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…

On My Own

Her hair was young.

Her face was not.

Her eyes, behind glasses, were quick.

Her hips were wide.

Her smile was not.

Her hand, on your collar, familiar.

I watch as you see her;

the tousled hair, and past the glass, the eyes,

which though focused on mine, fill yours with a light I barely remember.

And I know what I might never have guessed…

on my own.

Sharing Joy

It’s funny how you get used to things….

waking to a full pot of coffee,

the greeting sound of pounding paws on the other side of the door,

lavender scented steam rising from a bath,

the sound of your voice,

and, the rumble in your laughter,

sharing joy.

Driving Home

“Did you get it, yet? I checked, and it’s shipped. I really wanted you to have it by your birthday. I’m sorry it’s going to come after….”

The last word swung back and forth along the invisible line connecting their cell phones. She saw it getting larger, and then smaller, hurriedly rushing at her with the force of resignation, before dancing away in a pathetically hopeful soft-shoe. Her birthday was still three days away. “After” no longer meant just her birthday.

She smiled before she spoke, knowing it would sweeten her tone.

“Don’t worry about it.” She chuckled softly as much for her own encouragement as to ease his angst. “It will come, and I’ll love it. I know I will.” The blinders she’d donned earlier in the day, when he’d called to tell her the news, remained firmly in place as she trained her eyes on a colorless traffic light. Every word, every action, required a decision and focus. And though her car sat motionless for several minutes, she maintained a 10-and-2 death grip on the steering wheel. She only breathed when she had to.

Even before he spoke, she knew he was crying, again.

“I don’t know what’s gonna happen…”, he began.

She interrupted with resolution.

“Yes, you do. You know what’s going to happen, because it’s the only thing that can happen. We’ve talked about this.” She stopped to breathe and drew in the dust of her words. “From the very beginning we’ve talked about this. There’s nothing to think about.”

“Ok…” The second syllable rode the wave of a sob he couldn’t contain. Both were quiet while he tried harder. The cars around her began to move, and she moved with them.

“Ok..” This time he whispered the offending syllable and control powered the rest of his speech. “…but know this. I will never forget your birthday. Every year, on your birthday, you will hear from me.” The long “e” stretched longer on the end of a quiver. He cleared his throat, and she imagined him sitting taller in his leather office chair. The car in front of her slowed, forcing her to shift her feet.

“I promise.”

The words echoed between them, reminding her of all the promises he had to keep. He lived with a woman he’d promised to love and cherish until he died, and children, whose care was promised by their creation. She pictured him wearing a promise fashioned of cloth under one of his sensible suits as he offered an easy smile of welcome to those who would follow in his church-sanctioned footsteps.

Night had fallen while he spoke, and as she eased the car to a stop under another albino traffic light she tried to imagine him alone, unaccompanied by his promises. She thought she heard him sniff as he finally swam into view wearing a gaily colored madras shirt; the kind a family man wears on vacation…because that’s all he would ever be.

“Don’t do that.” Though spoken softly, her words rebuked argument. “Don’t make a promise you won’t keep…because you won’t…because you can’t…because promises mean everything to you.”

A whispered “I love you” caressed her ear as she made the final turn towards home.

“Promise.”

Sludge

I feel you, before I see you.

The light fades.
A heaviness permeates the air around me, too thick to breathe.
Anxiety ignites inside my soul.
You cast a long shadow,
as I begin to count minutes.

It takes hours,
and sometimes days,
to free myself of the black ooze with which you encase yourself;
the vileness that you fling, violently,
this way and that,
without conscience,
void of awareness,
despite my pleas.
You are deafened, by your own pain.

And, I slide.
No matter, the reinforcements,
the oft-repeated self-recriminations,
the desperate vows.
I slide into your abyss until I am covered by your noxious goo;
blinding,
binding,
bleeding,
burning,
brightly.

I boil over,
adding my excrement to yours,
until all exits are blocked;
spoiled by our filth.

And, all I can think of is getting out.

Eleven

“Mom?” About three feet behind me, he begins to trot, in an effort to catch up. The movement, in the corner of my eye, reminds me of so many seasons of football and the characteristic way he exits the field.
“Mom, you’re lucky you’re a girl, you know that, right?” Extra effort pillows his words in gusty breaths.
“Well, I think so.” I turn and smile at him as he reaches my side.
“You want to know why?” He puffs, as we climb the cement incline leading to the book store.
“Why?” I stow my keys and check for my wallet.
“’Cause at school? All the girls have like lots of presents and stuff. I mean, they open their lockers, and there’s just all this STUFF in there, and they’re always giving each other presents, and guys just don’t do that, you know?” The extra effort required to breathe doesn’t slow his characteristically swift speech pattern.
We reach the door, which he hurries to open.
“Yeah.” I answer thoughtfully. “Yeah, I guess you’re right. Come to think of it, guys don’t really give each other a lot of presents do they?”
“So see?”
He pushes his point home, as a coffee table book featuring a shiny, red, vintage car catches his attention.
“You’re lucky you’re a girl.”
The last word disappears between the pages.

“Mom?”
I insert one finger into the loamy soil supporting a prized cactus before lifting the watering can.
“Yes?” I watch the pot fill.
“Would you still love me if I was gay?”
I remember to take a breath, before continuing my perusal of the plant.
“Sure, honey. You know, there’s nothing you could do that would change the way I love you.”
“What if I was?”
I breathe again, lower the can, and turn.
“What if you were?”
“I mean…how would I know?” He watches his feet as he shuffles them against indoor/outdoor carpeting.
“Well, it’s a little early….” I clear my throat before continuing in my best educational voice.
“You know, I believe that a gay person is born gay. Gay is not something you become; it is something you are.”
I pause, hoping for absorption.
“It’s like having brown hair, or blue eyes. You don’t choose it; you ARE it. Does that make sense?”
“Yes.” He draws the word out.
“Would you wonder if I would love you if you had blonde hair?” I search his face for his eyes, which he finally turns to me.
“No.” The word is quiet.
“It’s the same thing.”
We both breathe.
“And, its way too early for you to worry about that now, you know.” I force casualness into my words as I move to refill the watering can.
“Yeah.” Relief adds color to his words and a spring to his step. “I’m gonna go shoot hoops.”

“I didn’t have a great day.” I hear his feet as they crunch against the pavement.
“Oh? I’m sorry. You’re feeling bad?” I walk to the lobby to better our connection, and my chances for privacy.
“This guy kinda picked on me today. See? We were at the lockers, and, he was like saying all these racist things, like calling me “white boy”, and he like shoved me against the locker, and I was like “Stop!”, but he just kept on. I mean, it didn’t really hurt.”
“Well, it kinda hurt. And, these black girls where there, and, they were like laughing. And then he was like hitting my face. I mean, not really hitting, you know. Just kinda like punching at my face. And, I could feel it turning red. And, I was like “Stop!”. And, everybody thought I was like embarrassed, but I was just really wanting to hit him, but I knew if I did I would get in trouble, and you would be disappointed, so, yeah…I didn’t hit him.”
A canine welcome played in the background as he entered the house, and I pictured his face; lowered, with bright spots of color in his cheeks.
“Did you tell the teacher?” I asked, hopefully.
“No.”
His book-bag hit the floor with a crash, unsettling a kitchen chair. “She wouldn’t DO anything.” Dejection flowed over his words.
“But, you have to tell her, Shane.” I pause, deciding to take the conversation outside. “If you don’t tell her, I can’t do anything. Because if I go to her, and tell her about this, her first response will be, “Well, he didn’t say anything to me.”. Do you get that?”
“Yes.” He says the word, but doesn’t feel it.
“So, you have to tell her.”
“It won’t do any good, Mom…It’s ok. He didn’t hurt me.”
The sound of hinges squeaking tells me he is at the back door.
He fills my pause.
“Well, it kinda hurts; just where his knuckle hit my chin.”
I picture his hand rubbing the spot.

A pure, white-hot flame of injustice combusts in my chest, as I listen to my child relate a story of racism perpetrated against a child who has never seen color; who, until the age of nine, referred to all African-American people as brown; because they were. My mind fills with all the things I would say to his perpetrator were I to run into him on the street. I picture my hand on his collar, and the look of terror in his pre-pubescent face. I feel the satisfaction of eliciting fear; before I stop.

There are so many things I want to tell him….starting with;
“You’re not alone…Look around! Everyone you see feels just like you, at least some of the time. It’s who you are! It’s where you are supposed to be!”
“And, it is temporary.”
“One day, you’ll wake up, and you’ll feel like a person, again. I know you don’t believe this, but I promise; it WILL happen.”
“I’ve been there, and I got through it. I raised three before you. They all got through it. We all do!”
“You are an amazingly intelligent, outrageously witty, deeply thinking, strikingly handsome boy! You have everything going for you, and the only thing stopping you, is you.”
“And…when you feel like you can’t go on. When it’s too much…when there’s no way out…when you feel bad, and you just want to cry…”
“You can. You can cry. Its okay to cry. Go to your room and cry; and when you’re done, it’ll be better; maybe not right away, but it will. It will be better.”

And, I do. Clothed only in flannel pants, left-over shower droplets dot his shoulders as he lays, prone, upon the bed. Both arms crunch the pillow under his head as he watches the words flow from my mouth.
And, as I speak, a trace of a smile dances across the corners of his mouth before he remembers to hide it.
And, as we close, I move into the next room with his warning ringing in my ears.
“Ok…” Laughter tinges both syllables. “I’ll try it, but I’m telling you…if it doesn’t work….”

Diamond Cutter

Wedging herself onto the end of a thickly shellacked wooden bench, she sat amongst a group of waiters. Music pumped from strategically placed speakers over her head, as she placed her feet out of range of the oblivious, polo-shirted man standing with his back to her. He laughed, gesturing with his drink, to the delight of his date.

She leaned forward slightly, at the approach of a car, straining to take measure of its occupant. An older man, and the woman riding the passenger seat, meant nothing to her.

Oppressive July heat fell in droplets around her, pasting her carefully chosen cotton tee-shirt to her body. She stretched it towards the laughing man in hopes of a stray, drying breeze.

A garbled voice, calling names, replaced the music. An elderly couple beside her took their cue, barely escaping the flying elbow of the ebullient man. His date’s face quickly flashed from flirtatious delight to horror. Harnessing his elbows, she pulled him forward.

And the music ensued. A family of five occupied the opposite bench. Mother, her face colored by a mixture of fatigue and gratitude, jostled her youngest to distraction, while Father palmed a beer, protectively.

Several sets of legs to her left, parted, revealing him.

She hadn’t seen as much as a picture, but she knew.

His face split, revealing a set of uneven, but well-cared for teeth. The collar of his pastel- hued shirt parted graciously, admitting jet black curls. There was a shine to his hair.

He squeezed his generous frame into the space beside her, leaning against the wall before expelling the air he’d been holding.

“Hey…” The word came on the breath of his sigh, and around a grin that would remain, throughout the evening.

The speakers crackled, again, as his name was called and he took her hand. The niceties had finished.

Months of practice fueled their conversation. She studied the way his generous hand wrapped around a steak knife, and, as he chewed with upturned lips, she marveled at his pleasure.

He paid with plastic as she considered her options.

The interior of his truck spoke to her. She flashed on that first drive with her father. She felt the plastic knob of a gear shift in her hand as she maneuvered the weather-beaten Ford F-150 out of the parking lot, and onto the roadway; setting it up on two wheels. And, her father; his white-knuckled hands gripping cracked vinyl, as he screamed…

“You made me pee my pants!”

Their first uncomfortable silence came as he settled himself against the nylon-covered bench seat. Questions, she was hesitant to answer, hung in the air, buoyed by vibrations emitted from a factory-installed radio. Windows were lowered, and she re-adjusted her shirt.

She felt him before she saw him. He face hovered above hers, eager to deliver what would be the first of many sloppy, wet kisses which would improve with translation, over time. The cadence of his garlic-tinged breath filled the air around them, and, her decision was made, as his hands grasped the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head before the slammming of a nearby car door reminded her they were still in the parking lot.

Time and circumstance placed them together, allowing them every other weekend. For two years, at no small expense, he rented the same set of rooms in a local concrete-encased block of suites. Lamp-light reflected off chrome appliances in the tiny kitchenette; spawning in her, domestic fantasies.

Sated fatigue colored his voice as he drew up the sheet, turning his back.

“There’s something in your drawer…”

Delight propelled her from the bed. A curled hand carried the sheet with her.

He hadn’t bothered to wrap it, and it didn’t matter. Two pewter-toned Tahitian pearls sat, ensconced in tiny diamonds, at either end of a platinum ring which slid easily about her wrist. She raised her arm; twisting the facets in admiration.

And, he began to jump. Both hands clutched the polyester-infiltrated fabric surrounding her, as 200+ pounds pummeled a well-used mattress. She watched, integrating the juvenile glee on his Sicilian-hued face with the incongruously violent swing of his penis. Nothing in her experience could make this right.

Roses arrived. Mounds of them, in varying colors, filled vases on tables throughout her home, only to be replaced by fresh bouquets the next day.

And jewelry; rubies protected by diamonds, and a pendant supporting a single, large, perfect stone.

They talked, hesitant to disturb the stillness of a southern spring night, while she fingered his gift. And, as he lifted her hair to cinch the clasp, he assured her…”No strings…”

He hadn’t tried to hide. As they approached her driveway, his Toyota sat, valiantly, next to her Ford. She whispered her “Goodnight”, before stumbling into the darkened living room.

Straining, she recognized his form, filling the center of her second-hand sofa. Neither spoke. She straddled him, and weeks later, he would invoke the scent of the other man. But, for now…tonight, it didn’t matter.

“I could’ve bought a bedroom suite for my daughter with that money!”

Rubies, and diamonds, and dreams, crunched against concrete under her running shoes before she turned, and mounting the steps, jogged to the door; closing it behind her.

Washed Ashore

Born into a family of blondes, she stood, proud and straight against a hand-drawn measuring stick on the wall. Chestnut ringlets danced about a face punctuated by chocolate brown eyes mirroring the mischievousness in her smile.

I fell in love at first sight.

I was an adult before I realized how alike we were; how her path had intersected mine too many times, and how those shared experiences had built a bond of belonging.

She was rebellious.

She liked bad boys.

She led with her heart.

Life, age, children, and too many days spent on uncharted waters brought both us to shore, in different places.

And, I miss her.

Walk Away

His head, ensconced as it was, inside his man’s hands, gleamed, inviting her to study its irregular surface, an assortment of irregularly shaped freckles, and a day’s growth. She remembered how it felt; and his scent.

“I don’t get it.” He shuffled his running shoes. “I just don’t get it.”

“Of course you do!” She leaned across the table, stretching her arms the width.

“It’s just so much bullshit…”

He straightened and reached for a cigarette, keeping his eyes lowered.

“Then walk away….just walk away!”

“How do you do that? Walk away…” He paused to suck on his cigarette. “How do you just walk away?”

And then, “I wish I was more like you…”

The words swam between them.

She felt them on her eyes, before she stood,

and, walked away.

Between the Pains…

When does it get better?

Does it stop?

Am I destined to a life of glimpses?

Do you care?