The mid morning sun warms my face as I stand outside against the cool structure. Watching the city move and listening to its breathing, feeling the life of parallel lines and man made structure, reminds me of my blessings. One more blessing is on its way.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go...back to the future, in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space...and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car.
The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect thirty lost years? After all, it was just lunch.
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label short story. Show all posts
12/9/10
12/6/10
jump ship
I remember Ken Jennings, the guy who played Jeopardy for a month or something, earning a shit ton of money and showing off his intellect on tv to wanna be game show contestants and after dinner couch surfers. In November 2000, or was it 1999, Ken was in control. I was not.
I watched Ken steer his money ship from the milieu, the common area, the couch I shared with a cutter, a manic depressive, a schizophrenic, a drug addict, a criminal. Which group I belonged to was yet to be decided. The weekend felt like a month as I reluctantly waited for global positioning. Apparently, asking for help on a Friday is a lesson in futility. I learned that madness has no patience.
The psych hospitals you see in the movies are scary and people think they can't be that bad. Minus Jack Nicholson's twisted scowl, not much is different when you're locked up voluntarily and choose to leave your two small children and husband in search of sanity. Scary is an understatement.
I watched Ken steer his money ship from the milieu, the common area, the couch I shared with a cutter, a manic depressive, a schizophrenic, a drug addict, a criminal. Which group I belonged to was yet to be decided. The weekend felt like a month as I reluctantly waited for global positioning. Apparently, asking for help on a Friday is a lesson in futility. I learned that madness has no patience.
The psych hospitals you see in the movies are scary and people think they can't be that bad. Minus Jack Nicholson's twisted scowl, not much is different when you're locked up voluntarily and choose to leave your two small children and husband in search of sanity. Scary is an understatement.
3/22/10
second look
Only love can leave such a mark~U2
Father and son running errands. Typical Saturday procedure, I'm sure. Dad's precious time spent with one third of his offspring. I know my priority ranking here and I am grateful for the chance to experience. Blessed to meet his oldest child, the blond boy I've admired in photos. His eyes attracting light and reflecting innocence. Reminds me of my French class friend.
Great food, great atmosphere, great company. Four months ago I was mud-stuck. Today I flow with the conversation current. I'm swept up in the fifth grade reality of boy scouting and origami. He's inherited his parents' creativity and intelligence. His spark is contagious and I'm immediately drawn in, soaking up his youthful exuberance. Friend, you have done this boy right. He is going places. You are blessed.
Easy laughter.
2/17/10
just lunch (2nd draft)
The mid morning sun warms my face as I stand outside against the cool structure. Watching the city move and listening to its breathing, feeling the life of parallel lines and man made structure, reminds me of my blessings. One more blessing is on its way.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go, back to the future in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space, and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car. The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect two lifetimes?
After all, it was just lunch.
I recognize him as he pulls his car up to the curb. Here we go, back to the future in a BMW. I fumble with the door, realizing if I don't close it quickly a passing vehicle may drive off with it. Smile, breathe, think. Dark sunglasses, open sun roof...turn and look, smile. He holds his hand out toward me as he says hello. I return the greeting with a half hug, over the console between the seats. Awkward, but naturally my m.o. For a moment I forget where I am and he gently reminds me to buckle up. After all, we need to move from this space, and time.
"I haven't seen your eyes yet," he mentions a few minutes after we leave the curb. He hasn't seen them since sophomore year, since 1982, since my eyes were 15 years old. I do as I'm told and remove my sunglasses. He looks at me, into me. With my encouragement, he removes his glasses and I see him again. And then the light turns green.
I watch a confident driver, one arm perched over the top of the wheel and the other drumming on the bottom of the circle, weaving through traffic while fiddling with his i-phone, showing me pictures of last night's concert. I welcome his descriptions of the passing buildings and how they each fit into his life. Into his family's life. Then he offers me his hand again, and I take it, with the wrong hand. I'm supposed to shake it, not hold it. What do I know? I'm just his passenger.
I hug him the first chance I get outside of the car. He hugs me back. He's cool as a cucumber. I, on the other hand, am filled with the anxiety of a new perspective. He notices and comments about my shaking. Kind, and kind of embarrassing. At least he knows how to calm me with a few simple words and a smile. If only I could have a couple more hours to lighten up, to unglue my tongue from the top of my mouth, to reset my memory with interesting facts to discuss, to search for my wit.
Just as he told me, he wears a black shirt. He told me many things in the last two months, through email and chat, and I realize this afternoon that I am the half who remembers most of our dialogue. My priorities are obviously different than his. He left his son's football game to meet me. He keeps glancing at his watch. I know he has somewhere else to go soon. I silently thank God for this small window. And I smile again. In fact I can't stop smiling, and I barely speak. What is wrong with me? Where are all the questions I wanted to ask him? I feel the warmth again, from the rays touching us through the maze of buildings. We stand outside the restaurant, waiting for his name to be called so we may begin our lunch. His idea to meet for lunch. His turf, his time.
We talk about our children, our work, our past, our connections. He tells the waitress that we are meeting for the first time since high school French class and she picks up his vibe: "did you tease her back then?" 27 years ago he sat in the seat behind me and today he sits three feet in front of me, continuing to impress. After settling at our lunch table, my friend looks again. "I see you in your eyes. I see you as you were in high school." His thoughtfulness and compassion overwhelm my sensibility. Keep smiling. Keep breathing. Slow down my beating heart.
He pays for my oatmeal and coffee, takes me to meet a friend, and brings me to a favorite furniture gallery. I let him lead. All the while, I'm soaking in his aura. The friend whom I haven't seen in three decades is walking next to me, showing me how he lives now. I learn that he plays guitar, collects black and white photographs, frequents art gallery openings, and appreciates architecture. He tells me stories of his childrens' births, the progression of his business, his journey. I hear his commitment and feel his loyalty as he wrestles with the logistics of dropping me off and meeting his family.
I say thank you every chance I get. Thank you for letting me in these past weeks. Thank you for boosting my morale and encouraging me to fly higher. Thank you for making me laugh out loud and roll on the floor laughing. Thank you for keeping me interested and interesting me in culture and art and music and writing. Thank you for turning your Saturday upside down so we could see each other again. Thank you for accepting me.
I insist on the last hug. He graciously obliges. His car enters the traffic queue. One wave through the window glass and one last smile. Oblivious to the swirling movement of nearby pedestrians, I walk into the nearest corner of sunshine, in the direction of his moving car. The autumn heat and the street noises reach inside my throat and grasp my trembling breath. I lean against the warm brick wall and begin the process of perspective. When will we meet again? Will we keep in touch as promised? Was a few hours enough to reconnect two lifetimes?
After all, it was just lunch.
12/4/09
winter dance
She stops to think about it. Should she try again? What the hell, just turn to the left and do it. The conditions are prime: the blazer's in park, he's waiting patiently for her exit, he doesn't suspect...and she's had two beers with dinner.
In one fluid movement, her body twists in his direction and she lunges her head toward his. Her warm lips make contact. On his cheek, near enough to his mouth. His shoulders flex and his neck rotates away. The fortress has been breached. Her lips find the crook of his neck as he exclaims his opposition, "stop! what are you doing?"
She's smiling. Or is she thinking about smiling? All happened so fast, and better than she predicted. His excuse this time is just as lame as the rest: chewing on toothpick pieces. She's not waiting for the additional reasons...for the shoulders' push, and the neck's stretch, and the voiced disdain.
The passenger door opens. Her feet hit the driveway. She turns to face him one last time, to remind him who he's rejected. "I'll find another man to kiss me." She's serious.
He watches her walk purposely into the garage and launches his last defense out the open window, "or a woman!"
She stops and turns into the glow of the headlights, triumphantly flippin' him the bird. She doesn't waste a moment thinking about consequences of her actions. She continues her path toward the house and toward personal liberation.
Before she crosses the threshold she fills her lungs with the crisp winter air. A cleansing breath. She feels her heart lightly jump inside her chest as both corners of her mouth creep upward. Mission accomplished...she lead the dance tonight.
In one fluid movement, her body twists in his direction and she lunges her head toward his. Her warm lips make contact. On his cheek, near enough to his mouth. His shoulders flex and his neck rotates away. The fortress has been breached. Her lips find the crook of his neck as he exclaims his opposition, "stop! what are you doing?"
She's smiling. Or is she thinking about smiling? All happened so fast, and better than she predicted. His excuse this time is just as lame as the rest: chewing on toothpick pieces. She's not waiting for the additional reasons...for the shoulders' push, and the neck's stretch, and the voiced disdain.
The passenger door opens. Her feet hit the driveway. She turns to face him one last time, to remind him who he's rejected. "I'll find another man to kiss me." She's serious.
He watches her walk purposely into the garage and launches his last defense out the open window, "or a woman!"
She stops and turns into the glow of the headlights, triumphantly flippin' him the bird. She doesn't waste a moment thinking about consequences of her actions. She continues her path toward the house and toward personal liberation.
Before she crosses the threshold she fills her lungs with the crisp winter air. A cleansing breath. She feels her heart lightly jump inside her chest as both corners of her mouth creep upward. Mission accomplished...she lead the dance tonight.
10/29/09
this morning
He called me from his car. I could hear the background noises. "This is what I want you to do," he commands impatiently. I agree politely and answer his questions with the forethought of short, simple words. Gotta' go to work Dad, I'll talk to you later.
Later that night I am told he went to the hospital shortly after we talked. He has trouble breathing and he hasn't slept for days and he is weak. Doctor tells him his heart stopped seven times and the defibrillator inside his chest shocked him back to life with each occurrence. Dad woke up during the night screaming, eyes wide open, with no recollection of awakening. Only his body was aware...and his wife lying next to him. Scared straight to say the least. Straight into the hospital, again.
IV diuretics to alleviate the fluid drowning his lungs and heart, oral meds to keep his heartbeat rhythm regular, shoot dye into his veins to hunt for a blocked artery or broken valve. Dad wants it all. All the quick fix possibilities. All the concrete diagnostics and explainable answers. If you can't fix or explain, don't bring it up. If he's tried your treatment, be prepared to be refused. 72 year old man, with dying organs wants to be rebuilt and stood upright again, now. Sorry Dad, you are a decade too late. You no longer qualify for the brand spanking new heart, and the docs who know you best say your body can't withstand any more invasion. You will die with or without the fix you crave.
Rest now. Clear your mind. Let others care. Find peace. Find home. Know life...now.
Later that night I am told he went to the hospital shortly after we talked. He has trouble breathing and he hasn't slept for days and he is weak. Doctor tells him his heart stopped seven times and the defibrillator inside his chest shocked him back to life with each occurrence. Dad woke up during the night screaming, eyes wide open, with no recollection of awakening. Only his body was aware...and his wife lying next to him. Scared straight to say the least. Straight into the hospital, again.
IV diuretics to alleviate the fluid drowning his lungs and heart, oral meds to keep his heartbeat rhythm regular, shoot dye into his veins to hunt for a blocked artery or broken valve. Dad wants it all. All the quick fix possibilities. All the concrete diagnostics and explainable answers. If you can't fix or explain, don't bring it up. If he's tried your treatment, be prepared to be refused. 72 year old man, with dying organs wants to be rebuilt and stood upright again, now. Sorry Dad, you are a decade too late. You no longer qualify for the brand spanking new heart, and the docs who know you best say your body can't withstand any more invasion. You will die with or without the fix you crave.
Rest now. Clear your mind. Let others care. Find peace. Find home. Know life...now.
10/15/09
the pretender
Walked in the door, singing a Beatles tune, into an ambush of seriousness and frustration. My attention given to the speaker and my patience thinning, for a solid 15 minutes or more the statements ranted and the emotions steadily increased to a crescendo of demands. Demands to pick up shoes and put away laundry and write chore lists and get organized...or what? My voice is not invited to this diatribe. My opinion matters none. This is a venting of will and proof of self. Words demand to be listened to so the mind can feel clearer. I understand. I empathise. I walk this path with you...over and over and over. My approach keeps the blood pressure lower and the peace within reach. Hey, wait, can I tell you how I think this through? Can I explain how this works for me? Will you please take a breath and listen to someone other than yourself?
This team has two people on it and no rule book to follow. Like riding a rouge wave...you and the surfboard against the raging water and open sky. Like jumping out of the airplane with the chute into the silence of the wind. Take the path of least resistance, pray, enjoy the ride, savor every moment, and utilize the resources at hand...no matter how inconsequential you think I am.
Leaving was easy. I performed my duties and refused myself the rest of the song. I can't wait to get back in my car and hear that song again. First grit your teeth, nod your head, and breathe. Almost over, jeans on, beer downed, friend called, and out. Away. Refusal. Not going there again. Not hitting my head against that brick wall anymore. Better to keep singing. You can stay and sulk. You can stay and face your confrontation. You can do it just the way you always said it should be done. I choose not to stay for this act. Elvis has left the building...
and we'll fill in the missing colors in our paint by number dreams...
Friends are reliable and safe. Friends listen and steady and allow room. Pretending and pushing away from the inevitable just for an evening...well deserved today, and unwelcome elsewhere. Big sigh.
say a prayer for the pretender...who started out so young and strong, only to surrender...(jackson browne)
This team has two people on it and no rule book to follow. Like riding a rouge wave...you and the surfboard against the raging water and open sky. Like jumping out of the airplane with the chute into the silence of the wind. Take the path of least resistance, pray, enjoy the ride, savor every moment, and utilize the resources at hand...no matter how inconsequential you think I am.
Leaving was easy. I performed my duties and refused myself the rest of the song. I can't wait to get back in my car and hear that song again. First grit your teeth, nod your head, and breathe. Almost over, jeans on, beer downed, friend called, and out. Away. Refusal. Not going there again. Not hitting my head against that brick wall anymore. Better to keep singing. You can stay and sulk. You can stay and face your confrontation. You can do it just the way you always said it should be done. I choose not to stay for this act. Elvis has left the building...
and we'll fill in the missing colors in our paint by number dreams...
Friends are reliable and safe. Friends listen and steady and allow room. Pretending and pushing away from the inevitable just for an evening...well deserved today, and unwelcome elsewhere. Big sigh.
say a prayer for the pretender...who started out so young and strong, only to surrender...(jackson browne)
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