Playing Games

the letters tumble as she shakes the box

he prepares to turn over the hourglass,

it measures three minutes; I checked with my phone.

it's  a game of nerves and speed, Boggles the mind,

how many four letter words or more in three minutes

he psyches us out by immediately writing,

I hear the scratching of his pencil on paper,

unable to find a single word.

It's called manspreading the psychological space

I grab my noise cancelling headphones and crush

the competition, especially pleased to conquer him.

Christmas Lights

I bury my hurt in Christmas lights

as I breathe in the crisp air.

Bella's collar flashes red, like my heart

beating, hurting, I hold back tears

of loneliness knowing my flesh and blood

linger in a kitchen, not my own, in a home

with private baths, the ones they knew growing

up, the ones that are so easy to relax.

Connection is less important.

I've made a Christmas box for myself, decorated

with ribbons and lights, where the hurt can be 

gently placed, to rest, to give myself 

room to breathe, to enjoy the lights and

Bella's blinking collar, to keep my breath

from catching on the cold air.

we might kill each other

she said
we might kill each other if we spend three days together
this person I carried for nine months, suckled and encouraged
through life, she says we might kill each other.
that hurts, I told her,
I reminded her that we had fun in France
she seems to have forgotten
somehow fun times together now threaten
to kill,
I could no more kill her than myself,
yet I stand warned.

Privacy

I can hear the dog on the other side of the screen

but I can't see her

This is freedom.

I'm cooking, there is no dog on the small rug

I don't have to look at that staring dog face

asking relentlessly for food

This is freedom

I don't see the TV, or the man lounging about,

A white screen blocks it all, and I enjoy

the view into the open dishwasher,

it waits patiently for me to finish

my cooking and cleaning without

a sigh, a look or a complaint.

How wonderful.

Artifact: Truth, Conjecture and Imaginative Recollection of the Wedding Toast

Artifact: Truth, Conjecture and Imaginative Recollection of the Wedding Toast

“Me do it.” Her first words.

She let me know what she wanted, whether perched on her derriere when she was four months old, or trailing me around the house begging to learn violin in elementary school, or maybe even, as an adult, directly informing me that I should not wear T-shirts anymore in public (“you’re really too old for that”).

For my part, my precious, albeit, chubby, Karen is not going to grace the office of that pediatrician, the one who dared suggest that Karen go on a diet at age two.. Yes, she had rolls of fat on her knees and food trapped under her chin would spoil, but she was my baby and there would be no diet. All of you can see baby fat does not mean obesity in adulthood. 

Karen rode shotgun in my belly at Harvard, in the same building she was to write her own Ph.D. thesis 28 years later. We are connected through our shared experience of attending one of the most prestigious universities in the world. For that, I am proud of both of us.

Life is hard and I had my share of phone calls where I could tell by the sound of her breath, before her first word, how she was doing.  An example of an “easy” hard call was when she was merely crying about not doing well in class because “everyone else” understood everything.  Lesson number One:  If guys say they understand everything - No, they don’t. Trust me. The hard ones, love and loss.  I advised that chamomile tea and a hot shower were the first antidotes and to call me back in 15 minutes. In between sobs, she would reward me by laughing at my terrible jokes.

We started our three day tramp in torrential rain in New Zealand.  Karen clobbered me in scrabble, we drank wine.  It stopped raining eventually. Since we already had the “lesbian” talk on Pearl Street (thanks, Daniel), our conversation eventually wandered onto the topic of male partners. She didn’t seem to like any, or want to go out with any; I asked her a natural question - did she ever want to get married or have a family? I recall her being rather indignant. …     Sometime later, I started hearing about this guy named Chris.

I was desperate – well, ok, not desperate, but …desperate for her to meet a good guy.  Frankly, she described some of the others as real duds. Who could be good enough for my amazing daughter, smart enough, gentle, supportive, handsome, tall, and creative?  Did such a man exist?  If she met such a man, would she choose him?  Could it be this Chris fellow?  Maybe he could even field the tears.  No more tearful phone calls when I was in the middle of a blind Nordic skier convention? 

Yep, Chris is the one.  In the end, this headstrong, smart as a whip, take-no-prisoners daughter of mine did fall in love with such a man, an equal partner, who would love her for all she is, and for her to love for all he is.

“Me do it” will, of course, continue to be a part of her life as an independent woman. But now, happily, she does not have to rely solely on herself.  “We do it” is now part of their life together.

How did we get so old?

we sleep in separate beds

sometimes wearing earplugs 

it's always the other who snores

reading glasses are no longer optional.

he sleeps in boxers, I sleep in flannel pajamas

he has his pillows and I have mine

one for my arms and a bigger one between my knees

he started it all.

how did we get so old, what happened to his

beautiful red hair - his paunch can no longer be ignored

I would be grey if nature took her course 

there's a dimple in my belly fat.

there is nothing beautiful about it but what else

but to endure, to smile and hope for the best.

a place of one's own

a corner where your things are not disturbed
a rumpled bed, the shape of your body, only yours.
snapshots of your children scattered about
because you love them and they are a part of you,
you carried them, wiped their noses, they will
always be a part of you.
this place that is yours has small chairs
and a childhood blanket on the floor to keep
your feet warm as you work.
I need a place like this, no husband, no dog,
just me and my thoughts,
the impression of me in my bed.

My brother and me

Don't we look fine 

black tie, cocktail dress, we look fine

don't we look fine

slender and fit, teeth intact

standing tall

we look fine, my brother and me

sixties look fine on us

we're not tottering yet

yet retirement is on our minds

you'd never know from this picture

how tired we actually are.