery
Of a fine old loyal friend?
Gosh! one fellow to another
Means a lot from day to day,
Seems we're living for each other
In a friendly sort of way.
When a smile or cheerful greetin'
Means so much to fellows sore,
Seems we ought to keep repeatin'
Smiles an' praises more an' more.

Only the Ivory Floats (Fun with the Soaps)

I remember when I was among the young and the restless, a flame in the wind. Searching for tomorrow, I understood I had but one life to live. At home, the days of our lives felt endless, and love of life was an elusive dream. I waited to escape to a place where love is a many splendored thing. Still, I stood at the edge of night, and dreaded the dark shadows.

Life was such a struggle that my mother sought out the doctors and the nurses, explaining “All my children are driving me insane!” She was the distressed soapbox champion of our house. They sent her to General Hospital, but released her weeks later, unhealed, only to have her return to Peyton Place. She longed to meet the bold and beautiful characters she read about in her fairy tales and modern romances. The road to reality left her broken and aged before her time. Days before she passed away, we ate dinner and chatted, just the two of us, while listening to a nearby piano at a Hospice Center. She reminisced about a time during the Great Depression when her step-mother prepared an exotic dessert with frozen grapes and cherries for her seventh birthday, impressing all her friends. Could that have been the same woman my mother depicted for decades with the likeness of the one who arranged Cinderella’s slaughter? I was happy to see she had finally made full circle, and the way of the world didn’t poison her final years.

People poked fun at families like ours, until they themselves were caught up in Dallas or entangled in Knots Landing. I’d graduated from the operas by then, and sought a world apart—dreaming of finding a future where the heart is. The brighter day, for better or worse, deluded me. I failed how to survive a marriage miserably, but passed through the secret storm. From these roots it took me decades to learn how to look for the best of everything.

Everyone needs cleansing. All I needed was a bright promise. In a moment of truth, the guiding light led me to the clear horizon. Paradise Bay was an attitude and perspective, not a destination. Another world was inside of me all along. 

The Garden of Love by William Blake

I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turned to the Garden of Love,
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tombstones where flowers should be;
And Priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briers my joys and desires.

So you think you are special? by MaeB

Don’t talk to me

about singularity.

Acerbity is no rarity!

Walk into my basement,

dark and unfamiliar.

There lies Parity’s

silent killer.

Play by Mae B

The day in its glorious brilliance
Invited tomfoolery along;
Dandelion heads went flying
Children dropped and rolled in the grass
Dogs chased imaginary frisbees
While the trees just stood there and laughed.

The Mindset of a Psychiatric Patient by Zoo-Lady

“Fine, fine. FINE!!!” I thought. “I’ll play your game, I’ll take your drugs, and I’ll do what I think you need to see. I’ll figure you out, I’ll learn your red flags, and I won’t raise them again. I’ll play your game so you can cover your rear-end, and I’ll get out so I can get it right next time! I’ve learned so many things from the people in here! I didn’t ask to be brought into this world, but I have a choice when to leave it. Make no mistake about it! Sooner or later, when your guard is down, I’ll get it right—my call next time! A plan, you ask? Gimme a break! How stupid do you think I am? I read books and research just fine. My mother is nuts—I have close up and personal experience. I’ll get it right—next time!  FINE! I get it. There’s no black—there’s no white. There’s no God! You arrogant man! There’s no wrong and no right. You’re making my next choice so easy for me! Oh, yeah, I know the choice words—just choose not to say ‘em. I hear them every day at home. We’ve a voyeur in our house that could make a deaf man hear. He hides like a kitten, calls it "pussy-footing," and knows when one of us four females is bleeding— not just when, but which one! How does he know that? Two years ago I started using tampons like my mother and big sister, but didn’t mention it to anyone. My mother flew into my bedroom one night, slapped me across the face as hard as she could, and called me a slut. My mother said that—for no reason! I hadn’t done anything wrong! But, how did she know? We only have one bathroom, and I always lock the door. I know her husband is crazy, because he sees far beyond what’s real. I caught him going through my dirty clothes once. Another time he told my mother I gave my cat a bath one night after getting home—I don’t even know what that means, but she believed  him. Tell me, Dr. Atheist, what does that mean? My boyfriend—he gets it, but he won’t explain it to me.”  Rethinking it, I had to catch my breath, and felt sick. I kept my mouth shut tight.

The Critic by MaeB

The Critic…

I think you should

You’d better

Why don’t

You might try it

not that way

I find that

why won’t

Chaos, Clutter and the Box Demolition by MaeB

Recently I had the opportunity to spend some time with my sister in Florida.  I hadn't been to her house in over three years, and I was excited to see what new projects she had come up with.  We are separated by over 1,600 miles and any time we get to see each other is precious. We chose very different locales; I the desert, and she the swamp.

We did some gallivanting while I was there, cruising the coast and getting sand between our toes, but the most fun for me was going on a rampage of de-clutter frenzy in Debbie's back room. Like our mother, Debbie and I share many of the same quirks and behaviors that she had.  For me, its arranging, changing, and rearranging things from furniture to hairdos.  I am not organized. I lose things that are under my nose,  but the clutter and chaos that I surround myself with serves the purpose of feeding my need to constantly rearrange things.

The scene is Debbie's back room: There is a hole in the ceiling that my car would fit through.  Years of monsoon-style rains and a poorly constructed, nearly flat roof led to the insidious seepage of mold-breeding moisture throughout the rafters and ceiling.  Deb says one day she was sitting in her living room when the ceiling collapsed with a deafening crunch, scattering across the room semi-liquified gypsum and chunks of plywood; the whole mess was gradually being taken over by green fuzz. Had this room been in an elementary school, a decon team would have been called in for clean up. In the back room today, only the gaping hole remains. The damaged roof has been repaired for months but getting drywall board installed remains a logistical challenge; its tough to get workers to come to the boondocks, which  I call living 45 minutes from the nearest Wal-Mart.

The back room was littered with trash and treasures but defining which was which proved to be difficult. Alas for Debbie, many of the items stirred up memories as she mentally placed them in proximity to whichever child/pet or project they belonged to. Typical for my wonderfully conversant
sister, Debbie felt that she must draw me in and explain the existence of some of the objects; honestly, it didn't keep me from voting for the chopping block 99% of the time, but then, sentimental I'm not.

I spotted a superfine red metal tool chest against one wall, the kind professional auto mechanics use to store their wrenches and such. It stood 4 feet tall and at least that wide; it had several different sized drawers and a large shelf with a pull-down door on the bottom. I remembered seeing an errant screwdriver somewhere in the room and for the next several minutes I went in search of any item that might belong in the red box.

We plodded through the room, gradually making our way to the back wall. A large box-like piece of furniture stood stoutly in the corner, daring us to move its massiveness.  Crafted by Debbie, it turned out to be a well-made unit that in its lifetime served as a desk, craft table, storage unit, and most recently a dog kennel. It was for this reason that Debbie decided to junk it, its smell too overpowering to keep it indoors.

The creature responsible for the pungent odor was huddled inside his newest kennel, woefully watching us scurry about while he remained trapped inside. He had full access to the back yard but apparently he didn't like the sticky heat of May in Florida any more than we did. A pipsqueak of a dog, his coat was nappy with patches of angry, oozing bald spots that released this putrid, permeating smell. Deb adopted him as a stray and she diligently tried to rid him of his skin condition but the relief never lasted long. I don't remember his name but to me he will always be "Stinky The Mutt."

The Box that used to house Stinky the mutt was made of 2X4's and 3/4 inch plywood. I swear it could have supported the house it resided in, such was the strength of this object. We argued about whether it would fit through the front door, and after dragging it through the house we finally agreed it would not, even if we removed the front door. The demolition must begin!

Ever enthusiastic about dismantling things using brute force, I wielded the hammer and attempted to knock loose the braces that held the legs together first. I met with some success on the first two braces that held the front legs to the back ones, but I soon tired after multiple blows which only bounced off the remaining ones, the Box surely laughing at my feeble attempts. I sheepishly asked Debbie for the table saw. "That is a circular saw," she insisted.  "Can you use it?" I asked. "Of course I can. I built this screened in porch, too," she replied.

We cut a few corners, both literally and figuratively. We should have made the sections smaller and more manageable for us as our petite, middle-aged frames strained to the max as we pushed the monstrosity to the curb. Incidentally, the curb was just a way to describe the trash pick-up area. There was no curb at all, and from the doorstop to the pick-up area stretched 50 yards of deep, fine sand, which seemed to grasp the cursed box and pull against us.

Never mind the sweat that never seemed to dry on my body.  (My skin loved the moisture it rarely saw in the southwest desert climate I lived in). Never mind the dirt that embedded itself in my wrinkles; I see that as a primitive form of dermabraision. Between the two my skin felt silky smooth once I showered.  I feel lucky to have that special time with my sister;  I can draw upon the memories when life kicks me in the butt and have a good laugh at myself.

He Knew Me Better, By Zoo-Lady

He wasn’t perfect—not even close. Sometimes he was wise, but he was always sharp, and stood with a strong backbone. I can’t recall ever hearing him hedge. He didn’t say much, but was never reluctant to voice his opinion, and when he talked, we listened. He didn’t like to repeat himself. He was an only child, born Ray Alfonso Brown, on the same day as his father, and born to the same name. I wonder what the odds are of that happening.

Ray had two aunts who were childless, and despite not having any experience dealing with young children, he yearned for a family. Whether brave or foolish, he married a woman who had five of them. He couldn't have known what he was getting himself into. The oldest one was nine years old. I was the youngest at nine months when he married our 26 year old mother. He was her third husband.

My mother divorced my biological father after he lost his job of 17 years (she admitted a long time later to having never loved him). During their divorce, my father found out that Mom married him before her first divorce was final. Realizing they were "never really married at all" (Mom's confessional words)", he was unemployed, and grew disillusioned and despondent. He left to stay with his older sister in California. He was lost to us for a dozen years. With my sister's urging, my mother finally told her how she could probably reach him, and my sister sent him a letter after getting his address from a nearby uncle. Mom always told us our father ran away, knowing all along she could've likely found him had she tried. Once beckoned into our lives with that "Dear John or Dad, Hi! I'm your daughter..." letter, our "real" father spoiled, and never expected or asked anything from us—not even a "please" or "thank-you", courtesies we knew well. My sister, 20 months older than me, had spent her entire youth longing for the father we never had. Not having a single photo, I only remember telling a classmate in 3rd grade that I wouldn't know him "if I saw him on the street" (by example, Mom taught us a lot of cliches). He was a gentle person, an introvert and polio survivor with a notable limp, who never married before or after our Mom. He became an active part of our lives for the remaining 22 years of his own.

As a child, Ray’s extended family was the only family we spent time with. For me, his parents, aunts, and uncles were my family. I never thought of Aunt Ruth or Aunt Stella as my step-great-aunts. His mother was Grandma Beulah, and his father, Grandpa Brownie. When I was small, I called Ray “Daddy”, but stopped in grade-school because my older brothers made fun of me for doing so, “Why do you call him that? Don’t you know he’s not really your father? He’s not your Dad, Debbie!” Ray and Mom had three children of their own, my younger sister and brother, followed by a full-term little girl, "still-born" when I was seven. My little sister served as a the shining hope in the lives of three aging women who'd waited 40 years to be blessed with a girl. You can probably guess what they named my little brother.

Ray was proud to have served as a Sailor for two tours during the Korean War. I remember watching him march in the Veteran’s Day parade. Over the years, he spent increasingly more time hanging out at the American Legion. My mother was no disciplinarian, and saved her grievances and frustrations up to dump on him when he got home. She threatened my older siblings,”Wait until Big Ray comes home.” That’s what they always called him, "Big Ray", and they all but hated him. Maybe he grew tired of always being the bad guy. It was easier to wait until we were asleep to get home. Still, any manners we practiced were because he demanded them. “Don’t put it on your plate unless you’re going to eat it. There are children starving in other parts of the world.” It was a struggle for them to keep seven children fed. And if any one of us stayed home from school sick, he/she had better be sick enough to stay in bed. I remember him telling us a few times “Someday, when you grow up, you’ll understand.”

I was 12 years old when Ray’s mother, Grandma Beulah, passed away on his and his father’s birthdays. I wonder what the odds are of that happening. Beulah's aging legs had become mottled and ruddy, and I knew how my big brothers entertained themselves renaming salami "Beulah's legs meat." When I heard the news, I hid in the basement coal room and cried.

When I was 14 years old, my mother divorced Ray. Shortly after, she moved her next guy-friend in with us. He had three ex-spouses, too, and seven kids that he never saw or did anything for. Within a year, Mom believed every twisted story he told her, even when it involved us. We couldn’t handle his relentless foul mouth or disturbing imagination. He couldn’t seem to go a day without drinking, but worse, he got drunk at home. A truck driver, he was off work in the summer, and we learned to guard whatever money we had. The pledged funds I collected for the March of Dimes walk-a-thon disappeared. All of us planned a protest when they decided to get married, but they found out via telephone eavesdropping, and eloped. We all referred to my second step-father as “my mother’s husband.” She divorced him a few years later, but shortly after, married him again.

Ray was touched when I sent him a Father’s Day card the next year. He called before coming to pick up my little brother and sister for dinner, and invited me to go along. Mom wasn’t home when he arrived, but I went with them, thinking it would be all right. Ray convinced me to taste his “clams-on-the-half-shell.” Although I’ve since come to love seafood, I’ve never tried one of those slimy, fishy things again! When I got home from dinner Mom had a tizzy-fit, screaming at me “You’re really on our cuss list now.” I must have been the first one of us to make that list.

Grandpa “Brownie” was the next one to pass away, followed by Uncle Harold, Aunt Ruth, and Uncle Mack. Except for funerals, I don't recall ever seeing Ray wear a suit and tie until I was 18. I never understood why, but my real father wouldn’t come from Chicago for my wedding...maybe because he was painfully shy. There wasn’t any way I was going to ask, or wanted, my mother’s husband to walk me down the aisle, so my oldest brother did it instead. I invited Ray, ignoring any protests, and he showed up in a suit and tie.

I didn’t see Ray again until Aunt Stella’s funeral a few years later. I was the only one of us older siblings to attend. Ray came over to thank me for coming to support my little brother and sister, but I didn’t go for them. I loved Aunt Stella, too. He looked at me intently, then added, “I knew you’d be here.”

I moved out-of-state when I finished my Associate’s Degree, and only saw him a few times over the next 15 years.

Ray passed away in 1991, a few days after he retired. One night my mother called to tell me he had cancer and my younger sister, an R.N., was caring for him at her home. I decided I would drive up to see him soon so I could tell him he was right about a lot of things. I wanted to let him know I had good memories of him and that I remember a time when I called him “Daddy.” I remembered how us girls used to laugh when he dragged us around the house on a blanket when we were young, and how he stormed out the front door trying to hunt down a white-haired man who’d exposed himself to me in the parking lot at the corner drugstore. I had run home crying. He never did find that man. I would tell him I the many warm memories I had of his mother. I remembered him forbidding us to hang out with a couple girls in our neighborhood because they were bad company. And I’d tell him how I vividly remembered his sadness when my biological father came back into our lives—showering us with candy, cash, and providing us with material things he and Mom could never afford with seven kids to feed—how hard it was for them just to pay our school-book fees in the fall, buy winter coats, and plan for Christmas—yet, we always had presents under our Christmas tree. It was 1970, and and my father was mailing money to me and my sister from Chicago every two weeks and had just given each of us a $50 bill. Ray talked to us that evening in the living room, fighting tears when he explained “I don’t have to let him see you at all, but I won’t do that. I know you'd only resent and hate me for it.” Shortly after my 14th birthday, I remembered him lecturing me, about the 18 year old brother of my best friend, who’d taken a liking to me. When Ray got home that day, this guy was in my bedroom playing his guitar for me while we sat on my bed. A few months after, Ray and my mother broke up for the last time. I would thank him for not telling us inappropriate things about her, even though that’s all she had to say about him or our father. I'd tell him how young I was when I figured that out, and realized that, sometimes, Mom purposely kept "stirring the pot," as my little sister called it. She wasn't afraid to voice her opinion, either. I might even ask him if Mom ever admitted to locking me in the playroom when I was in kindergarten, just because I was whining about my tummy aching. That was the afternoon my appendix ruptured. I would thank him for the good things he did, for the years he tried, and tell him I loved him—still.

I knew I wouldn’t tell him when, but I remembered all three times I lied to him.

Literally, the next day another call came in telling me he was gone. Until then, it didn't dawn on me that he knew me better than my real father ever had. He knew me better than any other man I've known yet. At his funeral, an old veteran marched up to his flag-covered coffin in full uniform, and briskly saluted him. Nineteen years after my mother divorced him, "someday" had arrived, and every one of my brothers and sisters were in that room!

Debbie’s Tree by MaeB

            I first noticed the feather-like pink blooms that perched upon the ends of the branches, startled by their delicateness, as often I am by things in nature. The first time I saw this kind of tree I knew it as a Mimosa, just like the champagne and orange juice beverage. It occurred to me that one or the other must be ineptly named, or else there was another explanation that I had to uncover. The Mimosa tree grew in my neighborhood, Shenandoah Street to be precise, and it was a dwarf at only six feet tall or so. When I’m am not absorbed in solipsism, sometimes a sliver of enlightenment seeps in through a crack in my windowpane. It was this sort of  sunshine that came through the Mimosa blooms that day in May, one that disturbed my inner cocoon and caused showers of memories to pool at my feet.

            Debbie’s Mimosa tree must be at least 30 feet tall. It sprawls over her gazebo like a huge umbrella, the flagellating fan-blossoms backlit by the morning sun. She told me she planted that tree 12 years ago after rescuing it and another sibling tree from a job site, a Paving-Over-Paradise strip mall in which the mother tree had to be sacrificed.  The fledgling trees, known to Debbie as Japanese silk trees,  were barely 12 inches tall, mere twigs that were nearly invisible amongst the overgrown saw grass and construction flotsam. There were no blossoms on these offspring, just the rich green fern-like leaves that imitated the doomed mother‘s; still hovering over her children and protecting them until they could fend on their own. Circling the Mother tree’s waist was a bright orange ribbon signifying her unfortunate impending date with a chain-saw.

            Twelve years. I remember the pride in Debbie’s voice as she excitedly described the little-house-in-the-woods-by the-lake, located in a small rural town in Florida. Her offer on the house, the only offer, was accepted.  She couldn’t believe that after having to surrender her 4-bedroom Midwestern home, over-leveraged so there was nothing left for the various lien holders to fight over, she would still qualify for a mortgage of her own. Her second husband created a charismatic masquerade that  fooled everyone at first; his employers were blind to the excessive spending accounts, and lenders happily extended fat lines of credit without digging too deeply. Eventually his overindulgence and unscrupulousness caused him to lose his job, and despite Debbie working three jobs, they lost the house too.

            Before moving to Florida, she dreamed of a white gazebo as a peaceful backdrop to a yard full of brilliant blossoms of flagrant reds, pinks, and yellows;  promising  colors and warmth year-round.  Debbie imagined her girls freed from bearing witness to the drunken, embarrassing state her husband was always in. There was no physical abuse, but  she feared the ripple effect that often follows the psychological abuse that no parent anticipates or intends. As a  child witness herself, she vowed to do better by her own children.

Machete By Zoo-Lady

hot and humid
a flooded city nearby
seeping sewage everyday
it happens somewhere
famished mosquitos
clouds rolling in the sky
ant colonies float like pancakes
i've heard gasoline makes a great
exterminator with a flame
maybe the ticks and fleas will drown
what will the neighbors say
if i buy a machete to cut my lawn
I don't like to play with fire
but a sword sounds rather fun

A Musical Journey

i hit the snooze button
a few 2 many times
cinnamon toast & coffee
herbs minerals vitamins
engine light unwise 2 wait
fluids checked—a plum
packed with a Kid Cuisine
in a plastic Publix bag—
some say my weight is thin
i disagree and see only
cellulite—seriously!!!

rolling fast along 441
soaking up a new-old cd
"she was just a child..."
spooky in a familiar way
i try 2 hear the language of
the life once held in my womb
i whisper under my breath
“how r u baby—ive tuned out
ur 98.5 bite me!!!"
i can only vaguely remember
getting to choose the music
ur station unravels my nerves
& countrys 2 bleak & cheesy

a summer ghost city
no swamp activity
creepy traffic—running late
plentiful parking
summer break week
a predictably slow day
more coffee

msn headlines reveal
the top 10
stinkiest animals—
for real!!! its 2 hot
everywhere people r dying
while the markets keel

my girl is a fledgling firework
while i grapple with the climb
ive seen 2 many replays of
her dvr recordings of
the grammy awards

i understand being 15 &
running from the white horse
Swift has something 2 speak
omg—i want to jack her hair!!!

any 5 yr old can compose
slang poetry—sooo how do i rewire
the composition of my brain to
conceive that Dylan and Simon
r no more the genius of
Jay Z Kanye or Lil Wayne
whats up with that!!!

Rhianna could carry her own but
but slithers on the floor and strokes
her bare skin lowering herself
for all to see her russion roulette
wheres the Wonder of a place in the sun!!!

i applaud the stand of Lady Gaga
how she uses french 2 voice her
opinions & break from the
outside looking in--full circle
clever how she masquerades
but still makes her point!!!

i catch myself lecturing again
hoping those who pass me on the road
think im using my speaker phone
i go on and on and on and on
while driving in the car alone
"i understand the emotions and
words of youth more than u kno
i kno u better than any other
even u like the song i sung 2 you
as an infant—sugar sugar
can you tell me who sang that!!!
that was a question btw
u kno the Tokens 2
but dont kno that u do
u could sing that famous song
most known of acapellas"

i write @ work during the dull
hrs of the morning—
try not 2b annoyed by the
latest universal transitional word
a teen speaks "sooooo
it's like this i have..."
another writes "soar throte"
is this english—seriously!!!

everyone gets it
spell and gramer chek
r a waste of time
what happened with the SATs
is that a question!!!

i cant find my cell phone history
i ask a college kid
he gladly helps me—sweet!!!

i search youtube for my daughters
Daughtry rendition of home
remembering how we shared
his awesome voice at the o'dome
she doesn’t go there anymore
shes outgrown that music
along with her barbie dolls
forever in blue jeans
fb and childhood—i miss
her cartwheels & handstands
i miss her alto & her dreams
what does she need from me
i cant just let it be!!!

chunks of breaded chicken breast
sweet corn & cheezed macaroni
i bypass chocolate pudding
& star shaped sprinkles
what exactly is wrong with me!!!
lukewarm green water
complete with antioxidants
naturally!!! a salted v8—my bad!!!
herbs minerals vitamins

exclamation points run abound
the apprehension of an unplanned
pregnancy is alleviated by a period
commas r a mystery--unfound

“sweetheart—u taught me
power point but never twitter
come take your grannys hand
we'll go walking in the rain
listening for the answers
blowin in the wind--build a
bridge over troubled waters
together--learn to understand!!!”