Category: Love

To Hell and Gone

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Graduation night, Demeter made punch. Her daughter, Persephone, washed glasses and when they got to the auditorium, she set them out on a table where a senior class picture was displayed. Persephone was in the center of it all because spring was her season. 

But spring turned to fall, then winter when Persephone’s boyfriend texted. Was he in on it? When she stepped outside, there was that hellhound from the shooting range who was always trying to get into her pants.

Blame it on the punch; she followed him.  

When they returned, her mother sent him to hell and back.

Some Things I Remember

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There are things you tell me before you die. Hurricane fears, the way rain scares you, bad dreams. You regret giving up your apartment. You miss seeing dolphins from your window on the bay. The view in assisted living is more limited.

But you have memories. Paris, London, Istanbul, Beijing. You toured the Galapagos. A birthday treat from Richard. Doesn’t he need you in the apartment? Sadly no, I say.

Some things survive. You remember a sweet sixteen necklace from your father. The jewelry that was your mother’s. Richard’s mobiles and guitars. Mexican crockery. Still, some things you don’t recall.

Things to Do While Waiting

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Take a walk.
Soak up sun for the vitamin D; looking to cure my SADD. 
What an acronym. 
This winter has been bad. Must be old age. 
Try not to get old.
Make a vet appointment for the dog, grooming appointment, too. 
I’ve done the crossword, not had breakfast. I’m reading the newspaper.
An inspiring story about a man in So Cal who’s taught Afghan women to drive. More Afghan women drive in So Cal now than in Afghanistan. 
Not surprising, but still inspiring. 
Small, good deeds keep us young.
I wish the dog would poop. I have things to do.

April Fool

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He was up for mischief. A pint up. He twigged a flash of green, nothing but a fairy glimmer out from the woods at break of dawn. Then again, he reckoned ‘twas twilight. That might serve the little people better, twilight when shadows run deep, twilight when souls slip between worlds and mischief is abroad. 

That second pint of ale overcome him. He could do anything now. Lift the world on his shoulders and take it for a ride. Find his true love. She’d encouraged him, green eyes, there on the barstool. But was it real, or was it blarney?

A Word From the Wise

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My mother-in-law treasured words. Scrabble was her game. Precision, patience, strategy.  Tiles that scored both ways or landed on a triple made some sweet satisfaction. Sometimes points weren’t the point;  defensive play wins games while openings encourage neophytes and friends. When she spoke, a few words said it all. Most often she meant to be kind. An invitation, a suggestion, wise words, sometimes firm redirection, sharp, if necessary. 

She held onto words until the end. She gathered them slowly. It took time to retrieve them. They balked, hidden away from memory, supplemented by smiles and nods. The sentences were short. The meaning was clear.

A Moment, A Feeling

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There’s a moment when I think about a lonely alone in the future 
because life throws these things at you,
especially at our age.

Would that be okay?
Could I make it work?

No.  I would end up down infinite rabbit holes, an eternity of recursions, chasing Red Queens and Cheshire Cats, my own tail.
Not making sense.

Your presence anchors me in this time, this here and now present.
I depend on the steady chronology of your day-in, day-out goodness,
depend on the moments we intersect at intervals
to talk, to eat, to share a thought.

You ground me.

Things My Father Never Said

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Growing up, Christmas decorations consisted of a tree we cut ourselves, tinsel, lights, bulbs, a star. Dad didn’t spring for expensive yard displays, but loved driving around to look at other people’s. The brighter, the merrier; the more Santas, reindeer, elves, and Nativities; the better. So on Christmas Eve we would bundle into the car and gawk at the four or five big neighborhood productions.

The year my parents retired to Florida, we made a Christmas tour. A bigger, wealthier town, there were many huge displays. Dad kept saying, “Look at that.” But he meant, “We earned the American Dream.”

The Way to the Heart is Through the Tastebuds

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I ate my way across America today. California scones on the plane to Charlotte. They hid out in my bag like hitchhikers on Route 66. At the Charlotte airport, chicken tortilla soup is served at my favorite taqueria and at the 1897 Market. Maybe it’s the same. Airports, the great equalizer.

I had dinner in Sarasota. Lox and cream cheese served by a Peruvian bartender who was adopted by an Italian-Irish couple at the age of six months. Is there a more American story? Or a better way to experience the continental United States?

A Dog Who Purrs?

Photo by Monica McHenney

Kohnan is a dog, though at times we think he’s a cat. Like when he luxuriates in the sun and, swear to God, purrs. Snout out, a rub on the rug, all two feet of him stretch, roll, vigorous arch, turn over and repeat. Pure pleasure.
I rub his tummy and his neck. He deigns to hold court on the comfy rug because he’s royalty. Devotion is his due, right? His liquid brown eyes melt me.
But when I leave the room, he foreswears sunshine for my sunless office and settles at my feet. I guess he is a dog.

Autumn Chill

Photo by Monica McHenney
The dawn light has changed
to a grey gold cousin of the blue brilliance that brightened my summer. 
Max's golden lab fur blends into the tawny tall grass. 
He looks at me. “What do you want? The works? Right.” 
He pees again, strolls to the center of the meadow lawn, and squats to do his business. 

His business is to 
please. It is the thing he does best, most naturally. Despite arthritis, 
his portly, chunky body seems to yield. Face aging white, 
he's older than I am. Seventy-seven. 
At seventy-two, cranky and arthritic, I won't age gratefully or graciously.