Hearts of Gold/Feet of Clay

I have great admiration and, dare I say, Gratitude for Brene’ Brown. She took the stage looking like everybody’s Mom at her first TED talk, and wowed us with her homespun brilliance. Brene’ Brown took what we’d always suspected was true and wove it into a beautiful tapestry we all want to be part of. Unless you follow her regularly, you probably don’t know about the current controversy around her podcast. It’s her first controversy of this magnitude and entirely of her own making.

Joe Rogan and Brene’ Brown both joined Spotify in September of 2020. I remember hearing about the deal and being impressed by the company’s obvious aggressive plan to become more than just the cool place to find and play music. It wasn’t lost on me that the two acquisitions represented two completely different audiences. Spotify came to play.

Fast forward. It’s two covid-filled years later. We’re tired. We’re cranky and we’re looking for some place to dump a boatload of angst. Joe Rogan and his contrived…well…everything seemed like a good place to put it. Our angst, though, is over-flowing. I’ll Be Whatever I Need To Be To Cause A Stir Joe, despite his efforts to the contrary, just doesn’t feel big enough, important enough to hold our dissatisfaction. Cue the Gladiator extras! Let’s get Spotify!

Though a wonderful songwriter, Neal Young’s voice rivals nails on chalkboard for chills on my spine. Willies aside, I found it kind of precious when he threatened to pull his music from Spotify in protest of Joe Rogan’s content. The last time I considered Young relevant had nothing to do with music. In 2012, he announced he had stopped smoking weed. He was just too darn old and no longer had the brain cells to burn or something like that. I was quick to bring this to the attention of a couple of aging “heads” in my orbit in hopes that they, too, might decide to preserve whatever bandwidth they had left for their dotage. That had the same effect as Neal Young pulling his catalogue minus Joni Mitchell’s “me too”.

In walks Brene’ Brown wearing a pantsuit fit for parent/teacher conferences, her kitschy earrings, and her “this is the best I could do” hair.

I have that hair. Me, Brene’, and Hillary Clinton. It’s a thing.

Brene’ wrote a clear, insightful piece explaining that she’d paused her podcast to ponder a few things. The piece was everything we’ve come to expect from the grounded theory researcher cum pop sociologist and respected author.

One week later, she posted again. This piece began by reminding the reader of her “multiyear, exclusive contract with Spotify”. She should have stopped there. Instead, the word salad that followed left many of us feeling like she was saying something without really saying it and, that’s a bitter pill coming from the authenticity guru. Not to say the whole thing was without merit. She offered up a metaphor involving a high school cafeteria in which one has no say as to her table mates. Let me stop here to say, I, personally, never found that to be true. In 7th grade, as the new girl whose mother still sewed all her clothes using fabrics that did not necessarily complement my man-style, plastic rimmed eyeglasses, I was very clear as to the tables on which I could place my tray. Later, while laughing with my tribe at our table, I could feel the protective barrier we created with our camaraderie. Joe Rogan would have never dared penetrate that energy field.

Brene’ Brown wrote that Rogan’s content made her “physically sick” and that her contract with the same company sharing that content amounts to an assigned table in the Spotify lunchroom where she sits with all content creators, including Joe Rogan.

Here’s where it gets weird. Brene’ closed the metaphor by saying she isn’t willing to invite us to lunch with Joe, and goes on to describe her podcast content going forward which clearly can only be heard by sitting at that table,

in that lunchroom,

with Joe Rogan,

and his sickening content.

Do you see the problem?

Full disclosure, I’m with Joni. I deleted the Spotify app from my phone as soon as an artist I care about spoke up. It was an empty act, though, since the only reason I had one was because my son wanted to share a song with me and, when I mentioned Apple Music, where all my music lives, he gave me a look akin to a pat on the head, took my phone and downloaded Spotify. I haven’t opened it since and never paid money for it. (Yes, that felt just like it does when I tell people we only use cloth napkins and we grow things whose sole purpose is to feed bees.)

Pre-covid, when I spent several soul-crushing hours a day in what has been described as the worst rush-hour traffic in the world, podcasts were everything. I did what I had to do. Brene’ did too. I get that. I just wish she hadn’t stomped all over her integrity on the way to the cafeteria.

Long Shot

Mr. Lucky died. I found out he died the same way I learned he was alive, in a post on Facebook between a political rant and a photo of last night’s dinner. Just yesterday I saw a photo of him and his adopted brother, Mr. Max. They were sleeping the way small animals and children do, in a mix of limbs forming a pile of sweetness.

From the start, he was a long shot. His adopted Mom found him on a sidewalk and knew, right away, that something was wrong. She loved him anyway…in an irrational way…in a way someone loves a cat she grew up with…or the way someone who knows what it feels like to be kicked to the curb loves a kitten who was.

Daily postings revealed sleepless nights spent wielding an eye-dropper in a manner enticing enough to encourage the kitten to eat. I read her words. I studied her photographs. I imagined what it would be like to be completely responsible for the welfare of something so utterly innocent and gray and furry and sweet. I soon began every morning with a click of the mouse, anxious to know how Mr. Lucky was doing.

I’m not a cat person, but I’ve lived with cats. As a kid, we always had cats. My mother loved cats. Her favorite was named Cleo. She called her Cleo-Meo. She was calico and long-haired and if anyone other than my mother deigned to touch her, she left marks. Her death, at a ripe old age, devastated my mother. She never replaced her.

Many years ago I found a stray kitten in the ivy surrounding our shed or, to be more accurate, he found me. A white and gray ball of fluff, he approached me, mewling. I picked him up, cradling him against my chest. Needle-like claws pierced my shirt as he climbed to curl up in the spot where my neck meets my shoulder, leaving me no choice.

“Look what I found.”, I said to my partner, the cat-lover, whose face softened as he reached out to touch the kitten. “Too bad we can’t keep him.”

“We have to keep him.”, Roger countered. “He can’t live out there!”

Plucking the kitten off my shoulder, he walked away.

“He can stay in the spare room. We’ll keep the dogs away from him.”

The kitten lived in our spare bedroom for nearly a month. Keeping his end of the bargain, Roger cleaned up after him. In exchange, I relented to his suggestion that we allow the kitten to visit our bedroom at night before we went to sleep.

I held my breath every time Roger opened the door separating our dogs from the tiny kitten. They knew he was there. I’d seen them sniffing around the door.

On that night, I listened as I always did. The knob turned, the door creaked, and what happened next can only be described as chaos. I maintained my position against a stack of pillows on my side of the bed, even as I knew the horror taking place down the hall. I steeled myself against the words he’d say, making it true and, when he said them, my grief poured forth in a scream of accusations. There were only two possible explanations for what happened; stupidity and carelessness. To this day I can’t accept one without wondering about the other.

When Lucky’s mother offered her friends an opportunity to participate in his care, I jumped at the chance. Others followed suit. Soon Lucky had a following, and a special kind of formula, and a cozy bed. I clicked the button that would magically send money across the country to a person I’d never met to assist in the care of a cat I only knew from pictures on the internet. Even as I did it, it felt a little crazy. But isn’t life a little crazy? Doesn’t every day present us with risks we wouldn’t take if we thought about them, even a little bit, ahead of time?

The greatest risk of all, of course, is love. There are no guarantees with love. You may not be loved back. You may invest lots of time and effort, and a large amount of your self, in someone who can’t or won’t reciprocate. You may carry a child and raise him into adulthood only to watch, desperately, as he makes choices that end his life and, in many ways, yours as well. Or you may take a chance on a long shot kitten whose death hurts more than you expected. What matters is taking the chance.

Last First

Tonight, at 10:36 pm, exactly one year will have passed since I received the news that my son, Trey, was dead.

Within minutes I had my first conversation with a county coroner.

Within the hour, two policemen stood on my front porch. I’d never had policemen on my front porch before.

Two days later I wrote my first obituary.

And, the next day I designed a funeral program for the first time.

Five days after the call came in, I greeted the first guests to arrive at the first funeral I’d ever arranged for one of my children.

Despite never having done so before, my brother-in-law led the service beautifully.

Afterwards I hosted my first wake.

Friends and family, anxious to express their sympathy, appeared at my door; some for the first time.

Eight days after my son died, I returned to work from bereavement leave. I’d never taken bereavement leave before. I’d never been so bereaved.

A couple of days later I made my first request for a copy of my son’s death certificate.

The following Wednesday, my oldest son visited the sheriff’s department for the first time to collect his brothers “personal effects”.

Easter was the first family gathering that didn’t include Trey.

Several weeks later, we maintained our tradition of having a combined birthday party for both Trey and his older brother. For the first time, Trey didn’t attend.

Not since before my youngest was born had I celebrated Mother’s Day with just three children.

On September 1^st, I spent my birthday knowing that, for the first time, I could never have the only thing I really wanted.

For the first time in decades, I served Thanksgiving dinner without having to answer the question, “Are there any onions in here?”

As Christmas neared, I realized that for the first time in years I wouldn’t need to order that expensive chili water from Hawaii. I hadn’t anyone to give it to.

For the first time since 1997, I placed Christmas gifts for only three children under our tree and, during our Christmas party, no one visited the dessert table before dinner was served.

This past Sunday I didn’t watch The Oscars on television. It was the first time I’d missed watching since I was a kid. The last time I watched, I had to pause the show to answer the telephone. It was February 26^th at 10:36 pm.

Today is the one year anniversary of my son’s death.

There will never be another one year anniversary.

There will be another first.

This is the Last First.

Jergen’s on Jordan

My mother never asked why I always wanted to ride when she went to pick up Mrs. Jordan. She never asked, so I never told her.

It was because of the way she smelled.

Mrs. Jordan was our baby sitter, most of the time. Occasionally, we were subjected to Mrs. Holiday…she of the over-sized, plastic-rimmed eyeglasses, and mess of frosted hair which only added to the air of “Unfinished” she brought to a room.

Mrs. Jordan, on the other hand, had a place for every hair and every hair in its place. Short in stature, she was a study in cotton…cotton dress, cotton sweater, thick cotton stockings draped about the tops of her black orthopedic shoes. She favored pastels and Jergens’ hand lotion.

Thus the smell.

I don’t remember when I figured it out. I can’t cite the specific moment when I realized that the waft I lived for, as I perched expectantly on the backseat of my mother’s wood-paneled station wagon, emanated from a bottle of hand lotion. But I can say that, ever since I’ve known, I can’t pass a bottle without at least giving it a sniff. Usually I buy it. Today I brought a bottle to the office. It has a pump dispenser, making it easy to use while on the telephone…which I am…most of the time.

For some reason, I’ve always equated the scent of Jergens’ with femininity. I imagine a perfectly proportioned young woman wearing a slip, an old-fashioned slip, the kind with plastic adjustors on the straps. She sits on the side of a bed, languidly rubbing Jergens’ into her hands and forearms.

It wasn’t until this afternoon that I realized the error in my imagery.

Jergens’ isn’t used by perfectly proportioned young women. Young women don’t generally slather themselves with lotion and they don’t wear slips either.

As a young woman, the only time I applied lotion was after a bath…to smell good…especially if someone else was going to smell me.

I still do that, but it doesn’t stop at that. I have a lotion for my feet, a special lotion with special feet stuff in it. I have a lotion for my face. I have a lotion for my neck that I also use on my face when I run out of the other lotion I have for my face. I have a lotion for my eyes and one for my hands. I even have a lotion for my cuticles.

Having looked at it, there is no denying it. There’s a direct correlation between the number of years a woman has lived and the amount of lotion she uses.

I sat with that for a minute…and I’m okay with it.

Whatever else she was, Mrs. Jordan was a woman who smelled good and who, by her very presence, imbued that scent with a sense of femininity…orthopedic shoes and all…

There’s hope for the rest of us…

Hair Raising

It’s fitting, I suppose, that I have unruly hair. I’m a pretty unruly woman. But, sometimes, I think it’s my mother’s fault…

Some of my earliest memories are of my hips wedged between my mother’s ample thighs atop our ultra-chic, avocado green, vinyl couch. For reasons known only to her, she insisted on using a comb on my hair. And, not just any comb, but one of those barber’s combs with skinny, pointed teeth that were so close together a dime wouldn’t pass through them. As she raked those teeth across my scalp, I gritted my own and prepared for the blood that was sure to start running into my eyes just any minute. Occasionally, I howled, until I realized that only made her angry, causing her to plow even deeper.

The only respite from the raking came when she found what she referred to as a “knot”. I don’t know how it happened or why. I only know that every single time my mother raised a comb to my head she found the hair at the nape of my neck to be a tangled morass that inspired her to mutter mild epithets between groaning tugs.

There was lots of “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”, even though we both knew she’d seen it just last Saturday. And she whined a lot. Occasionally, the comb she extracted contained more than hair. The mass more resembled a bird’s nest than a knot, with wisps of lint and the occasional tiny scrap of paper woven into the mix.

And then there were the permanents…

For years, my mother lined us up on linoleum that was scored to resemble stone, if you were willing to allow that stone could possibly be tinged the same avocado green as the couch. By now, she’d invested in detangler which allowed her comb to slice through our tresses, unfettered. It was pretty smooth sailing, really, until it came time to roll. Because, rolling required wrapping, and wrapping involved small wisps of tissue paper, and, once again, she met her match at my nape.

At this point, she turned us over to my grandmother who owned a beauty shop on the ground floor of what would now be termed an assisted living high-rise. The real money, however, was made styling hair for regular customers who no longer required a return appointment. She spent Saturday mornings at the funeral home. Mother dropped us off after lunch and picked us up several hours later.

“Remember now!”, my grandmother called from the porch where she stood with one waving hand raised. “Don’t wash it for at least two days, so you don’t wash it out!”

I spent the ride home calculating how I could gain entry of the bathroom before my sister.

I drove myself the last time my grandmother curled my hair. By that time, I was compelled by more than style. By that time, the trek across town, and the smelly chemicals, the pulling, the tugging, and hot minutes spent under the hood of a hair dryer were a trade-off. Because, after she curled my hair, we could visit. She took me outside to her sun porch. She showed me her plants, some of which were decades old. She talked to me about them, told me how to grow them, and pulled up tiny samples for me to root when I returned home. It was worth the thirty minutes or so I would spend with my head in the sink later that evening.

The last time my mother tackled my hair involved one of those new-fangled curling irons; the kind encased in plastic bristles, the kind that not only curled your hair but brushed it, too. She was dolling me up for some kind of event. It may have been Easter. Easter was big deal at our house. It was one of two times, each year, that my parents would accompany us to church. We dressed in new dresses and wore pantyhose from freshly cracked eggs.

My mother separated a swath of hair from the crown of my head, twirling it around the plastic-bristled, metal shaft. Steam billowed from the contraption in her hand as she marked time. Time came, and she rolled her hand in an attempt to un-wrap. But, it wouldn’t. The curling iron, with its rows of plastic bristles, had a death-grip on my hair. Steam billowed from the crown of my head as my mother pulled and whined, pulled and whined.

“I’ve never seen anything like this in my life!”

Whines turned to whimpers as we both imagined what I would look like after she cut the hair at the scalp in order to remove it from the shaft. My mother cursed. My sisters watched in horror. Finally, the hair loosened. I never saw the curling iron again.

Two weeks later, my mother made an appointment for both of us at the hair salon she frequented. Despite odiferous armpits at the end of her pendulous arms, Sandra could feather with the best of them. Kristy McNichol had nothing on me…

I was in the eleventh grade. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. I drove quite a distance to the salon and was somewhat taken aback by the pumping, bass-driven beat of the music that greeted me as I entered. “Toto? We’re not in Kansas anymore…”

A tall man with sallow skin under his brush cut rushed, as fast as his leather pants allowed, to reach me. I left with what amounted to a crew cut. And, I loved it…but I never did it again.

Since then, I’ve been shorn by a tattooed biker chick, one Valley Girl, a middle-aged woman with an unfortunate spiral perm, and one really nice Vietnamese man. He didn’t try to talk to me. I like that in a stylist.

Several weeks ago, I got the urge. You know the one; that feeling that you have to have your hair styled…NOW! Several weeks ago, the Valley Girl had sent me home looking like something the cat had dragged in, and it wasn’t the first time. As I left work, I made the decision to stop at the first salon I passed.

It took longer than I anticipated. I was almost home. The sign on the marquee read “Famous Hair”. The fact that it occupied a space just two doors down from the market was a huge selling point.

She was introduced as “Nancy”, but I’m willing to bet her green card reads “Tran” or “Nguyen”.

“What you want?”, she asked, whipping a black, nylon robe round my neck, matador-like.

I produced a copy I’d made of a style I’d found on the internet. Nancy laced tiny fingers through my hair as she studied the picture, frowning.

“But it doesn’t matter…”, I laughed. “I gave up a long time ago. My hair does what it wants to do…and I let it.”

Pompless Circumstance

Shane’s long-time baby-sitter, Christin, invited us to her graduation ceremony. The invitation, and the opportunity it presented, seemed timely.

Shane will start eighth grade in the fall or, as he puts it, he’ll be the “Big Dog”. So many facets of Shane’s life serve to accentuate the fact that the upcoming school year will be a period of transition, a stepping stone if you will, from one phase of life into another. As high school graduation should be the pinnacle of this next phase, attending the event seemed an opportunity to plant a seed, to secure a goal, to expose him to all the pomp and circumstance afforded scholastic achievement.

He balked only slightly when I insisted he wear dress shoes and the imagined pain of buttoning his button-down was assuaged by the mirror over my shoulder, as a slight jerk of his head almost produced the coveted swish of Justin Bieber hair.

“Hey, Mom! I look kinda good!” He’s a slightly pudgy thirteen-year-old. “Kinda” IS good.

Christin had called earlier in the day. Her words were punctuated by a distinctive “click” as she released long golden curls from the clutches of a steaming curling iron. Her usually swift cadence was enhanced by excitement as she shared ticket information and encouraged early arrival.

“You’llbesittinginbleachersIt’sgoingtobehotbutthey’resellingChick-fil-asothereisthat.”

We parked at the church next to the high school and walked a down-hill block to the stadium. Shane’s baseball coach met us as we circled the football field.

“Luke’s up there somewhere.”, he shaded his eyes against the burning twilight, searching for his son. “There!”, he pointed.

Shane asked the question with a lift of his eyebrows. I answered with a blink and a nod, and he began a clumsy ascent towards his friend

We were early. There were plenty of seats to choose from. I headed for an empty metal bench in the center, and as I climbed towards my perch, overheard someone make reference to the fifty-yard-line. It felt out of place

Easing onto a very warm aluminum bench, I was disappointed to realize that the stage had been set up facing the opposite side of the field. They were, apparently, playing to the “home” crowd. A handful of people scurried to and fro around the stage as though assigned a very important task, but no one actually seemed to do anything. A golf cart sped past the bleachers several times. The sun had dipped below the treetops, but left her heat behind.

A group of people wearing black caps and gowns approached the stage area. It took me a minute or so to realize that they were teachers and not really old looking students. Mentally, I chastised myself for the mistake. It’s not as though I’d never attended a graduation before. I’d seen those same caps and gowns at my own graduation.

Of course, my graduation took place downtown, in the air-conditioned comfort of the Municipal Auditorium. And the event was actually a culmination of events that had taken place over the preceding two weeks. Parents feted their children with parties that felt a lot like bridal showers feel today. An assortment of gifts flowed in from my parents friends, many of whom I’d never met. Most sent money, but one relative sent a boxed set of Anais-Anais perfume. I was so impressed! It seemed so…continental! I wonder if it’s still available…

Crimson colored caps and gowns were delivered to the school two weeks before graduation and taken to the music room for fittings. We stood in line with our friends, waiting our turn while sharing our enthusiasm and an occasional joke at the expense of students whose heads measured extra-large. Afterwards, a group of us went out to lunch and, later, to the mall. It didn’t matter that we would be wearing calf-length gowns. The occasion called for a new dress. And shoes, of course.

Something about the prospect of walking down an aisle prompts profuse primping. Not until I married would I again spend so much time in front of a mirror. I emerged from the bedroom I shared with my sister to find my family waiting in the den. My father wore a suit and tie, my sisters, their Easter shoes, and my mother, heels under a skirt that probably hadn’t seen the light of day more than once or twice since she’d owned it. We all piled into Mom’s Vista Cruiser station wagon and headed downtown.

The auditorium was dark except for tiny lights imbedded in the aisle seats. My family went inside while I followed a beckoning, black-shrouded teacher whose job it was to herd graduates backstage.

The noise we made as we assembled ourselves upon the risers behind the curtain seemed deafening. I was sure our parents could hear. The relative darkness only served to accentuate the heavy blanket of expectancy that fueled our collective state of giddiness. Several robed teachers stood in front of the risers alternately moving students who had yet to master the alphabet and threatening rowdy boys by addressing them as “Mister”.

And the music began…daaaa, dadada, daaaa-da, daaaa, dadada, daaaaaah. A nervous silence fell over my class. Even the rowdy boys stood a little taller.

“Excuse me…”

I woke from my reverie to the face of a young father wearing cargo shorts with a baby dangling off one arm. He looked pointedly at the bleacher beneath my feet.

“Oh! I’m sorry!” I turned towards the aisle, allowing him passage. A young African-American man climbed the steps towards me. He wore blue jeans under a t-shirt which exposed carefully cultivated biceps. Very large basketball shoes bloomed beneath his pants. Loosened laces allowed for a protruding tongue. The toddler perched in the crook of his right arm made repeated attempts to dislodge his doo rag.

Behind him, a middle-aged woman in tank top and shorts, pushed a mop of unruly blonde curls from her face as she searched for a bench long enough to contain her similarly clad contingent.

I shifted on the bench that was becoming harder and more uncomfortable by the minute to see that two rows of black robes were filing in towards the stage.

The man sitting next to me leaned in, “Why are some of the kids wearing black robes, while the others are wearing white?” I felt so vindicated…

The presence of a tiny sea-foam-suited woman waving her arms, frantically, in front of a small group of students wielding instruments was the only indication that music was playing. The air around me was filled with the cacophony of mixing voices, frequent laughter, and the occasional baby crying. Suddenly the fifty-yard-line comment seemed less inappropriate.

This time I leaned in. “Are these people just going to talk through the entire ceremony? It’s bad enough we can’t see. We aren’t going to be able to hear either?”

My position granted me a line of sight though which I could see Shane. His eyes were focused as he sat immobile save for his thumbs, which danced rapidly over the controls of Luke’s Gameboy.

Four rows down, a slightly overweight, middle-aged man sat in a suit and tie. His hands folded and unfolded a program as he surveyed the crowd.

Frayed Strings

No one loves their children more than I do. My youngest is thirteen now, which only goes to prove that all the minutes I spent wishing he could be my baby forever were for naught. But I knew that…

To my credit, I’ve turned those mournful minutes into reasons to be grateful. When he recounts an exchange with another student in school, I pay attention. The day will come when sharing won’t be so easy. When he calls “Mom”, as I walk past his darkened room, I stop and listen before reminding him, again, to go to sleep. When he allows me to take his hand as we walk, I feel it as I hold it. And, when he wraps his arms around my waist, and rests his head against my chest I thank God for the blessing. Every little boy hug, every little boy kiss, could be the last.

He turned thirteen last week, three days before school let out for summer.

“Do you want a party? You could invite your friends from school, the guys from your baseball team, and some of your football friends. We could go to the park. You guys could play baseball, and we could cook-out.”

Shane sat silent, looking through the window to the backyard. Movement in his eyes told me he was considering the offer. He’d attended several birthday parties this year.

Valerie invited him to his first boy/girl, night-time party. There was dancing, which led to sweating, which provoked Shane to stealthily comb the health and beauty aids aisle during our next visit to the grocery store.

Chelsea’s mother went one better and rented a pool-side clubhouse. As we pulled up, the outer walls of the building seemed to vibrate in time with the disco ball sparkling through an upper-floor window. Expecting hesitation from Shane, I turned in my seat to offer words of encouragement from someone who has personally experienced countless disco balls. The backseat was empty, the car door slammed, and by the time I turned around Shane had mounted the walk towards the door without so much as a wave good-bye.

A pattern began to develop, and I saw my mistake.

“Oh…I just realized all the parties you’ve gone to this year were given by girls. Boys your age don’t have birthday parties, do they?”

Relief colored his face.

“Not really…”, he smiled, lowering his head.

“Ok! So what do you want to do? We could go out to dinner. Your choice! Or we could go to the movies. You could take a friend….You tell me. What do you want to do?”

“I want to spend the weekend with Josh.”

Josh is his oldest brother. He married just before Shane’s birthday. He and his wife live in a rural area seventy-five miles away.

Shane left on Friday.

Friday night I had dinner out, and for the first time in a long time, no one offered me a children’s menu. My companion and I enjoyed uninterrupted adult conversation. And when we left, there were no tell-tale crumbs beneath our table.

Saturday I slept in, and woke to a quiet house. I never realized how much noise is generated by the simple act of breathing until mine was the only breath drawn. I took my coffee to the patio and never felt compelled to grab at the table beside my chair in hopes of steadying it. Birdsong fell on my ears without accompaniment. No one asked me any questions.

I spent the rest of the day doing as I pleased. I shopped without uttering the word “no”. I turned my Ipod up as I gardened, never giving a thought to what might be going on inside the house. I gutted the playroom, and in so doing generated quite a pile for the next charity pick-up. He hasn’t touched those toys in years…

I organized his dresser, and added several threadbare t-shirts to the aforementioned pile. The one with the hole in the collar has bothered me for months.

I baked cookies for the neighbors and no one whined, “You always make the good stuff for other people!” I watched tennis on TV without giving advance warning of an imminent takeover of the den. Music wafted from speakers mounted beneath the eaves as we grilled on the patio and no one asked me sardonically, “Why don’t you like rock music anymore?”

As I turned out the lights above the mantle and closed the sunroom door against the night I thought, “So this is what it will be like when he is gone. I can do this…”

The phone rang and I jumped to answer it.

“Hello?!”, I never gave a thought to sounding casual.

“Hey, Mom.”

Those two words began tales of Clydesdale horses, front flips from diving boards, and a dog Shane loved enough to bring home.

“I’m glad you’re having a good time.”

“Ok, Mom. Gotta go.” Male voices parried in the background. I understood the distraction.

“Ok…” Silence in the line told me he had hung up already.

For the first time in thirteen years Shane hung up without saying “I love you.”

But he does…

Living True

Somehow I’d forgotten the particular shade of blue that is sky. That blue that defies duplication. The blue that speaks the word “yonder”, by inviting eyes to see further.

Today, I saw it, and knew the wonder.

I’ve missed the caress of wind in my hair. The feeling of freedom. A space in time whose only accompaniment is the dull roar of the engine in front of me, competing with wind whipping through an open window.

Today, I felt it, and appreciated the gift.

It’s been a while since I’ve really looked into a loved one’s eyes as she spoke, or shared air, or a fork. I’ve missed the abandon of shucking my shoes under the table before resting my heels on the booth beside her. “That’s a lovely shade of blue on your toenails, honey. It looks just like you.”

Today I took the time.

Today I saw sky, and felt wind. I memorized the eyes of a friend, and held my daughter close for no reason. I stretched out, barefooted, in a booth at a restaurant and laughed loudly, with abandon.

Today, I knew the gifts of those who truly live.

Punting

It was late….

Darkness swaddled winding concrete pathways, separating injured playing fields, where echoes of parental calls of support lingered just above the distant tree-line.

The sound of slamming car doors bounced, softly, off firs enclosing the parking lot; and warning calls of parents to street-dancing children muffled.

And, that’s why I noticed her; she who was arriving just as everyone else was leaving.

The rubber band she’d twisted, earlier in the day, into her wispy, blonde hair was giving way, mocking facial lines that had deepened as the hours passed. Amidst the shadows, her face suggested Eastern Europe.

Two small girls of similar wisp and structure ran behind her as she began the descent towards the park. Each child clutched voluminous mounds of plastic grocery sacks.

I imagined their small hands cramming the sacks into receptacles dotting the park, above signs that read “Please clean up after your pet.” I’d always wondered who filled them.

But, they had no pet with them.

I slid behind the wheel of my own car, juggling my keys while I watched. The girls danced excitedly, taking turns leading the tiny caravan, unaware of their mother in a way that said they knew she was there, and always would be.

Just as they breached the fir-line, the woman slid her cellphone out of the pocket of her belted shorts.

And, I recognized the opportunity…and kinship.

I have been that woman…

Outside, Looking In

I don’t avoid Wal-Mart for all the trendy reasons. A speech given by a middle-aged cashier, sporting a pewter-gray, pixie haircut, to a visitor from “up north” who had attempted to sympathize with her plight, convinced me that Wal-Mart may not be the Anti-Christ, after all. She was “eternally grateful” for her job, and gave “thanks to God every day”. Watching her speak, I found it difficult to pair that particular hairstyle with a tailored suit in which she would be expected to greet the boutique customers in carefully modulated tones. She had made the right choice.

I avoid Wal-Mart because I simply don’t have the patience required to shuffle behind mothers too tired to walk, and their children, who string out on either side of the shopping cart as though preparing for an impromptu game of Red Rover. I’m also put off by crowds in front of the shelves that force me to vie for a spot, by maneuvering my cart so that it serves as a barrier, while I make a quick strike, all the while hoping that the items I’ve already chosen will still be in my basket when I get back. The whole experience is just too stressful for me.

Sometimes though, when you decide that shopping with company is preferable to shopping alone, you end up a passenger in your friend’s car, leaving you little or no control over which stores you park in front of. This would be how I ended up in the Wal-Mart parking lot. And I remained in the parking lot, while my friend went inside. He insists that there are some things no one else carries, and is sure that he is getting a better deal. We’ve had the conversation. I don’t belabor the point. Instead, I declare, gaily, that I will wait outside while he “runs in” to “pick up a couple of things”. This is how we saw the woman with magenta hair.

“Isn’t she a little old to be wearing that color?”, the question came from my son whose involvement with his Itouch had forced him to remain behind with me.

She was a small woman. And from a distance her size and shape, covered as it was in jeans and a tee-shirt, might have suggested youth. Up close though, my first unbidden thought was, “What was she thinking?”. There was no mistaking the color of her hair. It wasn’t even trying to pretend to be red, and it was far to dark to be considered pink. It was a color you don’t see every day. It was magenta.

The lines in her face grew deeper as she neared the car, and when her light-colored eyes met mine, I turned away. I wondered if she was the victim of a color change gone awry. Perhaps, she’d been challenged. Maybe she’d won a bet. And then I noticed her carriage; the arch of her neck, the strength in her step, and I knew. The magenta hair was no accident, it was a statement, and I thought “You go girl!”.

The grocery store I frequent boasts four self-checkout lanes. Today there was a queue. The fifteen-items-or-less lane also had several people waiting on line, but fewer, prompting me to steer my cart, carrying twenty pounds of puppy food, in that direction.

While waiting, I watched the woman in front of me place her items on the conveyor belt. It was an incongruous mix; coconut cake and a cupful of peeled grapefruit sections sat side-by-side.

In front of her, a stylishly dressed, carefully dyed young woman balanced on five-inch heels while pressing her Iphone to her ear, unaware of the surreptitious ogling husband in front of her, or his wife’s eyes as they followed his.

The woman in front of me was huge; a fact that was made all the more prevalent by her choice of a gauzy, aqua top that flowed immensely with her every movement. It was a well-made garment. I’m sure she paid plenty for it. I imagined her shopping, maybe even online. She had good jewelry.

Did she look at herself in the mirror?, I wondered. Did she try on the blouse, and then turn, this way and that? Did she smile with satisfaction at the picture she made? That was when I noticed how thin her forearms were behind delicate hands bearing a bejeweled wedding set. Someone appreciated her…

I left the store behind a young, dark-skinned girl who wore shorts and a shirt over her Chuck Taylor’s. It was her head, though that caught my eye.

Greens and yellows melded with cream, in a patterned fabric she had wound round and round her head to a height of nearly one foot in the style of a traditional African head-wrap. I was struck, at first, by the dichotomy. But that was before practicality kicked in, and I imagined my own shoulder-length mane wrapped, instead of clipped, on a sultry southern day. I think that girl might be on to something…

On the way home, traffic slowed in the opposite lane. I looked ahead, anticipating flashing blue lights, and was met, instead, by a rather large, middle-aged man dwarfing a moped.

At first, I marveled at his whimsy. Everyone knows how slow those things go, and here we were, in the middle of rush hour! But his helmeted head remained upright, steadfast, fixed on a goal. And he rode…oblivious.

Given the state of traffic at the time, he probably got there just as fast as anyone else.

Tolerance is a window to the other side, and we have much to learn…