I thirst for it like a vampire to blood.
A quenching I ,a mortal,
chase, but cannot catch.
This yearning for more time
How it eludes me.
Taking my youth and memories.
Replacing them with arthritis
and AARP mail.
It’s lyrical silence, ticking.
A time lapse.
“Rainy days and Monday’s always get me down” was on repeat as I shut the squeaky door. My mood was as melancholy as the sky. After an all night drenching, the streets would be flooded with chaos.
Sliding my knee-high Jimmy Choo’s on the floor board, I revved the rattling Jetta. Mick Jäger screamed from the Sanyo sub woofers as a text interrupted. My heart raced as I read Paul’s words. “I’m in town for an hour. Meet me at the café at 9.”
Three years ago, when I last saw the Parisian’s hipnotic eyes, he said goodbye to me for a job in sunny California. A normal thirty minute drive, today it would be hard to negotiate without oars. However, I was intrigued.
Manhandling puddles the size of kiddy pools only added to the fluttering in my stomach. One block away and 15 minutes late, traffic halted. Abandoning my car at a meter, I floated to the café.
Arriving soaked, I scoured the cupcake-scented shop. And then, much to my chagrin, I saw him huddled over the corner booth with a strawberry blonde. My green eyes turned to pools of blue.
“Rainy days and Monday’s …” resumed play as I left unnoticed.
Write Yourself Alive Day #3. (Describe a real or imagined place that leaves an impact upon your soul.)
Coffee and wine linger so
as if used to airbrush the walls.
In this corner nook where
I spend every waking hour.
An early winter light sifts through
yellowing, ink-blotted sheets
strewn atop my grandmother’s desk.
When I sit here, I feel her hand
Outside, the pansies are laughing.
Spying me sipping
my morning addiction.
Write Yourself Alive-Day #4 (Write a short story about a painful memory or something that impacted your life).
It’s Mother’s Day and I slink, unnoticed, into the walls of this affluent café. Beverly Hills 90210. Coffee comforts me. I lean against it like a strong, supportive friend. I people watch to distract my emotions. I hear my watch tick over the din, though I don’t wear one. Five hours to go.
My stomach is double knotted from nerves and caffeine. Ironically, the reason I’m here. My son lies on a cold table in the OR across the street. A scalpel exposing his insides with a ten inch cut. Ten inches on his forty-eight inch frame. His small body bloody and swollen as a team of surgeons remove his ulcerated colon. Details a mother should never imagine or a child endure.
The coffee shop morphs into hospital walls as minutes turn into hours. My racing heartbeat echoing in the cold, quiet halls. I’m trance like when the surgeon finally appears. He has dark eyes and shadows, but looking pleased. My relief, however, becomes anguish after seeing 23 staples lining his stomach where a new belly button lies. Three years of failed treatment proving this the only “cure” for ulcerative colitis.
Machines and a morphine drip surround my son’s bed. Blinking lights all that illuminate this four by four foot room. He sleeps, as I watch his chest rise and fall. I’m upright in a chair nodding off, but jump at each beep.
Afraid to sleep. I reach for my coffee, my loyal friend. Happy Mother’s Day.
I want lemonade
I want ice cream
I want bubblegum
On my nose
I want sand
In the crevices
Not just in my toes
To be four feet tall
I want seashells
I want wind
tangled in my hair
without a care
Just for today
I want to be
8-1/2 years old.
I’m trying to put some long overdue effort on to this site. Still learning my way around here. I appreciate & encourage all comments. This child inspired this whimsical piece on my last trip to the beach.