The sun coaxed color into your ever-pale face,
sprinkling darker spots along the bridge of your nose,
that only brought your observer closer,
in an effort to see if you were real.
Your eyes,
always light, drew refection from your skin,
until their green matched the hue of the surf
as it rushed in between our feet on white sand.
The wind blew.
And your hair danced;
long, blonde diaphaneity.
Part Siren,
part Mermaid,
my Sister,
on the beach.
Women learn, from a very early age, to be good waiters.
The first thing I remember waiting for was my birthday. As the oldest of four girls, it was the only day of the year when the spotlight would be for me, and only me. Children came to a party for me. People bought presents for me. Mother baked a cake for me. Birthdays were always worth waiting for.
And then, of course, there was Christmas. True anticipation usually began about a week after Thanksgiving, when large, brown cartons were extracted from the attic and strewn haphazardly about the living room. It was mother’s job to string the lights, which meant more waiting for my sisters and I as we perched on the edge of a couch rarely sat upon, waiting for her signal to breach the boxes. Completion of decoration led only to more waiting. Twinkling, multi-colored lights reflected in our eyes as we “watched” the tree while imagining what hidden treasures lay underneath.
In a house with four girls and one bathroom, there is always a wait.
Soon after my sixteenth birthday, my father presented me with a reasonable facsimile of a car, featuring two seats on four wheels, and very little else. I soon realized it was the seating that concerned him most, and the words “Wait for your sister!” became the bane of my existence.
My sister, Laura, had one speed. A snail once challenged Laura to a foot race. The snail won. Most weekday mornings found me biding my time in an idling car with a blaring radio, for what seemed like hours, as Laura completed her toilette. Weeks of begging, and pleading, and screaming, and warning fell on immutably deaf ears. Finally, I cracked. Bidding her adieu with a foundation-jarring slam of the back door, I jammed the gear shift into reverse. All I remember of my return home is the anger in my mother’s eyes. The rest has been mercifully carved from my memory, but whatever the punishment, it was worth it!
The summer after my senior year in high school was spent waiting by the telephone. I met John, weeks before, while on a trip to Washington, DC with a youth group. When he called, it was to say he would be in Atlanta the following week. My excitement was tempered by the knowledge that I was scheduled to be in Destin on a family vacation. To her credit, my mother allowed me to make the decision. I remember very little of that week spent on the beach, besides a feeling of longing.
College graduation began the wait for my big move. My best friend and I had planned this day for years. Numerous shopping trips for linens, and dishes, and what passed as artwork, made the waiting easier. The experience of living together wasn’t the euphoria we knew it would be, and I gained a valuable life lesson. With the assistance of a good attorney, it only cost $400.00 to get out of the lease.
The only thing more difficult than waiting for the results of a pregnancy test is waiting for his reaction. Pregnancy is the ultimate exercise in waiting. I skipped waiting to discover the gender of my children. A long-ago forbidden foray into my parents’ closet, just before Christmas, had taught me that surprises are to be relished.
Pregnancy came naturally to me, as affirmed by the midwife who announced I had “childbearing hips”. For thirty-six months of my life I was a walking miracle, and I never forgot it.
I loved the quaint expression of being “with child”, and all that came with it. Pregnancy, of course, meant shopping in exclusive shops; exclusive as in those selling maternity clothes, nursing bras, baby furniture, bibs, pacifiers, and the genius that is the One-sie. My children were of the generation first introduced to this remarkable example of adorable efficiency. Thanks to the invention of the One-sie, babies no longer required trussing in order to get to the diaper; just four simple snaps, and you were in!
Mothering is synonymous with waiting. Waiting room carpet patterns are memorized, and it isn’t long before a tote bag filled with the necessities of waiting, takes up permanent residence on the back seat of a mother’s car. Mothers wait for hours in check-out lines accompanied by the wailing of an over-tired child; hers or someone else’s. Her first child’s first day of school is torturous for a mother who imagines, all day, trails of tears running down her child’s face when in reality it is her face that is wet. She can’t wait for her baby to come home.
Mothers think of clever ways to pass the time spent in carpool lanes, and later, outside movie theaters and shopping malls. Mothers wait outside dressing rooms until, curious, they grasp the doorknob, prompting the rebuke, “Not yet!”. Mothers wait, sometimes anxiously, for school to start as summer wanes, along with her children’s patience with one another.
As our children grow, waiting mixes with worry. I sat white-knuckled, at the front window, for the full fifteen minutes it took my son to drive around the block for the first time, alone. That was almost ten years ago. Yesterday, when he didn’t arrive within fifteen minutes of our agreed upon time, my face appeared again, at that window.
Even today, I am hard pressed to say which was more shocking, my mother’s announcement of her diagnosis with cancer, or her concurrent use of the word “shit”, as in “Pretty heavy shit, huh?”. On the day of her surgery, the sunny environment of the waiting room, walled floor-to-ceiling by glass, competed with the emotions of the large group of friends and family it housed. Having recently returned to school, I spent most of the day with a textbook. I turned pages filled with words I only appeared to read, until the entry into the room of a small group of green-clad men wearing serious expressions. Their words left no doubt as to the arduous journey ahead, and I would begin my night-time sojourns in the ICU waiting room within weeks.
My father didn’t want my mother left “alone”. He and one or more of my sisters spent the day at the hospital, never missing one of the fifteen minute intervals during which my mother was allowed visitors. Visits were not allowed after nine at night, so my brother-in-law and I took turns sleeping in the waiting room. For many months, waiting became a way of life, as my mother slowly healed.
Commuting lends itself to reflection. Commuting in the rain requires more careful attention, until rainy streets become the norm, and reflections resurface. Such was the case on Wednesday, when, as I rolled to a stop under a murky, red beacon, I realized I have unknowingly adopted a constant state of wait.
Last year was a year of unwanted, if not unexpected, consequences. Reminders of what proved to be an achingly short spate of purest joy, plague me, in the form of physical reminders with psychological presence. The realization that I have been waiting for a different outcome brought an ironic smile to my lips, and a reminder. Inherent in waiting is hope. And, with hope, all things are possible.
I wasn’t sure the car would stop. The street held remnants of an earlier rain, and the ball rolling into it, was a surprise. Even more startling was the young child who followed, despite a large group of variously aged family members congregated in his driveway. As I braked, I turned to look at his family, hoping someone would see the boy, and come to his aid. Several of them turned, looking in his direction.
Blessedly, the car did stop. As I sat, allowing the child to retrieve his ball and move well clear of the car, I turned again to look at his caretakers. Some continued to watch him, while the more oblivious of the group continued talking, and laughing, and jostling; no one moved, no one called out. The boy snagged his ball, and grazed me with dark, dancing eyes, before darting back into his driveway.
My son’s presence in the garage meant he had something to tell me that wouldn’t wait.
“Mom!” His inflection confirmed my suspicion.
He burbled as we carried my things inside.
“Science class was so cool today! Mr. Patterson, you remember him, right? Well, Mr. Patterson said he’d been waiting for a rainy day to tell us this story, right?”
He freed his hands by setting a bag on the kitchen table, and began using them to bat at the puppy, whose excitement on seeing his friend come inside was just as exuberant as it had been the first time, about thirty minutes before.
“It was about a witch. Well, not really a witch. Well, she WAS a witch, but now she’s a ghost, right? I mean, it’s kinda like “Blair Witch”, but not really.”
He continued to share his story, as I moved about the kitchen. Some of his words were lost in the sounds of cans scraping along shelves and refrigerator bins opening, but I understood the crux of his story. The long and short of it, was that Mr. Patterson had set aside the business of beakers and microscopes to take advantage of a rainy day, by regaling a roomful of eleven-year-olds with his stories of adolescent close-encounters with beings from “the other side”. Unfortunately, in arriving at this decision, Mr. Patterson had forgotten his role as authoritarian. He had underestimated his own importance by sharing a frightening story with children who are directed, daily, to listen to him, and to remember every word he utters.
The next morning, I awoke to a pile of blankets on the floor beside my bed. And, somewhere in that pile, lay my frightened, sleeping son.
Shane held his cell-phone behind his back.
“Mom? Can I go to the movies with Koran?, he stage-whispered.
I asked all the usual questions; what, when, where, and gave my consent. As he ran, grinning, back to his bedroom to change, my cell-phone rang. It was Jill, mother of Alex.
“Is Shane going to the movies with Koran?”
“Yes. Is Alex?”
“Did you know that they are dropping the kids off? There will be no parents…I don’t know.”
Anger crowded my embarrassment.
“No, I didn’t know that. Let me call you back.”
I called Koran’s father, who back-pedaled furiously when questioned. I thanked him for the invitation and called Jill to tell her Shane wouldn’t be going. Her sigh spoke her relief, and I thanked her. We watch out for each other…
Laughter breached the closed door to the playroom as Shane and two boys who live next door played video games.
“Lunchtime!”, I called, imagining myself in belted shirt-dress, high heels, and pearls. June Cleaver’s got nothing on me.
Six hands vied for space under the bathroom spigot before the boys barreled into the kitchen to ham and cheese on wheat, Sunchips, and milk.
“Is there mayonnaise on this?” Ray studied his sandwich without touching it.
“Mayo and mustard.”, I answered, still in character, before resuming wiping the counters.
“Mom?” This was my son.
“Yes?”
“Do we have any vanilla stuff? You know, for the milk? They don’t drink plain milk. They like vanilla.”
I turned to find my storybook lunch decimated. Shane, his back to me, munched contentedly on the contents of his plate. To his left, two slices of discarded bread messily decorated the outskirts of a plate, while his friend held the formerly sandwiched slice of ham to his mouth. To his right, Ray had finally found the nerve to touch his food, removing all traces of mayo, leaving a slice of bread topped by mustard and ham. Both glasses of milk remained untouched.
“No, I’m sorry. And, I’m sorry you don’t like your lunch.”
“It’s okay, Mom.” Shane rushed to my defense. “It’s just that they don’t eat brown bread. They like white. And Ray doesn’t like mayonnaise, and their Mom always puts vanilla in the milk. But, that’s okay.”
That evening, the boys’ mother returned the favor, inviting Shane to dinner.
“What did you have?”, I asked on his return.
“Chicken nuggets.”, he answered. “They always have chicken nuggets. That’s what they like.”
Somehow, I can’t imagine the boys’ father braving the hazards of a drive across town in Atlanta traffic, thinking, “Mmmm, chicken nuggets!”
My sister will be late to her own funeral. This was my thought as I rested my head against the gaily colored mural adorning the wall of the local “Rio Bravo”. The trill of a cell-phone caught my attention, and seeking the sound, my eyes came to rest on a girl of about six. She flipped the phone open with one perfectly manicured hand, while the other rested on the denim-clad knee of a man I supposed to be her father. She brought the phone to her ear and turned, revealing a powdered face, featuring painted lips, carefully placed glitter, and several coats of black mascara. I’m sure my mouth fell open.
One tiny foot rocked back and forth on the tip of a stacked heel as she talked. The pink polish on her nails matched, perfectly, the hue of a sweater that clung to her board-flat chest before falling over expensively tattered jeans. Her future flashed across my eyes, leaving me with a feeling of profound sadness for her squandered childhood
Shane’s cell-phone had rung at least twenty times over the course of an hour.
“Who is that?”, I asked, irritated by the sound of my mother’s voice coming from my mouth.
“Valerie…” Shane’s voice, too, sounded stressed. He took advantage of a break in the noise to go outside, picking up a basketball on his way towards the goal.
When the offending noise began again, I picked up the telephone, intending to tell Valerie to cut back on her calls before I was forced to have a talk with her mother.
The Caller-ID bore her mother’s name and cell-phone number, but the voice on the other end of the line was Valerie’s. I made no such threat.
His efforts at whispering drew my attention.
“I know, but we’re changing plans in June. It doesn’t make sense to buy a new phone now.”
The span of his silence suggested his wife’s increasingly shrill voice.
“He can use my old phone.” These words were louder, more forceful, in keeping with a man with a plan.
Another silence ensued, and when conversation continued, it went on for some time, though he spoke few words.
Later, he visited the office across from mine.
“My son lost his phone.”
“Can’t he just use your old one until we change plans in June?” , his sensible friend asked. “Buying a new phone now would just be a waste of money, because it won’t work with the new plan.”
“She wants to get him another Razor. She’s worried what his friends will think.”
His friend’s derisive chuckle spoke volumes.
“I told her we’d just use mine.”
Later that afternoon, his loquacious wife, with children in tow, came by to pick him up on their way to purchase the Razor.
“What are you doing this weekend?” I asked, as the clock ticked towards four, and our two-day pass.
“I’m taking my son to a birthday party at the Roxy.”, came the bored-sounding answer.
“The Roxy?”, I asked, incredulous. “THE Roxy? The concert hall downtown? A twelve year-old child is having a birthday party at the Roxy?”
“Yeah…it’s to make up for all the bot-mitzvahs.”
I had no answer for that.
What will become of our children? It seems every passing day presents me with another horrifying example of adults who have seemingly forgotten their role. A young child is allowed to follow a ball into a rain-soaked road in front of an oncoming car, and they watch. A science teacher, whose words are expected to form the minds of our children, spends an entire class period convincing them that witches and ghosts are not just the stuff of Halloween charades. A group of eleven year-old boys and girls are invited to a Sunday afternoon movie by parents who can’t be bothered to chaperone. A Harvard educated mother feeds her children a diet so consumed by frozen, fried chicken and vanilla flavored milk, that sandwiches on whole-grain, accompanied by organically produced milk, appear exotically disgusting. I shared a restaurant waiting room with a six-year-old whose make-up was applied more professionally than mine. A mother, apparently, never questions her daughter about hundreds of calls made from her cell phone to a boy she sees, every day, in their sixth-grade classroom. A boy’s father caves to his ranting mother, by spending money on a cell phone that will be useless in less than six months; in an effort to retain pre-pubescent social status. And, an entire concert hall, complete with seating for several thousand, is rented in honor of a twelve-year-old girl who had the misfortune of being born to Christian parents.
How long before the odds play out? Who do our children have to look up to? When did outings and fancy electronics replace structured caring and responsibility? When did children begin making decisions that affect an entire family? As they cry through smeared mascara, who will explain objectivism to our girls? What is left? What will they have to look forward to; to work towards? How will they define “special”?
You always knew it was wrong, but you held your tongue.
You always wondered why, but refused to accept their answers.
You always heard “You can’t.”, but you did.
You like what you see in the mirror, but fear what lies underneath.
You possess goodness, but fear no one else will see.
And when you get too close, you pull back; afraid you are wrong, without reason, unable, ugly, and bad.
But, when you write…everything that is you comes through. An earthy beauty flows from the tips of your fingers, and you smile, knowing you have hit your mark.
A new day dawns, heralding a number that you secret in your shirt pocket, making it your reality.
You stop trying to be right.
You stop asking questions.
You stop looking in the mirror.
You stop.
Twenty years old, I sat at a traffic light in a tiny yellow Datsun whose compact size barely accommodated my girth. I was eight months pregnant.
I wasn’t employed at the time, so I must have been heading home from a trip to the grocery store. I remember it was a Friday; payday. The light couldn’t have been long. I lived in a small town, but, it may have been rush hour. There were several people ahead of me, and more behind.
The tears came, unbidden; followed by an incredible rush of feeling unlike anything I had ever experienced before, or since. And, it filled me, starting in my feet, before rushing upwards. My hands, on either side of my mercilessly swollen belly, felt warm, and alive. Love, for an unborn child who kicked, ferociously, at the most inopportune times, making the sheer act of breathing difficult, overcame me, as I fought to remain cognizant of the mundane world around me. And the light changed….
“A person who loses a spouse is called a widow. A child, who has lost his parents, is called an orphan. There is no word for a parent who has lost a child.”
A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.
At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.
When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.
And, she suckled them.
She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.
She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.
And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.
As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.
Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,
in separate incidents,
years apart.
And, I was there…
I watched, impotent, as she integrated her new reality and did what she had to do, and survived. I offered tangible assistance out of the realization that as a mother of four living children, I could not understand the intangibles.
Through it all, I am painfully aware that all she has left of the lives she nurtured is a cherished box of ashes, a slideshow of memories, complete with sound, and love that longs to be expressed. And, my own mother’s voice rings in my ears, “Life is not fair!”
As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.
She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.
More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.
Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.
And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.
Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.
A friend absorbs it.
>
A cacophony of muffled beats filled the room as the probe glided across her bulging belly, revealing two separate, but equal, beating hearts.
At 4 foot, 11 inches, she hadn’t much space to offer. But, she gave what she had, and the three of them grew, together.
When the time came, she birthed them, one blonde and slight; the other dark, and burly.
And, she suckled them.
She diapered them, and offered a supporting finger to clasp, as they took their first steps.
She applied tissues to runny noses and bandages to skinned knees, and sent them back out to play, with a pat to their denim covered behinds.
And, still, they grew; together and apart, as she had, by now, broken the cycle of addiction and abuse with a single act of love that meant absence from their home, but not their hearts.
As adults, they manifested as they presented; small, light, and slight would remain so, in body as well as spirit, while dark and burly became their rock.
Long past the age when anyone could have considered them accident prone, she lost them both,
in separate incidents,
years apart.
And, I was there…
I watched, impotent, as she integrated her new reality and did what she had to do, and survived. I offered tangible assistance out of the realization that as a mother of four living children, I could not understand the intangibles.
Through it all, I am painfully aware that all she has left of the lives she nurtured is a cherished box of ashes, a slideshow of memories, complete with sound, and love that longs to be expressed. And, my own mother’s voice rings in my ears, “Life is not fair!”
As her closest and dearest friend, I never speak of them.
She talks of them often; relating humorous anecdotes, or bemoaning the lack of a male to attend to the mechanics of her life. I listen quietly, or laugh, and comment where appropriate.
More importantly, I allow her time with them. I watch as she pulls them to her breast when she feels the need to hold them close while searching their faces for answers.
Today would have been their birthday. Had they lived, they be facing the agnst of middle age.
And, for the first time since her loss, when the pain became too much to bear alone, she called. She talked, and she cried, and she shared, while I listened without questions.
Because, a friend doesn’t conjure the pain.
A friend absorbs it.
(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)
The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.
I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
>
(In honor of my baby sister’s birthday, today. I love you, sweetie!)
The coffee shop is packed, as usual.
I shake the wind out of my overcoat as I scan the throng around the counter for the end of the line.
Spiky-haired, strategically pierced baristas dart back and forth behind pastry-filled glass in a symphony of efficiency, delivering my order in quick time.
Hurriedly stowing my change in the pocket of my coat, I pivot carefully to avoid sloshing, and silently thrill at the sight of an empty black tabletop just a couple of feet away. Sliding sideways between a pair of large men waiting to add cream and sugar, I reach the table, coming face to face with another equally thrilled patron. Our faces fall, in tandem.
“Oh, that’s ok, you take it.”, I offer, turning slightly.
He hesitates just a moment before setting his cup on the black lacquered surface. I hear the rustling of fabrics as I begin a new search.
“There are three chairs…” he offers, removing his coat to drape it over the back of one of them.
I look down at them. He is right. There are three.
I raise an appreciative smile to his statement of the obvious before placing my cup across from his.
“Thank you.”
I move the chair slightly to ensure I am out of the way of those at the next table, which is only inches away and fully occupied, before sitting. My overcoat parts as I cross my legs and bend to reach into the bag I placed at my feet. I sip as I read my list, doing a mental tally of the time required to complete my day.
In my periphery, the man continues to stand and though I’m not looking at him, I am aware that he is removing something sweet and gooey from a small, white paper bag. He sits the pastry, still nestled inside it’s wax paper sheath, in the center of the table.
A tug of my dangling foot draws my attention to the fact that the heel of my shoe is entangled in a swath of brightly colored fabric fashioned into a skirt and worn by a large woman attempting to squeeze between the tables. I grab for my shoe as she turns with a frown.
“Sorry”, I mutter sheepishly.
She reaches to loosen herself, gracing me with a smile.
“Oh, that’s ok, honey. This place is a zoo!”
“Join us?” It is the man speaking.
She looks around the crowded shop for just a moment before sighing, heavily.
“Well, sure. Why not?” Removing her coat requires more space than is available and I struggle to hide my amusement as a button from her sleeve slides into another patron’s hair and, as she turns to apologize, her ample hips threaten to upset our table.
“There!” She heaves a sigh as she swallows a chair.
We sip quietly.
“It’s my birthday.” The man, again.
“Really? Well, isn’t that nice!” The woman’s voice is louder.
Three pairs of stranger’s eyes meet at the pastry-filled center of the table.
“Anyone for cake?” he asks.
My eyes meet his in surprise, before seeking hers in question.
“Just a minute, honey.” The table sways, again, as the woman maneuvers to retrieve her large handbag. “My husband used to say I carried everything but the kitchen sink in this thing. Give me a second.”
An unsuspecting passer-by catches an elbow to the back as she rifles through the bag, industriously.
“There!”, she says again as she produces a single yellow birthday candle from the morass. Reaching for her napkin, she slides it over the wax before burying the tip of the candle into his pastry.
I steal a glance at the man whose face, again, mirrors mine, with large eyes, and the slightly parted lips of wonder.
The woman slings her gaze upon both of us in one movement before laughing, merrily.
“It’s your birthday, honey! Make a wish!”
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
© Copyright 2007-2008 Stacye Carroll
Inspiration for Domestication
Noun doyenne: The senior or eldest female member of a group, especially one who is most or highly respected. A woman who is highly experienced and knowledgeable in a particular field, subject, or line of work; expert Synonym: grande dame
"Sex, Drugs and Rock and Roll from a 75 year old woman --- with some stories, life experiences and wisdom thrown in."
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Are We There Yet? 
