Heaven's Cattle Prod

You know that feeling when your heart jumps nine inches into your mouth and you're standing there with your heart pounding between your teeth, praying the other person doesn't see it, and trying to talk past the bloody, beating thing?

Some call it vulnerability. I call it heaven's cattle prod.

All my life I'd kept as far away from that feeling as possible, wrapping myself in layers of independence like fluffy down quits, insulating my fears with rationalizations, and ducking into shadows whenever authenticity threatened to shine its caustic beam on me.

First Crush

We all gathered together, so many cats that our mothers had to herd. Beach towels, twisted goggles, foam noodles slapping each other in the face. They called it a "homeschool field trip," but I'm not sure what we were meant to learn. The doggie paddle, maybe.

Give me a break...in the pool, a photo by tom@hk | 湯米tomhk on Flickr.

We all crammed into our huge Suburban, Mom taking the wheel while I scrambled to sit between my two girlfriends. Miranda's hair had some real poof to it back then, and Lily looked 9 instead of 11.

The mothers must have been relieved when we piled out at the swimming pool. After we paid admission, we walked through the gates and my stomach dropped into my pool shoes with glee. There was the slide--the big, swirling, colorful water slide that I'd been watching from the road for years--now only a few yards away from me. I almost plunged into the deep end before Mom could grab me and slap some sunscreen on my freckled nose.

Learning From Mom

She wasn't sure how to grieve. It was a new thing to her, sudden, shocking, unfamiliar--an exotic kind of earthquake that came without an alarm. 

She stared at the cookbook, raking her fingertips across her eyebrows again and again, as if that would help her make sense of the recipe. "2 teaspoons baking soda." Baking soda? Does that have anything to do with Coca Cola, or Pepsi? She opened up the refrigerator and prodded among the molding leftovers, shifting the remains of Mrs. Parker's casserole and stacking Mrs. Wassman's pecan brownies on top of Mrs. Smith's untouched fruit salad. No baking soda. She slammed the door in frustration and realized that she didn't even want to Google the question. Actually, she hadn't gotten on the internet in three days. That's a record.

Three days ago, normal became a thing of the past. Everyday mornings, everyday coffee, everyday bickering, everyday chores, everyday studies, everyday hugs, everyday laughter, everyday eating, everyday car rides, everyday walks through the woods, everyday game nights, had all become the hazy and broken chords of theme music to another story that she was no longer living. 

Mom. Gone. Gone for good. And it hit her again and she crumbled onto the couch and felt like doing nothing for a thousand years. 

She'd never be able to ask her now; never ask her where her clothes were, never ask her if the car was free, never ask her if she approved of the liberal agenda or what the meaning of life really was. She'd never be able to learn what made Mom Mom. Never learn what she could do to be more like her. She wished she knew how to grieve. She would have asked Mom, if she could.

Her heart jumped as the dryer buzzed a long and insistent command. It was time to get the sheets out before they wrinkled. 

She hated folding sheets, especially the fitted ones. Those were like some unusual implement of torture designed just for inept homemakers. She pulled a cream-colored wad out of the gaping jaws of the dryer, luxuriating for a moment in the cozy warmth, then stared at the incomprehensible corner seams and the elastic edging that seemed to mock her. Mom would know how to do this. I would ask her.... 

Then a thought--the first clear thought she'd had in what seemed like weeks--crept through a crack in her brain and sent her flying to the linen closet, the one in her parents' bathroom. Dad's bathroom. She opened the door and stared at the neat piles of red, white, pink-and-blue spotted, and forest green quilts and towels. Jerking out a crisp square of cloth from the top shelf she almost brought the entire assortment of linens down on her head, but came away with the closet mostly intact. 

There was the fitted sheet. Clean, slightly mussed, but beautifully folded in that magical way that she was sure only her mother could do. She took it back to the laundry room on shaky knees and laid it out on the folding table. With ginger fingers she opened it up until it turned into a rectangle. Then she opened up the two edges like wings, and made a mental note. Working backwards she discovered a symmetrical semi-circle of cloth, generous layers of elastic corners nestled into one another so sweetly. She began now to unfold, noting the inside and outside seams, memorizing the sequence of steps, until the whole fresh white sheet billowed around her like a comforting angel. 


She refolded it--slowly and clumsily. She had to go back more than once, smooth out her eyebrows, try again. But after a few minutes it was finished. Then she turned to the cream-colored sheet, now a hopeless mass of wrinkles, and began the process again, murmuring cues under her breath, anticipating the next movement, working in a rhythm. The result wasn't very good. She unfolded it; tried again.  

Half an hour later it was finished and a neat, creamy square sat placid beside the white one. There was no dinner on the table, no biscuits as she had planned, but there were these sheets. Mom's sheets. It wasn't much, but it was a little, tiny something.

I Still Cant Fold Fitted Sheets, a photo by cogdogblog on Flickr.

Folded, a photo by ammgramm on Flickr.

Tears for Free Wings

Little bits of me, dribbled out by increments.
Tearing, tearing. One creates the other.
Breathing comes choked, blockage in the throat and it seeps into my eyes.


     Give thanks for the dove that has flown,
     Rejoice for the white wings that at last found freedom.
     How hard it is for a caged bird to bless the unhindered ones.


          We smile through our tearing,
          We smile through the bars.
          No longer hearing their sweet song, we know
          The clouds will one day welcome us.

HeartBroken-Tears are the Baptism of Soul, a photo by honikum on Flickr.

peace dove, a photo by AlicePopkorn on Flickr.

Answering Machine

I sat in my brother’s stiff office chair—the one that didn't even swivel—and heard a man’s mechanical voice clip out, “End of messages.”

He didn’t even have any tissues. Why didn’t he have tissues? Everyone else in this building boxes and boxes of Kleenexes. The woman in the lobby had her desk stacked with tissues like she had some kind of tear duct infection. My darling brother had nothing but a couple of pens and a pad of post-its.

That’s when my inner self smashed the answering machine into the carpet. I saw the black shards fly across the room time and time again, heard the mechanical voice screaming for mercy. What really happened was that my very physical self sat in stunned silence while annoying voices in the offices around me droned on and on about loans, mortgages, and satisfied customers.

What had he said? Was I unreasonable for being offended, nay, enraged? My brother and I had always had a pretty good relationship. Maybe touch and go at times, but we had quick reconciliations and easy laughs after tiffs. Sure, he had called me a shrew before—to my face. But somehow this was worse…much worse. He had spoken with Justin in a moment of anger. He had said things he should have kept to himself. He had spoken behind my back to someone I loved.

What was I to do?

land line, a photo by mangpages on Flickr.

Alone, Out of Love

We came here to have a really good time. Why, oh why does it always turn out like this?

I’m standing very close to the concert stage now, the bass is beating rhythmically through my body, the vocalist is making out with the microphone, and rainbow light effects dance overhead to the crushing applause of the crowd. It’s one of my first concerts, one of my favorite bands. Nissa and I have the same taste in music—bold, vibrant, cutting-edge—and you should have heard our squeals when we realized that we were actually going to see this group in concert.

Then Nissa said we had to take Brian along with us, and everything changed.

The hall erupts into piercing screams, the thudding of hundreds of pairs of feet, and I’m pummeled from every side by shrieking fans. But where are they? Where have they gone? I’m all alone by a concrete wall, all alone in a packed concert hall. Brian and Nissa are somewhere—but how on earth am I supposed to find them in this crush of bodies? Stubborn tears needle the corners of my eyes.

The way they were looking at each other in the car on the way over here. The way their hands were touching. It sent a shiver down my spine and I didn’t know why.

Veiled and Dangerous

Morning Cup of Tea, originally uploaded by dragonflysky.

Raining again. It had been pouring for three days and nights, and Ilskya had tired of watching drop after drop plash in quick succession onto the puddles that pockmarked the lawn. Lowering gray skies and plans for entertainment that crumpled and disintegrated in the downpour were wearing on her, and there was nothing to do  but stay inside. With Papa and Katya.


They were in the drawing room, drinking tea from paper-thin china cups and murmuring about nothing in particular. But that "nothing" had bothered Ilskya for weeks now--there were tones underneath the words that rippled and slunk and made motions to take some sort of action. The words themselves were almost meaningless, but the manner in which they were said was the real purpose of their conversations. A touch of impudence from Katya, a smiling indolence from Papa. A testing, trying tone from Katya, a look of approbation from Papa. She was speaking about social functions, carriage rides, gentleman callers, and he was talking of traditions and a lady's place--but she was also speaking of revolution, and Papa was silently mocking the old ways and letting her see that a better way was needed.  


Every now and again Ilskya would glean something meaningful (a failed assassination attempt on the king: Katya had expressed condescension disguised as horror, Papa's words were angry, spoken with a dreamy voice). Her sister wanted

Little Green Lizard

sisters, originally uploaded by Erathic Eric.

We had started walking in the fields, dressed in the usual high-waisted jeans, casual denim overshirts, and snug rubber boots. Thin wisps of hair fluttered in front of my eyes as I tried to shield them from the glare of the lowering sun that still hovered above the nearby wooded hill. The air was balmy--freakishly so, it being February--but with the slightest chill in the breeze. It was the kind of day when Winter taunts the world, making everything believe she's given up, when Spring is yet far away.

Jetta's long strides soon outstripped me, but I wasn't trying to keep up. We weren't headed anywhere in particular, just in the general direction of the woods and bluffs. For some reason that was where our steps had turned to say our goodbyes, to the place where we'd spent so many hours as children.

We slowed down upon entering the forest, mostly because we had to dodge trees, thorny undergrowth, rocky outcroppings, and wet-weather streams. Leaves crunched under our boots and we started talking again. "I wish the visa hadn't caused such trouble. I might've bought my tickets long before, and now I'll have to pay an arm and a leg. I hate international travel." Jetta snapped off a twig that was blocking her way and continued tromping up the slope. "Good thing you don't have to go through all that, eh?" When I didn't say anything she turned her head slightly and looked back at me. "All right, Magda?"

"Oh. Yes."

"I guess you'd give just about anything to go to England, wouldn't you? Isn't that funny! And you'd love to be engaged, too. Here I am, the homebody of the family, finding the perfect job and it just happens to be in England. And I've never cared much for men except as friends, then I meet one who decides he wants to be my friend for the rest of his life. Odd, isn't it? You're always dreaming of oversea travel and chasing after boys, and it all happens to me." She put out her hand to lean against a mossy tree trunk while I trudged to catch up to her. "But you aren't the least bit jealous, are you, Magda?"

"Me? Of course not. I'm happy for you." Do you ever talk and have the words sort of claw their way up your throat, like they don't want to come out? I couldn't help but notice that tilt of my sister's head, the way her jaw sort of jutted out. Confident. Beautiful. Talented.

"What do you think my wedding colors ought to be?" We were going on  now, stumbling slightly over the rough ground, clambering up the bluffs and sliding back down as we cut across the side of the hill.

"That's really your decision, isn't it?"

"Of course it's my decision, but I think I can take a little advice! I was thinking aquamarine and white, or perhaps black and coral. What would you have your wedding colors be, Magda? Have you ever thought about your own wedding?"

I couldn't help gritting my teeth. A Celtic wedding--ladies in medieval gowns, men in classic suits, harp music up the aisle, fluttering banners, cascades of fresh flowers.... "No, not really. I've always loved forest green and silver, though."

She gave a little laugh and stepped over a collapsed fence of rusty barbed wire. "Yes, I think you're right. In fact, I think that green is Michael's favorite color! We might just have to do that. Green and silver--yes, it would fit the time of year, too." Another laugh. "Dear Magda, I don't know how you put up with me sometimes. At least I'll be in England in a few months, hmm?" We went on, slipping, climbing, panting, regretting the rubber boots, until we came to a large, smooth-topped rock. It jutted out above the narrow valley, and there was pile of rocks many feet below where bits of the bluffs had fallen down over decades. We stood on that rock, the sun already down behind us, watching purple shadows slowly but surely wrap up the forest. The only sounds were the chattering of a few squirrels and birds, what might have been a rabbit in the undergrowth, and the blowing of the breeze.

Jetta was standing right at the edge of the rock with her back to me, hands in her pockets, her hair slowly uncurling in the wind. My own hands came out of their pockets to hang at my sides, and I tried to bring down the heat in my cheeks. "One little shove is all it would take."