a love story

A couple of years ago I met her in the Barnes and Noble in the mall in my neighborhood. It had started raining hard and we ended up sharing the same table at the Starbucks nook drinking hot chocolate and bonding over the fact that we’d both just bought the same novel. We talked for hours, long after the rain had stopped, and then we laughed at that. I bought her a burger at the Islands across the mall and we exchanged e-mail addresses after having spent 6 ½ hours together.

A few weeks and a few dozen e-mails later we went out to the movies…just as friends. Afterwards she kissed me and, despite a promise to myself that I wouldn’t do anything like that, I kissed her back.

A few weeks later she brushed past my misgivings and made herself at home in my company. She commandeered a drawer in my dresser and put a toothbrush, a robe, and some women’s stuff that I hadn’t seen since my divorce in my bathroom and, just like that, she was spending most weekends in my house.

A year or so later, she had a key and she had mingled some of her books and CDs with mine. I told her about growing up in the city, about getting married and having children and getting divorced; she told me about growing up with the wistful stories from her parents’ homeland, about straddling that old world they grew up in and the world they raised her in.

A few months ago, hurt and confused by my failure to commit, she challenged me to tell her that I didn’t love her. I couldn’t and she declared that we belonged together. I thought she might be right but I resolved not to let it happen anyway. The dance of emotional feints and shadows continued.

A week ago our push and pull exploded into our first real argument; seeing an opening I fanned the fire and she stormed out and didn’t come back. I wrote a long letter and sent it to her at her parents’ house.

It never occurred to me that she would just let it lie. I had hoped that she would…and I had hoped that she wouldn’t…hell I don’t know what I hoped she would do. Probably I wanted her to do exactly what she was doing.

She didn’t knock…she just used her key and exploded into the room. She slammed the door and stood there silently, hands on her shapely hips, her steel grey eyes blazing defiantly. I realized how very much I had missed her in that tense moment.

“Natasha,” I said softly. I held my place despite the fact that I wanted to rush over and sweep her up into my arms.

“Did you really think that I would just let you leave me without a fight?” she said with her voice taking on familiar overtones. I suppressed a smile…whenever Natasha got angry or excited her voice became colored with a version of her parents’ Russian accents, something I always found enormously endearing. “After all that we’ve gone through together did you really think I would just say ‘you’re right, we don’t belong together’? Did you seriously think I might do that no matter how mad I was?”

I took a deep breath. I hadn’t expected that my farewell letter…agonized over for so many hours…would be accepted without comment. “No,” I said, as ever unable to lie to her, “but I hoped you might.”

She rolled her eyes. “You should know me better than that, Gabriel,” she said with a hint of sadness in her voice.

I nodded. “I do.” I paused and then said, “The truth is that was…scared…to face you…to say what I said in that message out loud to you…”

Her face softened a bit. “You’re not afraid of anything…you’re certainly not afraid of me…”

I smiled patiently. “That’s not true, sweetheart.”

She relaxed her stance a bit and took a half step towards me. “I know that you love me and you know that I love you,” she said without a shadow of a doubt in her tone of voice, “so why are you trying to push me away?”

I took another deep breath and measured my response carefully. I looked at her and despite her anger she looked heartbreakingly vulnerable…heartbreakingly beautiful…heartbreakingly young.

I could never forget that Natasha was only 23…that she was 29 years younger than I was. All of my life I had found younger women to be too callow to merit serious romantic consideration...even most of my peers were found wanting…and thus I’d almost always made connections with women older than me. One year older or fifteen years older, I always found myself in the company of older women.

Until Natasha…until the dark-haired, grey-eyed girl whose vivaciousness and melancholy stabbed equally and deeply into my jaded heart came into my life. And despite the fact that sometimes I felt so very old when I was holding her, she moved me in ways I hadn’t ever really expected to experience.

“Tasha, you know why” I said with more of a catch in my voice than I had wanted to reveal, “I’m…look, pretty girl, you’ve got so much living to do…so much to experience…so much stuff to do that I’ve already done…” I couldn’t look into her eyes and say what I wanted to say. “You need to find someone who can keep up with you…someone to have babies with…someone to grow old with.” I looked into her eyes and smiled. “You need to be with someone who’s not older than your father…someone who doesn’t have children older that you are…”

Natasha stood staring for a long minute and then she cleared her throat. “Are you done?” I nodded. “That…was a load of crap,” she said evenly. “What I want is to be loved by you as much as I love you. What I want is to have babies with you…and if you don’t want to have babies then we won’t. I want to grow old with you.” She took a breath and another half-step. “What are you really worried about, Gabriel?” Her eyes were shining brightly, anger replaced with concern and passionate affection.

I shook my head. “I meant everything I said.”

“So this is you being all noble, eh?” she shot back.

“Not entirely,” I admitted. “I’m scared of how much I love you, Natasha. I’m scared of how much I love you and need you. I’m scared of your youth. I’m scared of waking up one day to find the love in your eyes replaced with pity and disgust…with the unspoken question of why you’ve tied your life to an old man…”

Her eyes glistened with unspent tears. “Gabriel,” she said, “I’m not going to let silly stuff like that tear us apart. I just won’t. All that we’re promised is now…the future is what we make it.” Sometimes she sounded like the young woman she was and other times, like this, she sounded wizened far beyond her years. “I’ve told you before that the only way I’m going away is if you can honestly…honestly… tell me that you don’t love me. Can you say that?”

I shook my head after another very long moment. “No,” I said in a small voice.

“Then we’re not done. Not now. Not ever if I have anything to say about it.” She held her head up those intense grey eyes waiting for my response.

My resolve…my fears and my so-called noble intentions…crumbled to dust. “What am I gonna do with you?”

“You’re gonna hold me and love me forever and ever,” she said without irony.

I nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Come here, girl.”

Natasha surged across the room and I swept her up into my arms; she wrapped her arms around my neck and her legs along my hips; I put my hands under her and held her securely. We kissed…almost shyly at first and then ardently; I held her close, greedily reacquainting myself with the sweet taste of her lips and the sweet perfume of her hair, the sweet warmth of her breasts against my chest and the sweet heat of her full body pressed so closely to mine.

“I love you, Natasha,” I said.

She nuzzled her head against my beard. “I know that, old man,” she said, “I know that.”

We held on, two people in love despite all of the reasons why they shouldn’t be.

In the next few minutes I would carry her to my bed…to our bed…and we would make love and then we would talk into the wee hours of the morning, talk as easily as we had on the first day that we met.

In the next few weeks, we would get engaged despite the freely-expressed misgivings of her parents and my children.

In the next few months, we would get married, her parents and my children in attendance despite their misgivings.

In the next few years, we would make a life and a daughter together.

In the next few decades we would grow old…together…and the light in her eyes would never turn to pity or disgust.

Tuesday 11:37 P.M.

Hello?

Hi, it’s me. Did I wake you?

Nah, I was lying in bed reading. Are you okay?

Yeah… sure…

Wrong answer, try again.

I hate it when you do that.

No you don’t. You wouldn’t be calling this late unless something was troubling you. We could dance around or we could just cut to the chase. And you know which option you’re going to get from me. What’s wrong?

Nothing…everything…hell, I don’t know. I can’t seem to do anything right lately…everybody’s disappointed with me and half the time I haven’t the slightest idea why…

Well you called me…there’s something you’ve done right. And I’m not disappointed with you so you’re pretty much ahead of the game right there.

Hm. Yeah. Well, I was listening to that song…the one we decided was our song…

Kathy Mattea…yeah…

…yeah, I was listening to that song…over and over…and I kept thinking about you…

And so you finally decided to stop thinking and start talking. Good call.

Thanks.

Seriously, I am the best friend you have ever had…probably the best friend you will EVER have…I should always be your first call when you’re feeling blue.

I’ll keep that in mind.

Good, I don’t want to have to keep drumming that into your thick skull, it’s very exhausting. So, feeling better yet?

Oddly enough, I am. It’s starting to feel foolish to be moping about the things I’ve been moping about.

It should…self-pity is always foolish.

So glib and yet I love you anyway.

You can’t help yourself. I’m downright adorable…how could you not love me?

How indeed? “When the world outside my window goes insane, you’re here to remind me…

…a few good things remain.” Damn straight. You can still carry a tune, kiddo, so it’s not all bad…

Well, there’s that.

Look, you want to come over? I’ve got cocoa and graham crackers.

No, it’s late…and you have to be up earlier than I do…but thank you. Seriously, I really do love you.

Seriously, I really do know that. And despite the fact that you’re a part-time basket case, I love you too.

Well, there’s that then.

Yep, there’s that.

I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night, you.

Good night, you.

* * * * *

lyric excerpt:
"A Few Good Things Remain"
words & music by Jon Vezner & Pat Alger
as performed by Kathy Mattea (see below)

You Made Me Smile

You held my hand when the world was a huge, overwhelming place.
You smiled at my jokes even when they weren’t remotely funny.
You danced with me…you sang to me…you made me privy to your dreams…
You made me smile.

You called me baby. You called me papa. You called me out.
You called me friend. You called me lover.
You called me when you needed a caring heart to shelter yours.

You held me close when the world was a dark and stormy place.
You kissed me back when my passion bade me to melt into you.
You walked with me…you stood by me…you let down your intimate shields…
You made me smile.

- for everyone who recognizes themselves somewhere in these words
(and especially for those who don't) -

It's my birthday too, yeah!

It's my birthday and I'm an unabashed fan of birthdays (especially mine) so crank up the video...it's the Beatles, of course... and do a little long distance rock and roll celebrating with me!

Namaste, y'all.

I Thought About Brenda Today

I thought about Brenda today. This doesn’t happen everyday but it does still happen often enough to make the connection between us…as tenuous as it is these days…still feel real. Well, to an extent, anyway.

Once upon a time we were thick as thieves, friends who each other’s first calls at times of joy and, especially, each other’s first calls at times of travail (large and small.)

Once upon a time, we saw each other through new loves and tumultuous loves and broken loves…safe havens in those most stormy of seas.

Once upon a time we were as close as two people who were not…and, because it was outside the realm of our relationship, were never going to be…be lovers could hope to be…sharing mundane concerns and fanciful imaginings with no fear of mocking judgment.

Once upon a time, we folded into each other with patient ears, open hearts, and unselfconscious laughter, tears, and shy but undeniable tenderness.

Once upon a time…that time when stories (good, bad, and indifferent…real and imagined) begin and end…we were. And then…time and distance and circumstance conspired (with our compliance)…we were no longer.

But still…at random moments and from random angles…I think about Brenda…her quick wit, her fair beauty, her intense Irish eyes, her bright joys, her soft melancholies…and thinking about her soothes me in bittersweet, undeniable ways.

So I thought about Brenda today…missing her and feeling connected (however tenuously) to her at the selfsame time…and it made me smile.

150 Words: It Was Just the Night

It was just the night…the knowing yellow moon, the sparkling impish stars, the majestic gently roiling sea…and us. We walked along the beach…hand entwined with hand, heart entwined with heart…and we imagined…we knew…that, in that tender moment at least, the entirety of the vast blessed world contained no one but us.

It was just the night…a warm blanket in the sand, the serene jazz of waves against the shore, soft golden moonlight dancing on naked skin…and us. We warmed each other…young lovers not so young anymore but still, oh yes still, so very much in love…with passionate kisses and rapturously arousing embraces.

It was just the night…the boundless expanse of the ebon heavens as witness, the beating of our hearts as guides, the sweet fire of our touching as tender reward…and us. It was just us…alone, together, two as one…alone, together, in the bright blessed world…just us and the night.

The Legend of Larry

Larry constantly told transparent, unnecessary lies; lies as answers to questions that were never going to be asked. It was, as those who came to know him quickly realized, something reflexive…something born out of some need to keep his cards close to his chest even when there wasn’t a game being played.

Most of the people who knew Larry (he didn’t really have friends…chronic lying tends to make the retention of intimate friendship an iffy proposition at best) accepted it with resigned shrugs and barely concealed nods of disbelief and left him to inhabit his own insular world as much as possible.

Larry wasn’t a bad guy…but his addiction to almost ceaseless prevarication and its seemingly attendant furtive habits made him a guy people didn’t want to know too deeply. And, of course, nobody knew who Larry was…his colorful tales of his many exotic adventures and steamy romantic conquests throughout his 60+ years of life rewrote themselves with regularity depending on the occasion…and the audience…and the amount of wine Larry had “secretly” imbibed throughout the given day.

Larry had two (or was it three) ex-wives with whom he was still friends with and two to six children (none of whom apparently celebrated Father’s Day); he also had any number of beautiful, sexy ladies who, to hear him tell it so earnestly, longed to be the next Mrs. Larry.

It was, the people who knew him supposed, a gentler madness and they listened to the stories with a bare minimum of attention paid. And that, seemingly, was more than enough for Larry.

Sometimes late at night Larry, deep in his cups, would reach out…with plaintive phone calls and hopeful e-mails…looking for a sympathetic heart to give him some measure of shelter; he never found one. Failing that, he took solace in the company of more wine, fair weather folk willing to take advantage of his wide-eyed neediness, and women whose affections could be negotiated on an hourly basis.

It took a little while for people to notice when Larry disappeared. Nobody seemed to know where he went…nobody seemed to know if he was dead or alive…Larry was just gone, without a word and without a trace.

Every once in a while, Larry’s name would come up in conversation and the speculation would often become quite fanciful. In his absence, the legend of Larry grew and the fact that he wasn’t around became oddly poignant…it was a quite unexpected void…and Larry, wherever he was and whatever he was doing, must have really liked that.

Mary

Mary wanted to be a superwoman. Well, we were just children when we knew each other so I guess she wanted to be a supergirl. My friend Mary was a beautiful tomboy…with long dark hair and dark sparkling eyes (their light as often guarded and pensive as it was bright and smiling) and smooth tan skin that paid proud testimony to her Mexican heritage…just one of the guys who didn’t seem to realize that she was well into the process of blossoming into a breathtaking woman.

I, of course, had an unspoken crush on her. Nothing, I convinced myself, would come of it…I was a year younger than her, not to mention shy and chubby, and she…she was a coltish goddess…but I luxuriated in the intoxication of “loving” her with the silent passion of the young would-be poet that I was.

My family…my mother, my brother, and I…and Mary’s family…her mother, her stepfather (though, to be honest, I’m not sure they were actually married), her older sisters, and her little brother…lived in a duplex in South-Central Los Angeles (back then a great neighborhood, we were within walking distance of USC, the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, some amazing museums, and a big library.) My family was upstairs, hers was downstairs.

Mary often hung out with us guys…joining us on our “adventures” and actively sharing in our boyish dares. I still vividly remember that day that she took the dare to leap off the roof of the duplex down to the lawn; the roof slanted down and the distance wasn’t that far but it still seemed like a bad idea to me. I shared my misgivings with Mary but she just gave me a jaunty wink and told me not to fret so much.

I remember Mary up on the edge of the roof, hesitating while looking down while the other guys egged her on. And then she jumped and for a painfully long moment time stopped as I watched her plummet to the lawn with gangly grace. Mary hit the ground with a dull thump and then she was still. The guys went still and quiet. I raced to her side as her sister came out of the house to see what was going on. She wasn’t really hurt… she just had the wind knocked out of her. I helped Mary to her feet while her sister screamed at her for doing something so stupid and screamed at us for encouraging her to do it.

Mary, for her part, winked at me and whispered…”told you I could do it”. I just nodded, loving her all the more while, at the same time, wanting to protect her from her impulse to take dares in an effort to be one of the “guys”. Mary’s sister sent her into the house and sent us guys away.

Mary’s family moved out of the duplex and my family moved across town into our own house (a house my mother still lives in all these years later.) Eventually the two families lost touch.

I know, without a doubt, that Mary turned into a beautiful woman. I hope, with all my heart, that Mary found someone who appreciated her…that she had the beautiful babies that, in her rare reflective moments, she admitted to wanting to have and raise and love with all of her expansive heart.

I’m not sure why Mary has come to mind of late…it’s been a long while since I thought of her so vividly…but I hope that she is indeed happy and well and fulfilled wherever life has taken her.

Sleepless

The air was thick and steamy; it clung to Chloe’s naked body like a humid shroud. She hated the heat…she hated the nights so swampy that it was impossible for her to sleep. She even hated, if only idly and without true rancor, the steady drone of Peter’s husky snore. It both amazed and annoyed her that Peter could sleep so easily when she couldn’t sleep at all.

In the languid moonlight, Chloe leaned on one elbow, her breasts glistening in the pale golden glow and her dark hair lying limply behind her, and watched Peter sleeping. Peter was all rough-cut curves and hirsute masculinity from the top of his big head to his soft black beard…from his fireplug neck to his barrel chest…from his hard belly to his casually insolent sex to his thick, sturdy thighs; Chloe adored him still and always…he made her feel tiny and protected and deliriously overwhelmed when he touched her…but she still felt irrationally jealous of his ability to sleep through the sweltering.

She resisted the urge to touch him…to snuggle into that place in his strong embrace that belonged only to her…the heat Peter was radiating was palpable even through the thick air and she didn’t need or want that.

Chloe sighed and sank into her pillow turning away from Peter. Peter stirred and the sound coming from him stopped for a moment…and then he sighed as well, deeply and with satisfaction, and he began to snore again.

Chloe closed her eyes and tried to force herself to quit the hellish waking night for the cooler realms of the dreaming world. It didn’t work. She rolled over and looked at the man again. “How can you sleep when I can’t?’ she asked in a small whisper, a bit accusingly but mostly with admiration and love.

Peter stirred again, his massive arm flopping over in her direction.

Chloe laughed and reached out and touched his hand. She closed her eyes again and, feeling Peter’s steady pulse dancing through her fingerprints, she defied the heat and found her way into the dreaming world at last.

I Thought of You Today

I thought of you today...
and that thought surprised me
in subtle, delightful, bittersweet ways.

I imagine the years have been kind to you…
they could, in my most heartfelt beliefs,
do nothing less.

I imagine that you’re happy…
warmed by seasoned passion…
enveloped in the safe haven of strong, tender arms.

I imagine, somewhat foolishly and wistfully,
that, every once in a blue moon,
you think of me not unkindly,
not without a whisper of a humid smile.

I thought of you today…
and that thought made me smile
happily, ruefully,
oh so tenderly.

150 Words: Letting Go

She bid him to close his eyes; he complied. He trusted her completely.

She touched him, gossamer glances warming his flesh, and the darkness before his eyes morphed, a soft symphony of entrancing color.

“Keep your eyes closed,” she said gently, knowing that his impulse was to open them and look into her own fathomless eyes.

She touched him, fleetingly, and the color took more vivid aspect. He held his breath as every fiber of his being sparked with energy so sweet it was almost painful.

“I want you to listen to me,” she said, her hand lingering on him. “Will you do that?”

He nodded…his eyes closed, his breath held, his being sparking. “What do you want me to do?” he said, somehow finding voice.

She leaned close, her breath soft and intoxicating against his ear, and sighed. “Let go.”

And, falling willingly into a warm abyss, he did.

Making Renee Cry

When I was 11 I made a girl named Renee cry. It was purposeful thing and, briefly, I took smug satisfaction in the deed. The thing was that I liked Renee…a lot…and she didn’t seem to like me…at all.

At 11 I didn’t know quite what to do with what I would come to learn was an often recurring fact of life so I did the only thing I could think to do…I made Renee cry.

I don’t remember exactly what I said…to be honest I’m not sure that the portrait I have of Renee in my memory is accurate (it very probably is not)…but I remember that it worked.

And for a very short while I felt vindicated.

And then I felt worse…I felt like an utter bastard…and I desperately wanted to apologize…but I didn’t know how.

And so, sadly, I never did.

It should go without saying that Renee avoided me like the plague for the rest of the semester (and then she moved away.)

When I was 14 I deliberately snubbed my best friend Bobby. We were having an argument over an argument that Bobby and my brother Guy had engaged in…I had taken my brother’s part and Bobby and I stopped speaking.

The strange thing was that at the time I liked Bobby…who was like a brother to me (the short white R&B loving brother my mother could never have possibly produced)…a lot more than I liked Guy…who was a pain in the ass most of the time…and Guy was in the wrong in his argument with Bobby…and yet I still took my brother’s part. Family is a strange and paradoxical thing sometimes.

Bobby and I found our way back to each other…brothers again until time, distance, and circumstance pulled us apart once and for all…but I don’t remember ever making an explicit apology for my behavior (or, for that matter, wanting or needing an apology for his contributions to our estrangement.)

Over the years I have delivered slights…real and imagined…to people I care about, to people I loved and respected and cherished.

I like to think that I have gotten much better at making apologies when I am in the wrong.

Though, I know all too well, I am as stubborn as ever when it comes to not making apologies if I don’t think I’m in the wrong. There are those…and they know who they are…who think that I am a willful son of a bitch for this.

And maybe they’re right.

Though, in my heart of hearts, I don’t think so :-)

Namaste, y’all.

A Moment of Grace

Emergency rooms in real life are nothing like they are on television shows. On TV, things are fast paced and injured people are whisked into rooms where harried but dedicated doctors work their magic while shouting out stuff like “stat!”

In real life, emergency rooms are a whole lot of sitting around and waiting. Granted, big city ERs…like the one I found myself in this past Sunday…have lots of people to deal with and they have to prioritize…frankly I just wish that my infected finger had been a high enough priority so that I didn’t have to sit in the waiting room for four hours (A&E was showing a Godfather marathon so I got to watch the end of Part 2 and a large chunk of Part 3) and sit in the examination room for another three hours waiting for a doctor to come take a look at my throbbing, swelling digit and decide that I needed to be admitted.

That said, the waiting room stay was warmed by a precious moment of grace: a little Latina (she couldn’t have been more than 2, there with her family waiting for someone to come out…none of them spoke English) came over and took my finger (it had been bandaged at my first stop at an “urgent care” clinic) and patted it gently and looked up at me with big brown eyes full of precocious wisdom and compassion as if to say “everything will be okay.” Just then the billing department called me in to check my insurance card and when I came out the family was gone.

The finger required surgery and two rest-broken nights in the hospital (the heavily bandaged finger…the middle finger of my left hand…is making it something of an adventure to type…you never realize how much you use something like that until you can’t.

I’m home with powerful antibiotics and enormous gratitude that I can sleep in my own bed…where well-meaning people won’t be waking me up every two hours to check vitals, change IVs, or administer shots…it’s all good.

And the healing...

…I want you to put on your pretty summer dress,
you can wear your Easter bonnet and all the rest,
and I wanna make love to you…yes, yes…
and the healing has begun…

“Silly man,” she said with heartbreaking warmth and urgency, “don’t you dare run away.”

She knew him all too well, he thought. He had come to the door but had been, quiet foolishly he hoped, too afraid of a welcome not fond to actually ring the bell.

Their breakup had been awkward and sudden…not from a lack of love but rather from a fear of where their love was on the verge of taking them. Wounded deeply by love in the past both of them were wary of acknowledging what they were feeling and so came the sabotage.

Once they were apart they knew that they had made a horrible mistake but pride and irrational fear of rejection had kept them apart. The rift between them, willfully and foolishly hewn, seemed beyond healing almost as soon as it opened up.

And then she pushed past the fear and wrote to him. And then he pushed past the fear and called her. And they waltzed…at odd angles and with hopeful, wary steps…an emotional dance with each other that seemed to go on for an agonizing eternity.

He showed up at her door, a small bouquet held fast in his hand, a huge lump in his throat threatening to cut off his breath. He was terrified that the light in her eyes that once kept his soul safe and warm would be dimmed.

She had felt his presence before he was actually on her porch. As he drew near to the house she put on the dress…the flowing blue one that he had secretly bought after she had fallen in love with it but had demurred given its cost…and tried to still the thundering of her heart.

“I wasn’t going to run away,” he lied. He looked up and felt himself drowning in her beautiful eyes…and he rejoiced at that. And he rejoiced in the light that he found in those eyes…undimmed, it warmed and made safe his very being.

He stepped forward. She stepped forward. They folded into each other and…tentatively at first and then ardently…their lips came together.

She pulled back and touched his face. “We’re going to be okay now,” she said with assurance as sure as it was it quiet.

He nodded and pulled her close again. “Yes,” he said closing his eyes and thrilling to the fragrance of her hair, the sweet warmth of her breasts, the tender strength of her hand around his neck, “yes, we will.”

She nuzzled against his chest. She listened to the thunder of his heart which was echoing, almost beat for beat, the pounding of her own heart. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in the comfort of his arms around her.

They stood there in the doorway, their hearts pounding, their love conquering their fears and then they stepped in. She took the flowers and he smiled at how lovely she looked in the dress and they stepped inside and closed the door behind them. And the healing…and the healing had begun.

“And the Healing has Begun”
words and music by Van Morrison
©1979 Essential Music, BMI

Me and Bob and Jesse and Rosemary

So it was me and Bob (Dylan) sitting in the backseat of a big old jet black Lincoln while a pale blonde guy named Jesse was sitting in the front passenger seat smoking a big cigar and shouting into a cell phone and a buxom Mexican-Irish woman named Rosemary was behind the wheel pushing 65 down a winding road circling a steep mountain.

Rosemary negotiated each curve with a calm aplomb that belied that fact that each screeching turn could be our last while Jesse smoked and shouted and Bob was lying back with his eyes closed humming the tune to a song he was writing in his head.

Me, I occasionally broke the fourth wall of the experience and realized that it was all a very vivid dream and, in those fleeting moments of lucidity, I wondered what exactly Darryl had put in those brownies.

Rosemary, who laughed every time we took an especially sharp turn but who was otherwise quiet, kept a steady hand on the wheel; she was dressed all in black…black t-shirt, black jeans, black leather cap…something I prayed wasn’t some kind of omen.

Bob looked over at me and mumbled something; I couldn’t make out a single word he said. He fixed me with a laser-hot stare as he waited for me to reply. I shrugged and said “Yeah?” Bob smiled and punched me in the arm and then he closed his eyes and started to hum again.

Jesse cursed and threw the phone out of the window as we took an especially sharp curve with apparently only two wheels on the road and Rosemary laughed. Bob hummed and Jesse smoked and Rosemary gunned the big old jet black Lincoln down the seemingly endless mountain road laughing around every perilous curve and me, I was surprisingly calm throughout it all.

And then I woke up.

“Okay,” I said as I reluctantly acclimated myself to the morning light sneaking in through the window shades, “that was interesting.”

I made a mental to note to ask Darryl about those brownies the next time I saw him.

150 Words: Choices

We haven’t heard from you lately, is something wrong?

I presumed that you didn’t want to hear from me.

Why? Because of the other day? Look, we just didn’t want to upset her…

I got that. You made a choice and I have to respect that.

It’s not like that…we didn’t make a choice.

Yes you did. You made a choice where no one was asking you to make a choice but that’s cool.

That’s not fair.

Maybe not…but there it is. Anyway, like I said, it’s cool…I understand.

It doesn’t mean that we don’t love you too.

Okay.

Now you’re upset.

Really, I’m not. Choices are made and we live with them. That’s life. It’s all good.

Things were hectic and there was so much to do…

Yeah, again, that’s life. It’s cool.

Are we good?

Sure…it’s always important to know where we stand.

Love you.

Love you too.

15 Years, 16 Days

15 years, 16 days…in the grand tapestry of most lives that’s a significant part of the journey towards the light and whatever lies beyond. It’s a long time…a decade and a half of life, love, experience, dreams, music, magic, heartbreak, passion, peace…and a seeming blink of an eye when it’s gone.

15 years, 16 days…a slice of my lifetime, a slice of your lifetime, and, for some, the sum total of a lifetime.

Autumn was a sweetheart…a funny, fuzzy red bear of a dog (mostly Chow but with the gregarious personality of a gentle German Shepherd) who never met anyone she didn’t like (with the possible exception of Mr. Gambino, the hyperactive tuxedoed cat who, much to his chagrin, could never get as close to Autumn as Bart, the laidback surfer dude cat of the house, did with casual ease)…she liked to take long walks (and did so until her failing joints made it impossible) and to have her head rubbed….she liked to smile and have her belly rubbed…she liked to kiss babies and anyone else who stayed still long enough for her to happily lick them…she liked to bark like she was the ferocious guard dog in the world and then greet anyone who came into the house with curious brown eyes and a big wagging tail.

One day in December she spent a perfect day in the company of friends and family, happily giving and getting attention between naps and meals and time spent wandering her backyard…and the next day all that she was suddenly left…her eyes were open but the light of recognition was gone.

Maybe it was a stroke…maybe it was old age finally catching up with her (her hearing had been fading for a couple of years and her hind legs had been growing weaker over the same period)…I don’t know. And I don’t care. The veterinarian offered slim options, none of which would lead to her coming back…none of which would lead to her living the peaceful, pain-free, proud life she once knew. In the end the decision was mine and…reluctantly…I made.

The doctor told me it was the right decision only after I made it but, unsurprisingly, that didn’t make it feel any better (even as it was about to happen, I was stroking her head and fighting the urge to stop it.)

Autumn lived for 15 years, 16 days…she lived for a grand and cherished lifetime…and, thankfully, she lives still in the hearts of those of us who loved her and there her bright spirit will linger for all the rest of our days.

The Old Man in the Coffee Aisle

I noticed the humming first. It was a soft, beguiling, masculine sound that was warm and welcoming; it effortlessly cut through the vapid drone of the emotionless music coming from the supermarket’s sound system.

As I came around the corner I saw him…a little old man with silvery white hair and twinkling gray eyes shining from behind thick, horn-rimmed glasses. The little old man…he couldn’t have been more than 5’2 tall…was staring intently at the very top row of cans and bags of coffee while patiently humming his lovely little song.

He glanced up at me…I was a foot taller than he…and smiled. “Can you spare a moment, son?” he asked after he stopped humming. “It appears that the good folks who run this establishment have conspired to keep an old man with arthritis from easily obtaining his favorite coffee,” he said with a bright smile in his voice, “and I was wondering if you would help me out.”

“Sure,” I said, pushing my shopping cart to the side so that other shoppers who might come down the aisle could get by, “I’d be happy to. What do you need?”

“There’s a good fellow.” The old man patted my arm and then pointed up to rows of blue cans on the top shelf. “The Maxwell House dark roast,” he said.

“Ah,” I smiled as reached up and retrieved a can, “like your coffee strong, huh?”

The old man chuckled as he accepted the can and put it in his own cart. “That’s the only way to drink coffee, lad,” he replied. “Thank you for your help.”

“No problem, sir,” I said getting back behind my cart and moving down the aisle. “Have a good day.”

“I shall, young man,” he said, pushing his own cart slowly towards the dairy cases at the other end of the aisle, “you do the same.”

He began to hum again, a melody at once familiar and so very hard to place; I smiled again and went on to gather the rest of my groceries with that song echoing sweetly in my head from that point through the rest of my day.

Resolutions

I resolve to appreciate more sunsets and rainbows, more clear starry nights and big golden moons; I resolve to indulge in more tender hugs, more soft kisses, and all of the everyday magic around me..

I resolve to smile more and talk more and to be more patient with my fellow beings than I am sometimes. I resolve to be on the look out for far more silver linings and far fewer dark clouds.

I resolve to sing more, to fret less, to dream more, to worry less; I resolve to dance when the mood strikes and cry when the occasion warrants; I resolve to cherish every kindness and to do my best to let go of any slights (real or imagined.)

I resolve to dance more…in the sunshine, in the moonlight, in rainshowers, whenever music takes hold of me and bids me to do so; I resolve to write more, to learn more, to know more, to be more.

I resolve to not let the incessant media coverage of preening and/or self-destructive narcissists bother me as much as it has in the past (though, I reserve the right to wonder why the vapid lives of people like Britney Spears and Paris Hilton merit so much media attention.)

I resolve to give more and expect less…life often works out this way in any case and so going with this particular flow can only make the path that much easier to negotiate.

I resolve to hang onto memories but to live firmly in the now. I resolve to respect the past but to look forward to whatever the future brings.

I resolve to believe in magic, and laughter, and love…I resolve to be the best me I can be, a little better me than I was yesterday, a less better me than I will be tomorrow.

I resolve to...Be.

Namaste, y’all.

150 Words: Breathe

“What are you doing?” she asked. She knew that it would take a moment for him to reply so she waited patiently.

The night stretched out towards infinity, the lazy gold moon nestled in the starry tapestry.

He smiled softly looking up from the blanket on the lawn. “I’m looking at the sky.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s there.”

It was her turn to smile; she should have expected that answer. “Okay. Can I watch too?”

He patted the ground next to him. “The more the merrier.”

She snuggled down next to him and looked up. “Now what do we do?”

He took her hand and held it. “Lay back and relax.”

She did so, engaged by the sparkling distant stars.

“Lay back…relax…and breathe.”

She breathed and the world slipped away and the universe enveloped her. “Wow.”

He smiled again. “Yeah.” Silently they watched the stars together for a good long while.

a merry little Christmas

We rush about to and fro, spending money we don’t have to prove love and friendship that should be known unspoken… but it’s all right.

We hear holiday music unto the point where Nat Cole singing about roasting chestnuts or Bing Crosby dreaming of snow is burned into our consciousnesses against our collective will…but it’s all right.

We dream of Yuletides long gone and fret that those days were better than the nowadays…we string our lights and trim our trees and stand on line at the Post Office while wondering why we’re doing all of it…but it’s all right.

We stop to sing…we stop to share faith, love, peace, and laughter…we pause to bask in the warmth of fireplaces and in the joyful company of friends and other loved ones…we exchange whimsical cards and brightly wrapped gift offerings…we remember, for a soft eternal moment, that the season is filled with light and music and golden magic when we let it be. And it is, wondrously, all right…

…have yourself a merry little Christmas,
make the Yuletide gay,
from now on our troubles will be far away…

Peace, joy, love, light, and laughter to you one and all.

Happy Christmas,
Michael

150 Words: Showtime

This is always the hard part, she thought, as she watched her husband sleeping soundly. He was, she knew, ready for that special night of nights but first he had to get up.

She nudged him and he grunted. “It’s time, sweetheart,” she said.

He grunted again and she shook him harder. “It’s time, big guy,” she insisted, “time to rise and shine.”

“Don’t wanna,” the old man slurred, “tell ‘em to go without me.”

The old woman chuckled affectionately. “They can’t do that…there’s no magic without you. So get up, it’s showtime!”

The old man sighed and rolled over. He sighed and then, with surprising grace for a man of his girth, he rolled out of bed. “Tell me why I do this every year?”

“It’s for the children, Nick,” the old woman said handing him a steaming mug of coffee.

“Right…the children…ho…ho…ho…”

“That’s the spirit, dear,” she smiled.

Acknowledging the Sunrise (on Christmas Morning)

Katie sat patiently at the top of the carpeted stairs…more patiently than she, all of 8 years old with the incumbent restlessness that typified that age, would at almost any other time. The house was still and cool and dark and Katie, bundled in her favorite robe, was waiting. Her parents and her brother were sleeping in their rooms but she was wide awake and waiting…waiting for the sunrise and waiting for the sunrise to be acknowledged.

It was Christmas morning and on that day, more than any other day, Katie wanted and needed to witness the sunrise and she wanted and needed to hear it acknowledged.

Through the windows below Katie could see tendrils of warm light stealing surely from the eastern horizon and she smiled expectantly. In the great room below the staircase, the tall tree, festooned with delicate bulbs and ribbons and strings of popcorn and surrounded at its base with a wealth of brightly wrapped treasures soon to be exchanged and gratefully accepted, seemed to be waiting as well.

Katie heard a door open down the hall but she didn’t look around.

“What are you doing, squirt?” her brother Scott, 8 years her senior and ever her most stalwart protector after getting over the shock of no longer being their parents’ only child back when he was Katie’s age, said while unsuccessfully stifling a yawn.

Katie waved her hand to quiet him. “Waiting,” she whispered.

Scott, ever accepting of his little sister’s whimsies, chuckled through yet another yawn, and sat down next to Katie at the top of the stairs. “Waiting for what?” he asked.

“It’s coming, just hold on,” she replied.

They sat in expectant silence until the clock in the entryway below struck 6 and, in the same instant, the bells began to sing throughout the town. On this day, more than any other day, they sang from every church, acknowledging the sunrise, acknowledging another glorious Christmas morning…they sang, a wondrous cacophony resonating through the still winter’s air, and Katie smiled guilelessly.

Katie leaned into her brother and Scott put his arm around her as the bells softly faded. “That’s what I was waiting for,” she whispered.

Scott smiled. “You’re an odd duck, Katie girl,” he said affectionately.

Katie, knowing how much Scott loved her, took no offense. “Merry Christmas, big brother,” she said leaning up to kiss Scott’s cheek.

Scott hefted Katie onto his shoulder and stood up. “Merry Christmas, baby sister,” he said as he carried her, giggling, down the stairs.

150 Words: The Only Two People in the Room

Joseph and Helen met at a dance when they were 17…he was stoic and yet romantic, she was demure and yet passionate…and they spent the evening waltzing…he was earnest but awkward, she was graceful and patient…as if they were the only people in the room.

They courted for a year and were engaged for a year and then they married. 57 years later, they still sometimes felt like the only two people in the room…but not when surrounded by their family.

Their family…children and grandchildren…gathered from near and far in their welcoming home for Christmas and Joseph and Helen gave thanks for all of the blessings in their life.

And every Christmas Eve…after their family had settled down to sleep…Joseph and Helen…stoic and romantic, earnest and awkward, demure and passionate, graceful and patient…waltzed by the light of the Christmas tree, still and always the only two people in the room.

Snowfall (Part 2 of 2)

(Part 1 of this story is here)

Two days before Christmas, Carole awoke to find the skies still gray and the ground a carpet of perfect white. It was not at all what she had hoped for but it was, she had to admit to herself, exactly what she had expected.

After breakfast, she sat at the kitchen table and made calls to her family…her Dad, her Grandfather, her sister-in-law Melissa Joshua, her sister Kim, her brother Tom, her Aunt Janey, and her cousin April. It seemed to be snowing everywhere they were and yet none of them seemed to be the least bit worried about it.

“Your mother and I wouldn’t miss this for the world, princess,” her father said. He’d called her “princess” since she was 3 and he had no intention of stopping. Carole always pretended that she didn’t like it but her father knew better. Carole loved that he knew better. “Your mother wanted to make sure you got the Granny Smith apples,” he added. “You know she only makes pies with Granny Smith apples.”

Carole’s mother had insisted on baking the pies for Christmas dinner dismissing as “nonsense” Carole’s offer to just buy some pies. “I got the right apples, Dad,” she said, “Mom would never let me here the end of it if I got that wrong.”

“We’ll be there tomorrow evening with bells on, honey,” he father said, “don’t you worry.” Carole smiled to herself as she realized, once again, how much Jason was like her father in terms of temperament; her dad had survived her tumultuous post-puberty years with an equanimity that had really ticked her off when she was girl but which made her feel lucky and loved in her adult years.

And all of her family members said variations of the same thing when she talked to them. The snow wasn’t weighing on any of her family as they prepared to journey from their far-flung cities and towns to her quiet suburban neighborhood. It was Christmastime, they all said in one way or another, and things would work out just fine. Carole always thought of her family as being more like her and less like Jason but she had to concede that she might be mistaken about that.

Last year, Jim and Melissa had held such a wonderful celebration at their house in Virginia that Carole felt a special urgency to at least make this year equally festive for her family.

“It’s snowing everywhere,” Carole said as Jason came up from the basement with a basketful of freshly washed bed linens. “Fritos in airports, just you watch.”

Jason laughed. “You have a vivid imagination, sweetheart,” he said, heading up the stairs that led from the kitchen to the second floor. “It’s going to be the best Christmas ever.”

“That kind of unbridled optimism is probably a sign of some kind of mental illness, you know?” She called up after him.

It wasn’t the first time she had said something like that to him and it wouldn’t be the last time either. “I’m cool with that,” he called back. He started singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” at the top of his lungs before she could say anything else.

Carole shook her head and laughed. She stood up and went to the window over the sink. The snow was still falling lazily and she was starting to find it hard to believe that everything was going to be okay. She couldn’t stop herself from thinking that the “best Christmas ever” was going to be attended by just Jason and herself. She did her best to push past the feeling and she went upstairs to help Jason making up the bedrooms.

On the day before Christmas, the snowfall was still coming down intermittently and Carole was wondering what she had done to the universe to deserve having the first family holiday gathering in her house to be called on account of snow. Jason, for his part, kept going as if everything was perfectly in order; he bundled up and went out to shovel the sidewalk and the driveway (and, being Jason, he ended up shoveling the sidewalks and driveways of the neighbors on either side of their house.)

A round robin of cell phone calls let them know that everybody was on the road and in the air, none of them willing to let the weather keep them from gathering together for the holidays. Carole’s mother called from Chicago while they were waiting to make a connecting flight.

“Things are a bit backed up, honey,” Carole’s mother said, “so we’re stuck here for a while.”

Carole’s heart sank.

“But we’ll be there,” her mother added confidently. “A snowy Christmas will be wonderful. The children will love being able to make snowmen and have snowball fights.”

“You’re right, Mom,” Carole said half-heartedly, a bit weary of all of the chipper positive energy coming from everybody. “What’s Daddy doing?”

“He got hungry so he went to snack bar to get some Fritos.”

Carole stifled a laugh and excused herself as quickly as she could.

As the Christmas Eve night began to slip away nobody had arrived.

Carole and Jason, curled up by the crackling fire sipping eggnog, waited in silence.

“Aren’t you going to tell me that everything is going to be okay?” Carole asked, half as a taunt and half as need to be reassured by his optimism.

“Nope,” he said softly.

She was startled by the response. “Why not?”

He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Because you wouldn’t believe me if I did,” he said softly but not unkindly.

Carole closed her eyes and snuggled into her husband. She did her best to take her mind off the Christmas that might not be. She did her best to take her mind off her family snowed in at airports or truck stops. She did her best to take her mind off her father eating Fritos in the Chicago airport. At some point she drifted off into a dreamless sleep. She remembered half walking at one point and finding herself being carried up the stairs in Jason’s strong arms and being into their bed but then she surrendered to sleep once again.

On Christmas Day, Carole woke up after having slept long and deep. She was still in something of a fog as stumbled out of bed and into the bathroom. Jason was already up and out of bed but she didn’t call out to him. Carole showered and before she dressed she decided to re-take the test she’d taken 5 days earlier.

Afterwards she dressed and wandered down towards the stairs that led to the kitchen. She needed to call and find out how her family members were doing and she needed a strong cup of coffee. She smiled as she started down the stairs and caught a whiff of coffee wafting up. She could also smell the aroma of cinnamon rolls…the familiar aroma that greeted her every Christmas morning when she was growing up…Jason must have gotten up to bake them for her.

When Carole walked into the kitchen, there was food out in various states of preparation…the turkey was in the sink, unbaked pies were on the counter, unpeeled potatoes were on another counter next to vegetables, spices, and other things needed to create Christmas dinner. It was only then that it registered on her that there were multiple laughing voices coming from the other room. Before she could move the kitchen swung open.

“Well, good morning, sleepyhead!” A cheery voice said. “It’s about time you got out of that bed.”

Carole shook her head. “Mom? You’re here?”

Carole’s mother wiped her hands on her apron and enveloped her daughter in a big hug. “Of course we’re here, silly,” she said. “Where else would we be?”

Carole returned her mother’s hug still not quite believing she was there. “Eating Fritos in the airport?”

Carole’s mother laughed. “You aren’t completely awake, are you?” She went over to the coffee pot. “Well, some coffee and a cinnamon roll will make your whole world right.”

Carole wandered over to the door. “Everybody’s here?”

“Yes, sweetheart,” her mother said handing her a steaming mug of coffee. “The snow stopped and the roads cleared. Your father and I got here about 2 AM…Melissa and Jim and the baby were already here and everybody else got here not long after that. Good thing Jason was waiting for us or we might’ve had to wake you up…”

Carole pushed open the door and looked through to the family room. They were all there… her Grandfather, her brother Jim and his wife Melissa and their baby Joshua, her sister Kim and her fiancée Jeff, her Aunt Janey and her Uncle Michael, her cousin April were sipping coffee and nibbling on cinnamon rolls while her father, her brother Tom and his boys, and her Jason were adding the final touches to the Christmas tree. The pile of colorfully wrapped gifts underneath the tree had grown. She glanced out the window and saw that the snowfall had indeed stopped.

Carole’s mother slipped her arm around Carole’s waist and hugged her again. “Merry Christmas, sweetheart,” she said.

Carole leaned her head on her mother’s shoulder. “Merry Christmas, Mom.”

Jason looked over and came over to them. He kissed Carole as Carole’s mom went over to join the others. “Merry Christmas, pretty girl,” he said. “And I won’t even say ‘I told you so’.”

Carole elbowed him playfully. “Thanks for that, wise guy.” She looked at Jason feeling like her heart was so full that it would burst. She leaned into him and whispered, “I’m pretty sure we’re pregnant.”

Jason recoiled, his face covered with a quizzical smile and then he leaned over and kissed her. “Cool.”

Carole smiled and leaned into him. “I knew that’s what you say,” she chuckled. She looked over at her family and sighed. “They made it…they all made it…maybe there is a little magic in Christmas…”

Jason hugged her. “Ha!” he teased, “not so cynical after all, are ya?”

Carole elbowed him again. “Shut up.” Just then the rest of her family caught sight of her and gathered around to exchange hugs and kisses and playful taunts with her.

The rest of the morning was blur of gift exchanges amidst bright smiles and waves of appreciative laughter. Carole’s father and Jason and Tom and Tom’s boys went out to play in the fallen snow while Carole, her mother, her brother Jim, and her sister-in-law Melissa set about the serious business of making dinner.

That night at dinner Carole shared the news with the family while Jason beamed proudly. And later, after the excitement of the day had worn off and the weariness of late night travels and waiting had taken Jason and the rest of her family to bed, Carole sat alone by the fireplace sipping cocoa, gently patting her stomach, and smiling wistfully. It had been a wonderful Christmas despite all of her worries.

Carole looked out of the window at the front lawn…at the snow, glistening softly in the amber streetlight, and nodded appreciatively. “Cool,” she said before closing the fireplace doors and going upstairs to join Jason in their bed.