People steal
As they
Bring you
Silent cries for help.
They lay upon you
Their burdens.
Shocking
Words.
Nightmares.
Putting voice
To disturbing thoughts
growing stronger
as you
grow weak
And when you
reach out,
to help
uplift them,
They find fault
Everywhere
spewing rot
And disfunction
At you.
They want not
your help,
They want company.
Daisy was the queen of the house. This miniature schnauzer did not run to meet you at the door like other normal canine “companions.” Oh no! She waited for you to come and look for her. We should have been excited to see her lying there on the stair landing, close enough to see who was coming in the house, but far enough away to indicate her indifference. While other dogs jumped and leaped, and licked, and lapped bestowing all the love a dog could muster after a hard eight hour day of separation, Daisy merely rolled over and waited for us to bestow belly rubs befitting royalty.
They say a dog who runs away is an unhappy one. Well, she must have been ecstatic because if not for her walks, she wanted no parts of the great outdoors -- with the exception of the boat where she absolutely loved lounging in the sun. However, as for running around the neighborhood, she had zero interest. We could leave a door wide open and she would not even get up out of curiosity, so imagine our surprise when she disappeared from our townhome on moving day.
We had rented a small truck for the big move from our little townhouse to our brand new spacious forever home. Unfortunately, we underestimated the size needed.We were going to need to make two or three trips to move the entire contents. This would be an all day affair. The door was propped open, and a one way train of furniture and furnishings headed down the stairs, out the door, and into the little truck. Meanwhile, Daisy lay quietly by. She made no attempt to run out. She never did. She merely observed.
After the little truck was filled, we all jumped into the car leaving Daisy behind as we headed over to empty the first load. After an hour or so, we returned to the townhome to load up again. The front door was propped open, and the box train began to move from the upper floors to the truck waiting outside. After the Uhaul was filled once again, we all headed over to unload -- again without Daisy. We did not want to leave her in an unfamiliar setting as we moved back and forth between properties.
There was not much left for the third trip. We quickly filled the truck with our final haul. This time we would be taking our girl.
“Daisy!” I called out.
The sound of my voice echoed throughout the empty space.
That's weird, I thought. I could have sworn I saw her lying in the corner by the window.
I ran upstairs and went room to room.
“Daisy!” we all began to yell while searching inside the closets and bathrooms on various floors. Where could she be? There were no hiding places; everything was gone.
I couldn't remember when I actually last saw her. Then it dawned on me that the door had been left open all day long. It never occured to me that she would actually leave. I dashed outside frantically looking left and right. I scanned the neighborhood for our silver skirted girl with her curly legs darting in between bushes and yards but to no avail; I saw no movement. Then I belted out her name as loud as I could – a frantic mother screaming for her lost child, “DAISY!”
All of a sudden, a head pop up behind the steering wheel of my Toyota Highlander. Apparently, while we were busy loading the truck, Daisy had loaded herself into the front seat of my vehicle where the door had been left open. The queen had determined that she may not know where this caravan was going, but the handwriting was on the wall, and she would not be left behind. It was time to go!
Tis the season
For snorting and sneezing.
Petals popping,
Pollen dropping,
Covered cars,
Green like mars.
Ah-choo!
God bless you.
Trumpets sound
All around
The running nose --
A fire hose.
Tissue please
For my next sneeze.
Oh dear,
I fear,
I believe that time is proof of a multiverse. As we age, we enter another dimension where time is a tad bit slower than it used to be. I wake up everyday at 6:45 and complete the same steps that I always have for the last 18 years. However, whereas I used to be in my car by 8:00, when I jump in my car now and look at the time, it says 8:20 am. Clearly, I have moved to a dimension where time has sped up.
Or maybe this is proof of Einstein's theory of relativity and time dilation where time speeds up the slower we go. Considering the 20 minutes I have gained, I must be going really slow compared to past years (though I can't tell -- I don't feel any slower.)
Or, maybe there is no multiverse, nor any noticeable time dilation. Maybe it's just the menopausal side effects of memory loss, and I am late due to running back in the house for the car keys, cell phone, coffee, notebooks, packages or anything else that I need and discover missing every morning when I get into my car. Moreover, these things are never where they are supposed to be which prompts a 10 minute or more... okay 15 minute search for said item.
No, it has to be the multiverse.
Why is it that you always run into the very person that you measure yourself by and are on the losing end of the ruler, when you look your worst? You know, she's the beautiful friend from college who got all the guys when you couldn't catch one. She partied seven days a week, was a cheerleader and a pre-med major and still made straight A's. You were an engineering major who was at every party with her and had no extracurricular obligations, yet you were all but flunking out. She went on to become a doctor, and you dropped out and became a flight attendant. During the bridesmaid season of our lives, when she was in residency, she was kind enough to tell me I "missed my calling" as a compliment when I helped another bridesmaid fix her hair. We met at an ivy league school, so cosmetology was not one of the majors offered. Maybe she did not know.
We are in the same organization though in different states, so we bump into each other every year at the regional conference. In 2021, the year that everyone timidly came out of COVID hibernation, we had to have proof of a negative test within 24 hours in order to attend. I was so happy to be going to be near other people. I had passed my test and was ready.
Well, I arrived a tad bit late (as always), so I had to park at the waaayyy-back portion of the lot and hurry so that I would not miss my meeting. I grabbed my heavy bag, my hot coffee, and proceeded to walk-run. Unfortunately, I am at the age where the tiniest bit of stress (and that includes running late and running across the lot) as well as certain food triggers like hot black coffee will set off a hot flash quicker than you can say the word itself: menopause. So the last piece of the COVID approval was a temperature check at the door. I failed.
The nice ladies serving as door bouncers said for me to stand to the side, and wait a minute, then we will take it again. However, that caused more stress. And I was still drinking my coffee. I failed again. The ladies all immediately stepped back -- way back -- from me and told me I had to find a CVS and take another test.
I had driven four hours to get there and had paid 300 dollars for the conference; I was not giving up. I had to look up the nearest testing location, Waze the directions which sent me through scary sketchy neighborhoods, and pray for the proof I needed. I took the test again, and it was negative. By now, I was very late, and very anxious. I could feel the heat pouring off of me. I failed the temperature test, again.
This time I began arguing with these cruel creatures the guardians of the door who were too young to understand the mechanics of menopause. I had paid for two tests, and they were both negative. Since I fulfilled my requirements to attend, I was demanding to be let in and was practically crying with frustration. They decided to call the manager of health for the entire conference about this crazy babbling lady who was attacking them when she was the one with the fever or so their instruments said. And when the head of health for the conference came out, to see this "hot" mess of a woman, it was my friend. Yes, she understood the mechanics of menopause, stress, coffee, running, and well, me. So she let me in.
Well, yesterday, five years later, I was attending the conference again. I had decided to skip a meeting and sleep in. My roommate came in and said that she needed help carrying some items to room 304. Still in my jammies, I threw my velour crumpled sweats on top and was looking pretty tacky and about ten pounds over weight with the combination of flannel and sweats. I did not bother with my hair, and my eye liner had smudged from my nap. I didn't care, I was going back to sleep upon my return. I grabbed her little cart with the fancy silly little flags that she had cleverly tied on to announce her entrance with all of her donations and headed to the elevator. The door opened and who did I run right smack into but my friend. Will this humiliation ever end?
When we think of death, most people think of the person closest to the deceased. How will they feel? How will they go on without their loved one. Or are they some one who was tasked with (in some cases burdened) with the care of an elderly person as if they are the only child, while their siblings live a carefree life. And in that case, what will mean the most to them -- being set free, or dealing with that hole in their heart?
I was my mother's caretaker. Every Sunday for 10 years, was Mother's day. I started out shopping for her favorite candy and then I would head over the McDonald's for her favorite fish sandwich with no cheese and caramel sundae with no nuts. Sometimes I would surprise her with a take out order from Glory's Days. Once I arrived at the center, I'd wheel her into the dining hall. She would be so excited that she would stop everyone and introduce me as her daughter (again) and then brag to them that I bought her some food. I could see a jealous longing in their faces for the same (company or maybe it was the meal). Then we would play cards or watch a movie after she ate. If she were lucky, and I was not, I could come when the one-man-band was performing doing his best to make each resident feel special. Mom loved this day and wanted me to see that she was his favorite, so I couldn't leave until it was over. My mother lived in severe pain with various other incidents of extra suffering from Covid twice , to norovirus, to sepsis. When she passed, every one kept waiting for me to break down. But I did not. I was sad, yes, but I felt relieved. She did not have to suffer anymore.
Today, my husband called me to say that our neighbor that walked the dog everyday saw him and crossed the street to talk.
"Do you mean, Peter?" I asked.
"You know, the guy with the British accent or something. He has the white hair and is always walking the dog."
"Yes, that's Peter," I said.
Though we have lived there for 15 years, my husband had never talked to him beyond a wave and a hello. He is not a talkative, chat with the neighbors type. Moreover, Peter and I were on the same dog walking schedule. We would see each other every morning and would wave at each from across the street as my territorial schnauzer, Daisy, would unleash an angry barrage of barking in the direction of his Bruno. Occasionally we would chat above the noise from the two sides of the road about his wife or my son.
"Well, today, I waved, and he suddenly came over."
"Oh, really?"
"Yes, he said his wife had a stroke four weeks ago."
"Oh, no."
"When I asked how she was doing, he said she died."
"Oh, no," I repeated, more emphatically this time.
"He broke down and cried. Right there. He just opened up and fell into me and cried. So, I wrapped my arms around him, and held him while patting and rubbing his shoulders. He kept saying that he didn't know what he was going to."
In that moment, my heart simultaneously broke for Peter and filled with pride for my husband. He may not be the chatty neighborly dog walking type. But he knew exactly what was needed. He dropped his manly A-type marine colonel, airline captain persona, and held another man giving of his heart without reservation.
Death truly can define us.
When I arrived home from work during the second wave of unseasonal 30 degree weather, after having had two tortuously teasing days of 85 degrees before plummeting, I looked up and saw god's promise and smiled. Resilient tiny perfect pink buds were silently adorning the winter bare arms of our cherry tree. A sign that spring was coming.
Tiny pink blossoms
Silently wakes and hums spring
Songs of warm kisses
The G.O.A.T. My school district has set before us a goal of 90% pass rate on all general education students and 75% on SWDs and ELS on the ...
