S. W. R.

She spies the book of nursery rhymes on my bookshelf. I recall out loud a bit of one.

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat
They took some honey
and plenty of money
Wrapped up in a five-pound note

She has no idea what I'm saying, recognizes none of it.

I don't know any nursery rhymes.

Turns out that at the bar she spent her childhood in, the juke box was too loud and her parents were too busy tending to customers - or each other - too busy to read to their daughter.

For her birthday, I give her the book. Cracking it open, I read aloud to her the nursery rhymes. I want to give her the memory of hearing them, not reading them. She's embarrassed at first but closes her eyes and falls into it.

It's a day that doesn't leave either of us.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She writes me notes on anything usable, stationery, scraps of paper, a napkin, notebook paper (mattered not whether neat or ripped from its wire binding, frilled edges included), typing paper, letterhead from whatever job she's working, pages from a legal pad, whatever she can find or use to write on.

Just want to say hi. I miss you. Meet me at the river this weekend.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A box of matches sits between us. We flip it like a coin to decide whether we will sleep together at the end of the night. It could have gone either way. Thorns on one side, a pink rose on the other. The imagery of the matchbook should have been telling enough. Thorns, Yes. Rose, No. It lands rose side up, which was my pick. My opponent offers, Best of three?

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The lake spans out before us. I'm on the diving board, facing her.

Bounce three times, throw your arms back and your knees over your head.

I land on my stomach. Again. When I climb the ladder to the dock, she's laughing at the entertainment I provide her. Her laughter floats upward into the trees. Still, she's patient with me. I finally nail the back flip. She's proud.

We grab two beers from the cooler and swim out to the floating dock in the middle of the lake. There, we sit in the quiet between the water and the trees, and dry slowly in the sun, drop-by-evaporating-drop.

It's a day that doesn't leave either of us.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She's tough on me, doesn't let me get away with much. She thinks she knows what's best for me. She might be right.

You're either going to step down from that pedestal they've all put you on, or someone's going to knock you off. I don't want to be around when you fall.

Maybe that was true, but she was around. She picked up the pieces and put me back together. A little tainted, a lot imperfect. A scar and a story.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

She seems to be fading from my eyes. Her energy is soft, out of focus. The space she takes up is smaller. I see it and carry it with me. How odd to see someone fade.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Years ago this week.

She has a goal in mind. She drives herself from Austin to San Antonio, checks into a hotel. She tears a page from the bible and sets it on the dresser. She wraps a rope around the closet pole, then wraps the rope around her neck.

She successfully meets her goal.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And hand in hand on the edge of the sand
They danced by the light of the moon
The moon
The moon
They danced by the light of the moon

Wherever you are

I spent my entire Saturday in a meeting with 17 others seated around a table in horse-shoe configuration, an open meeting, lots of discussion, debating, note-taking. We all want the same thing, but which road to take is a slightly different story.

By the time it's all over, and I'm back in my hotel room, I am drained, alone and wishing to be at home.

When my cell phone rings, I cannot be bothered to get up and see who it is, much less consider answering it. Real life doesn't afford me such behavior though, and since the beep signifies a message was left, I do bother to pay attention. It could be important.

A life ring.

Hey, I'm glad you didn't answer your phone because I'm really just calling to leave you a message. I love you. I have no idea where you are, but wherever you are in the world right now, I want you to know that I love you.

I listen again, then set the phone down. His voice and his message soothe me, give me warmth and connection, remind me that my heart is alive.

He's done this before, answered a call I'd not outwardly made. I've never asked him how it is that he knows when I need him, what tells him to pick up the phone and dial. I don't want to know. To me, it would be like learning the science behind art. It would change the magic.

The madness of fearless

My flight is on time. I board the plane, sit down, situate myself and wait. When we start down the runway and into the sky, I notice something missing from me: fear. There isn't the slightest change in my breathing or my pulse. I'm not closing my eyes or clinging to my necklace. I'm not off balance from the loss of earth beneath my feet. I'm not gripping the arm rest and imagining the plane tumbling from the sky. I couldn't care, actually.

This is one of the many changes in me since losing my father. This is the side of grief that no one tells you about. Whatever your fears were, you won't glance their way again. Maybe it's because my biggest fear was losing him, and knowing I'd be handicapped to surviving that loss. Maybe if you survive what truly terrifies you, then you are empowered against your other fears. Or maybe you just can't be bothered to give a shit because a large part of you is numb and you've grown accustomed to the lack of feeling.

I gaze out the window at the wide and connected pattern below. Houses, fields, woods. Winding rivers that look like snakes, lakes of blue, roads like a web holding it together, circles and squares of varying shades green and brown, pink and blue. The tear on my cheek surprises me. I touch it and pull back my hand to look at it fall along its new path down my finger. It looks familiar. It feels like failure. It feels like fear that if I can heal this grief, I leave him behind.

A friend says that I am out of sorts. A doctor offers that I have a reactionary depression. Sterile words. I hold fast that this is grief. Still.

Grief has helped itself to me like the growing mold in New Orleans. Or the fog in San Francisco. It's thick and rolling, reaching its fingers down the hill and into the city, obliterating the sun. Grief is like that. It's so unlike sadness, so distant from what I thought it would be. Grief takes the shine off the world, the lilt off the laughter. It unravels the lines of connection. You move forward and grief calls you back. You wake up and grief calls you to sleep; you sleep and grief awakens you. You drag your feet to your goals, and cannot recall what your dreams for yourself were. You escape but it's there when you come back. And you always come back. You feel sure it's written all over your body, flowing in hues of steely grey and purple. You feel sure everyone can see your broken colors. Until you find that you're invisible.

I look at the calendar. Another month. How can that be? The seasons change. The seasons of my father. We're leaving water and boats and fishing memories and moving into geese and ducks, decoys, thick red corduroys. We're moving from one Orvis catalog to another. We move into the winter images, the holidays, a cup of hot coffee, the fire he's made in the fireplace, warm and close and safe, like looking into his eyes.

Eight months he's been gone. Eight months. It's nothing, really. A spec of time, a fleeting thought, a wisp of hair in the wind. It's an eternity spent figuring my way in a new world.

Scream or Cry - Part II - and the answer is definitely scream

At Mom's house last night. I ask her about Marianne's Social Security Number and briefly relay the disaster conversation I had trying to get it from her a few days ago. She asks me why I want to know, and looks as me suspiciously as if maybe I'm secretly looking to steal my sister's identity. I explain to her the the Trust Company is looking for it and I explain to her why.

Mom: Why did they contact you about it?

Me: Because you asked them to.

Mom: I don't remember that, and I don't appreciate them contacting you.

Me: Mom, you asked them to last week. Remember, they were here and you called me and put me on the speaker phone.

Mom: Oh, I do remember. But why do you need her social?

Me: So that she can get the check.

Mom: What check?

Me: The check they're trying to send her.

Mom: All money is supposed to go to me.

I remind her about this one mysterious insurance policy of Dad's that states the children are the beneficiaries. I remind her that she had a meeting just last week about this very thing and how I was patched into the meeting and was asked that I handle this for my sister, my niece and my nephew.

Mom: I don't appreciate them going to you about this. Everyone goes to you, the schools go to you, the Trust Company goes to you. And, frankly, I don't appreciate that you're trying to take over my life.

Me: Mom, you don't take their calls half the time, and you throw away the mail. You've told them to contact me.

Mom: That shouldn't matter.

My niece, whose been sitting quietly beside me during all of this, drops her head into her hands, turns to me and whispers, God, it's just like talking to my Mom. Indeed.

Me: Mom, I'm not going to argue about this. I am not trying to take over your life. What I'm trying to do is take care of something that, whether or not you remember doing so, you did ask me to handle for you. Please, do you have any idea where I can find Marianne's Social Security Number?

Mom: I don't know why the hell you're asking me, pick up the phone and ask her yourself.

Me: Sigh

Oh but if they could

On the phone with my niece, she asks if I'm leaving my office soon. I explain that traffic is pretty bad and I'm going to stay here a while. Her response? Aw, they should let you out early if traffic is going to be that way. I like the world she lives in.

She's good medicine, that girl

She called this morning just as I was leaving for the park. She was downtown with a flat tire and unsure what to do since she left her AAA card at home - a very teenager thing to do, to be sure. I gave her the information from my card and told her I'd meet her and wait with her for the tow-driver to get there. (What? You thought I'd change it myself?) And in no time at all, I found myself spending this Wednesday morning hanging out with my niece and my dog beneath the shade of the trees on Austin Street, watching the cars go by and talking about architecture and boys. Very unexpected. Very nice.

I'm not at all sure which I want to do: scream or cry

The divorce papers are not signed yet. In fact, I'm not sure if they've even been completely drawn up yet. And while she has every reason to want to put a thousand miles and a hundred years between herself and the marriage, I was still thrown when yet another male voice answered her phone this morning.

New Guy: Hello?

Me [surprised at the new voice on the phone]: Um, uh... Hi, this is Alison, is Marianne there?

New Guy: Who?

Me [rolling my eyes because I hate being here]: Alison, her sister.

New Guy: Yeah, she is. But we're about to go to the store.

Me: Well, since you haven't left yet, may I speak with her?

This new guy screening her calls has my little sister blood boiling. She, on the other hand, is completely charmed by it. She gets on the phone and asks what I think of him.

Not much.

I tell her I need some information from her for our father's estate and tax purposes. I ask her the year of her birthday. She says, October 23rd. I tell her I need the year. She gives her age. I ask her Social Security Number. She gives her birthday. I say, no, that's your birthday. She tells me that's all she has. She's had only one job that I can recall and they paid her cash so there's a very real possibility that she does not have a Social Security Number. I ask about that job, if she had to provide one. She says it was a long time ago and, if she did, she wouldn't still have it. I tell her that the number lasts a lifetime. She says, Oh.

I realize that we have to step way back here, and I hold on to my patience because I do not want to get angry or short with her, do not want to reveal that I'm getting frustrated. That would hurt her and I won't have that.

As I start to explain what a Social Security Number is, New Guy mumbles something in the background, something along the lines of asking what I want. She explains it to him. He tells her to ask me why I want it. She asks. I explain again that the Trust Company handling our father's estate is asking the information, and then add that they have a check for her. She tells new guy this and, predictably, he tells her that she needs to look for her Social Security Number.

She says to him, It's October 23rd.

Just outside my door

My path is dappled with soft morning light. The breeze blows both warm and cool. A certain quiet begins to fall on the land as the plants and trees lean towards dormancy. We expect the first cool front this week, and it's in the wind. This, this is October. Look through the trees and they gradually will let more and more light through. Soon I'll see the long V of geese overhead. My walk this morning was soaked with the serenity and peacefulness this month always hold for me. It sweetens my heart, slows my breathing, calms my mind. October makes me think of things I may have forgotten – the cicadas singing in the night, a full moon on the water, cheerful voices, happy prayers. October makes me think of faith. The tide turns, the season changes, the heart heals.

It's only words, and words are all I have

I've been thinking about words lately. Likely, that is due to an email exchange with a certain someone last week in which we were literally dissecting the meaning of pensive. (I thought that was good fun. But that's me.) I'm fond of the word, pensive, and felt a bit protective of it. My partner in the dissection felt that even though pensive included wistful by definition, that it still leaned a bit towards brooding, and thus he wasn't as fond of the word as I. Since then, I've been thinking about words that, like pensive, I'm fond of - not necessarily for their meaning but for something of their sound and feel as well. In no particular order, these are a few of those:

Stoic ~ Crush ~ Plethora ~ Facade ~ Apropos ~ Quip ~ Cuddle ~ Mezzanine ~ Visage ~ Culmination ~ Fetlock ~ Guile ~ Caveat ~ Eponymous

If only the concert were the whole story

Dear Carlos,

I appreciate the fact that you gave us such a great show last night. Indeed you performed your ass off, as did the rest of your 11-piece band, and it was magnificent to be in your audience. Between the three percussion stages and the guitars you were weaving through as fast as a woman in Oaxaca weaves thread through her loom, we felt as if we were taken on a musical trip that started in Africa, stopped for a night in Iberia, took a slow turn through Cuba, had a reunion in the Haight Asbury, and finished in a smooth landing in Mexico. We said last night that your music could bring a woman to climax without ever being physically touched. Seriously, we said that. What you gave us last night was worth every penny those tickets cost. In fact, when I look at what we got versus what we paid, well I think we shortchanged you. So, that was very generous of you, and we thank you.

However, if you might have played just one more song in the encore, or maybe anywhere in your set, we likely would have arrived to our hotel at a different moment than we did, and quite possibly might have been able to bypass the teeny tiny incident that has left us in a bit of a dilemma on this Saturday afternoon. That being that WE HAVE NO CAR BECAUSE SOME JACKASS GOT INTO IT AT THE VALET STAND AND DROVE IT AWAY.

No, seriously, that's what happened. It's even on the top-secret surveillance tape that apparently only one person in Dallas is allowed to view, or even knows how to operate, and I don't know why it takes him three hours to get to the hotel but, if I had to guess, I'd say that he had to walk here from his boyfriend's house and his boyfriend lives in Grapevine.

That aside, in all the dark and grainy murkiness of the tape, you can see the jackass in the brown suit lurking a few steps behind us to make sure that we've gone into the hotel, then turning around and walking straight to the car, opening the door, turning the engine and driving away.

You might be wondering where that left us, besides being without a car and all. Well, until that tape was viewed, it left us at the mercy of the hotel and - are you sitting down, because the story goes south real quick at this point - they calmy told us that they received an anonymous call from a woman who told them that she drove us to the hotel last night in our car and then took the car somewhere (she couldn't remember where - hotel manager's words) and just found out that it had been towed. A very confusing element to the story, that was. And for reasons still unclear, it left us in the position of having to defend our story (which should also be stated: After the concert we drove ourselves to the hotel, gave the car to valet, and that was the last we saw of it).

Finally, when the top secret surveillance tapes were viewed, our story was validated and the clouds above broke open and the lights from heaven shined down upon us and we started hearing things from the hotel manager along the lines of What can we do to make you comfortable?

And we felt like saying, Oh right, NOW you're asking.

Mr. Santana, there is so much more that I could say. To pick one, for instance, I could tell you that at 11:15 this morning, when we were told that they found our silver Porsche, we had to say for the 100th time that we were in a black Jag. We felt as if our entire lives depended on the combined questionable keystone competency of the valet company, hotel management, Dallas police, and mysterious surveillance tape individual.

And that feeling was not what I would call warm and cozy.

Still, I think you'd have been proud us, given your light and love and peace approach to life, because I have to tell you that there was not one single moment when we let go our admittedly ever-dwindling hold on our cool. Well, when we were alone in our room, we did say WHAT THE FUCK a few times, but I think that's understandable.

During one of the WTF times in our room, we learned that the police had found the car in a tow-lot. That would normally be good news but before we had time to sigh our relief, we also learned that there was some confusion because apparently two blag Jags were towed last night, one from Elm and the other from Greenville. Did we know our license plate number? Ha! That was funny.

I said to my friend, I think it's funny that the concert is only a 'part' of the story now. And she laughed. And then she made a couple phone calls. The most important one being the one made to her business partner who ultimately is the leasor of the car and who we were told was the only person on the planet who could possibly retrieve the car from impoundment. But we laughed at that theory, because while her business partner was swinging away in a golf tournament in California and really couldn't be bothered beyond wigging out that her identify might have been revealed if the car theif went through her insurance, we had mobilized an entire team of friends in Houston who were just waiting for us to fax the affidavit, so they could fill it out, forge the signature, and return by fax the golden ticket that would get us our car and the heck out of town.

Let me say that it did not matter a bit to the impoundment dude that we held the valet ticket that had 000625 printed on it and matched the same 000625 on the tag hanging from the rear-view mirror of the particular jag in his lot. In Texas, you have to have proof.

Or at least semblance of proof. Because we did FINALLY hear the knock on our door from the manager and in his hands he was personally delivering the very important signed and notarized paperwork from our friends in Houston, but to him her business partner, that had been faxed to the hotel. And soon enough we were retrieving the car, checking out of the hotel, and returning to Houston.

A good hour south of Dallas, with all the comfort of our newly rediscovered independence, we remembered the reason we were there in the first place, which was you. And you were great!

So I'd like to say, Thank you very much, we had a very nice time. But next time, I think we'll opt to see you in another city. Or at least stay at Za Za.

Light and Peace and Love,
Alison