The Game of Life

12/13/14

The last sequential date of this century

The Game of Life

For Ashley, on her 21^st birthday

I awoke to the sound of kitchen cabinets, the slight tug on the curved handle on the brass plate unsealing the Woodmode construction. It was a usual alarm clock in our home, as Ma was always busy in the kitchen in the morning. I had learned to judge the pace of the day based on the pace of the kitchen cabinets opening and closing. These were days when most mothers stayed home, so every day was a work day for Ma. But some mornings, the distinct sound of the individual cabinets reminded me in my small bed that it was Sunday. The slide of the glass door on the cabinet above the bar confirmed my suspicion: Ma was getting down the real glasses. Not the crystal that was ensconced in the china cupboard which I was certainly not allowed to open yet, not the mismatched bunch of glass and plastic cups in the cabinet near the fridge, but the real glasses. Heavy, with short, squat stems and with a textured diamond pattern that made it hard to hold in my small hands. There were at least 12 of these, all the same size, and they meant a family dinner.

Rolling over on my side, I reveled in the pace of this late-summer Sunday morning. My older sister, Debbie, slept in the twin bed on the side of the room with the window, and Sunday morning meant I could examine her 17 year old face scrubbed and polished, her hair strewn across her pillow like mine. Although we shared a room and she was my primary babysitter when my parents would go to Happy Jack’s or Steckino’s every Friday night, everything about her was a mystery to me. She had people to talk to on the phone, girlfriends who came in and out like small maelstroms, a boyfriend who was nice to me because that made her happy. She lived in a different world from me, and I loved when she stepped out of it and saw me.

I sat up in my bed and leaned against the wooden headboard, reaching for the small thick-plastic, yellow cup of water Ma always brought me before I went to sleep. My brothers were up, meaning awake but not out of bed yet. I could hear their muffled voices, and I knew without hearing distinct words what they were talking about. School. Ray would be leaving soon to return to Merrimack College where he did things even more mysterious to me than my teenage sister. Ma had his bags open in his room, placing perfectly folded tee shirts and boxer shorts in them as they came out of the laundry. Ray felt this responsibility to encourage the rest of us academically. Our oldest sister, Sue, was exempt as she had already started living her real life as an adult. Debbie had perfected her eye-roll and could shut him out without any additional movement.  I would not start school until next month. So, Johnny, at 12, bore the brunt of Ray’s advice.

Through the open window, I heard neighbors greeting each other. Mr. Perrier, undoubtedly trimming hedges in his yard, called good morning to someone walking by. Our side street did not have much traffic, perfect for playing all sorts of games and using the manhole cover as home base. Hearing a car at this time in the morning would mean a visitor, for us or for a neighbor, either situation being exotic enough to bring the women of the households to the front windows, surreptitiously pulling white sheer curtains aside to get a good look. No cars today, just people walking to church. The bells began ringing, luring the faithful from their homes to walk down our street, past my window, another block to church. It was summer, and there had been changes at our church that meant the priest no longer spoke in Latin (although I still could not understand what he was saying), and we could go to Mass on Saturday at 4 o’clock. Ma was not too fond of this idea, but it was convenient when we were going to have a family dinner on Sunday.

Going downstairs, I paused in the dining room to count plates. Sue would be coming. Since she didn’t live at home anymore, her visit demanded the dining room. Otherwise, we would eat at the bar in the kitchen, white laminate with gold and brown flecks, surrounded by tall wooden stools chipped where we pushed them in too hard against the bar. Ma would go the extra effort for Sue’s visit, opening the table and adding the panel that was kept in the coat closet, wrapped in a sheet she had stitched to make a case. Years later when I am a mother to grown children, I will reflect on these Sundays and finally realize Ma’s simple joy of having the entire family around the table. Rare. Complete. 

By the time I had come from the bathroom, Ma had been upstairs, made my bed, told everyone else it was time to get ready for the day, and lay my clothes out. She was all business about this family dinner, no time for lazing around. The morning rolled by, brothers and sister up, down, in, out, all having something to do, somewhere to be. I sat in the TV room, with Daddy. He and I apparently were the only ones who had nothing important to do, no role in this day. He sat in his chair with the Sunday paper arranged across the magazine rack on his right, his cigarette smoldering in the ashtray on his left. I sat on the floor, with two piles of Little Golden books, on my left the ones I had read, on my right the ones I hadn’t read, today. I always kept my favorites to read last: Chicken Little, then Poky Little Puppy, and last, the literary classic Three Little Kittens. I used my finger to follow the words, like Ma had taught me. I was going to start school soon, and I would be one of the few who already knew how to read, because that was part of Ma’s job. I read the words out loud, and sometimes Daddy would correct my pronunciation. I made mistakes on purpose because I loved how Daddy could instantly know the word without ever looking away from his newspaper.

At the dining room table, Daddy would sit at the head of the table, and I would get to sit immediately to his right. Ma was at the other end of the table, where it was easier to get up from her seat and refill glasses or get another fork. Family dinners meant Daddy helped me if I needed to cut my meat or reach for a heavy dish. He did this without speaking about it, never asking if I needed help. Just knowing.

After dinner, we all had our jobs. Ma would be at the sink, Debbie and Sue taking their posts with dish towels to dry each piece and put it away. Johnny and Ray would move chairs, pick crumbs from the floor, put the table back to its decorative function. I would get to shake the table cloth, carefully bundling it from the edges to the middle and carrying it to the porch where I would release it with a great flourish into the wind, always worried my small hands would drop the silky white fabric. My job was simple and easily completed. Back in the kitchen, everyone was discussing what game we would play. Playing games was not an option, it was what we did when we were together. The only question was what game. They decided on Life. Ma retreated to the parlor to rest, Dad to the TV room. They only joined the game if it was cards, or maybe Yahtzee.

I loved The Game of Life. Unlike other board games, it had dimension. Instead of dice, it had a colorful spinner with a white plastic arm to point to the number. It had money, colorful and smaller than real money. It had cards that had to be separated into decks. Best of all, it had tiny plastic cars with tiny plastic pegs for people. I loved putting those pegs in the car when I landed on the Get Married spot, or even better, deciding blue or pink when I landed on Have a Baby. Sometimes I would play this game all by myself, without the money or cards, just to spin the wheel and hear that whirring clicking noise and move the cars around the board.

I climbed onto the wooden stool where I always sat for dinner to join my brothers and sisters. Johnny looked at me dubiously, “You’re not playing, are you?” I looked to the older siblings, the voices of true authority, and realized I would not be in this game before anyone said another word. “This is a hard game, but you can be my helper,” offered Sue. “She’s not being the banker, it will take forever,” added Ray. “You’re just too little for this game, but we’ll play something with you later,” coaxed Debbie. I was out. Too young. Too little.

I returned to the TV room, where the newspaper still had Daddy’s attention. I kicked the pile of Little Golden books and threw myself on the couch. “Why aren’t you playing with your brothers and sisters,” asked Daddy, not looking up from the paper. “They don’t want me to play with them because they always treat me like a baby,” I sulked. This statement, miraculously, lowered the paper revealing Daddy’s face to me. “Well, you’re the youngest, so you are the baby.” He held my eyes with his, a smile creeping from behind and lighting his face. “You should be damn glad you’re the baby, because that’s the best in the whole family. I’m the baby in my family, you know.”

Daddy being the baby in his family was a hard concept to grasp. I knew he had lots of brothers and sisters, so many that our drives to Massachusetts to visit them would fill me with anxiety of not knowing all their names.  “The baby is always special,” he continued. “You always get to be the baby, the one everyone takes care of, the one who makes everyone happy just by being in the room.” That was true. We all took care of Daddy, and we were all happy when he was in the room.

We played cards, just Daddy and me. He taught me to play Bataille and I loved the thrill of turning the card and seeing if I had won or lost the hand. The cards were blue, and one of the jokers had Daddy’s handwriting on it, an X over the joker and a 2 of clubs in the corner. Someone had lost the 2 of clubs long ago and he had fixed it. The skin on his hands was pinkish-gray and wrinkled and spotted because he was already getting old, even though he said he was the baby, too. He had a large freckle at the base of his right thumb and I touched it. “I have freckles like this on my face,” I said. “That’s an age spot,” he laughed. “But yes, it looks like the freckles on your face.” I could hear my brothers and sisters laughing, arguing, spinning and I didn’t care. I had Daddy.

When our card game was over, Daddy suggested we take a nap, since we were both babies. He turned on the TV and lay down on the couch and I climbed up to sit on his belly, reading him a story before I lay down. I felt the texture of the couch through the back of my shirt as I lay there, trying to sleep and trying to stay awake at the same time. I didn’t want to move and wake up Daddy or our time together as babies might be over. I rubbed my cheek against his sweater, gray and not soft but somehow comforting. He smelled of tobacco and coffee and English Leather aftershave. His right arm was around me, and I tapped the age spot on his hand until I fell asleep.

-------------------------------------

Years later, I wake up in a hospital bed and wonder how long I have been asleep. It is morning, early and quiet and beautiful with the first snow of the season painting a white scene of peace over the town. One week from today will be Christmas Eve, so it’s good that it’s snowing. I’m ready for Christmas, as I knew I’d be bringing home my newborn to my three year old. Early planning was essential. Ringing for the nurse, I think about how many more Christmas seasons before I will want to complete our family with a third child. Somewhere, at some time, I became convinced that three was the magic number for children. Two was the standard, four was excessive. One was clearly out of the question.

And then I am holding my second baby. Tiny. Fragile. Alive. I am amazed at how this infant can be so tiny and still be real. We expect small with our first baby, and then we get used to a growing child, shocking us when we have our second child and return to this state of unimaginable miniature size. She will be named Ashley Anne. She takes her middle name from my brother’s wife, Anne, who helped delivered both our daughters. Her first name comes from my family name, Lafreniere, which means ash tree cutter in French. I have known her as Ashley for months now, ever since the ultrasound confirmed the secret she and I shared that she is a girl.

Ashley wakes up. She is on the bed beside me and I reach my right arm over to loosen her blanket and examine her tiny arms, hands, fingers. Her eyes are huge, and they hold me in their gaze. Her little hand clutches at the air, searching for its place and finds my right hand. Her fingers are still too tiny to grab my hand, but she moves her tiny fingers up and down at the base of my right thumb. My eyes notice for the first time the age spot that is starting to appear there. And I know. A smile creeps from the depth of my memory and lights my face. She is my youngest. She is my baby. The youngest child of a youngest child of a youngest child. She will always get the privilege of being the baby, the one we all want to take care of, the one who makes us happy just by being in the room. This tiny baby has somehow totally completed our family. My decision is made in this game of life, and this is the last, most precious peg I will put in my little plastic car. 

A Man I Know

For Bob, with love on Veterans Day 2014

There is a man I know

With secrets inside

Held since his days 

in a place I will never know

Jungle smoke rain mud 

Foreign sounds, smells

Residing inside his dreams

There is a man I know

Quiet 

Strong

Opinionated

Respected but never honored

Living his days with memories

Too deep for recovery

There is a man I know

as a brother.father.friend

With mysteries 

that will forever go unsolved

I can't know

Don't want to know

He served so I would never need to know.

The Story of Your Birth

The Story of Your Birth

For Carolyne, October 2014

Your bravery as an artist has inspired me to give new birth to my first love, writing. Thank you.

There was a time when my greatest act of rebellion was to climb out the window of my brother’s room and onto the roof of the breezeway. Here I could sit, my back against the grey siding shingles, my legs scratched by the texture of the roof. And see. Clear vision was all I wanted. I could look past the rows of small cape-style houses, beyond the expanse of the brick school crowned with the set of plaster crosses facing east-west-north-south. My view was East.

Sometimes, not often, I woke early enough to take my notebook and pencil – always sharpened, always with a cap eraser – and take my throne when the sun was just coming up over my view. The rays of the sun point out details I have never seen in the neighborhood: a broken branch in Mr. Albert’s yard, dangling dangerously over his manicured lawn, the tiny curl of a white rose just hours from a full birth on the Martin’s back fence.

I did not understand why this place, these moments were special. I knew they were mine, and mine alone. I would write, but I’m sure I have nothing on paper that remains. I would dream, but I have long lost the memory of either the source or hope of those dreams. The recurring image is of the sun, rising over this world of my childhood, whispering, not shouting. The message did not exist for me then.

Many years later, I lie in a hospital bed, my back elevated slightly, my legs searching for a cool spot on the stiffness of the institutionally bleached sheets. They have told me to sleep, advised me that sleep is now a precious commodity. I close my eyes and pretend to sleep so everyone will leave, and they do. Perhaps I doze. The sounds of pre-dawn in the hospital wash over me: nurses chatting between sips of coffee in Styrofoam Dunkin Donuts cups, a mop being swished along the tile floor, the continuous beep-beep-beep of a monitor from another room. I am awake and look immediately out the window. It is still dark outside.

It has not escaped my notice that this window faces East. I don’t know what floor this room is on, but it is above street level, affording me a view of this city, this place of my birth. I have returned here to birth my own child. Several years from now I will do all I can, pay any amount, to have a wildlife expert get rid of a skunk living under our front porch. He will explain she has had babies there, and these babies are likely to return to their birthplace when it is time for them to have their own offspring. I succumb to this story of mothers and birth, because it’s my story, too. I want my babies to know my home.

It’s strange, that it is this moment that I recall most vividly from your birth, the birth of my first child. Not the labor, not the delivery, not the shock of holding you, slippery with the wet of my own insides, your eyes still sealed shut. Not the cutting of the cord that connects us, not watching the nurses clean you, check you, turn you, twist you with hands I suddenly don’t trust. Not the moment you were enveloped in a blanket, white with a wide stripe of green and small stripe of blue, and given to your father. My husband, holding you and his new title. Father. His face so focused on you, telling me he could do this thing, would do this thing, called parenthood, without any words. But it is this moment, when everyone is gone, and I am alone, looking East that I feel the first real pull of motherhood.

I know the sun’s rays will point to this window any moment, and I am desperate to have you here. I try to close my eyes, get some sleep, but the promise of the sun keeps my eyelids from closing. I am panicked. I need you to be here, in this room, at this window with me on this first day of your life.

I am not supposed to get out of bed without a nurse. These are the days when they still keep babies in a nursery – I have no idea what you are doing, thinking, feeling. My heart is racing and I now know the irrational anxiety that will be motherhood for the rest of my life. There is a call button somewhere, where? Where? They need to bring you here – the sky is lined with pink and the faintest trace of yellow lines the horizon. My hands scramble around the bed still searching for the call button, for you, my eyes never leaving the window. The door opens and a nurse wheels in a cart with an open-topped plastic crate and I think, what are you doing? Bring me my baby! It’s time – right now – and then I realize you are here, in my arms, and the world comes back into view. We are alone, with the window, and the sun is coming up.

This is the first day of your life. This is the first day of my life as a mother, a birth for me as well as you. Now that you are bundled in my arms, I can relax. My head falls back, releasing the tension in my neck, and naturally falls to be within inches of your tiny face, topped with white hospital cap, trimmed in pink. Nothing else of you shows in this bundle, just your face, and it is enough. Any more and I would be completely overcome. The light in the room is rising with the sun but I don’t need to see it. Your presence has shown me there will always be a sunrise to share. This moment will always be ours, tucked in the recesses of our memory, a subconscious secret between the two of us.

You open your eyes. There is no shock in our eyes meeting for the first time, we have known each other forever. Exchanging our first glance is not remarkable in any form, aside from the fact that it establishes how we will always see this moment behind every look we share in the future, every time we say goodbye, every last second before we turn from each other at airports.

You move, and in that small movement, I know you will walk away from me one day very soon. I feel your back sway, your small backbone twisting, little legs stretching. One incredibly tiny foot pushes its way out of the blanket and I instinctively know to rub the bottom of it. Your skin is dry, somehow rough, not unlike the shingles on the roof of the house where I grew up. I feel your foot and know you will shed this newborn skin, your skin formed within me, and you will be uncovered for the world. I must allow this, in fact, I must help you make this happen. I want to keep you forever in my arms, and I want to uncover you for the world, all at the same time. No one can explain this great oxymoron of motherhood.

We are lost in our moment, you and I. My next recollection is that the sun is fully up, the sounds of the hospital tell us the day has officially begun for the rest of the world. Nurses changing shifts, elevator doors opening, food service aides wheeling metal carts of plastic trays with breakfast. We have not slept. We have just been. For the rest of your life, wherever you are, I know you will feel this time we had together as deeply as I do. Early in the morning, in those moments just before you or I are fully awake, I know we will both smell the bleach of the hospital sheets, see the colors of the sky, feel the touch of my hand on your foot. It is all I need, to know you and I will always have this moment, this sensation, with us. Forever. 

Falling

On Thursday, I woke up dead.

There was no particular event that signaled my death, at least not that I remember. The evening prior was like any other evening. I arrived home from work (I use the term loosely – standing behind a conveyor belt scanning the purchases of soccer moms with eyes sighted only for their children does not appear in the dictionary as a definition of any verb), warmed a Lean Cuisine, and settled in to converse with Pat and Alek. I won’t speak to Vanna; ever since I realized she is my age, I find her glamorous showgirl outfits distasteful and an actual insult to our generation. She has agreed to my imposition of silence, turning her letters without comment, and I am glad we understand each other at last. Pat, of course, ignores this silent war of the women in his life, busy listening to the shouts of these part-time visitors who frequent our space.

I’m sure it is unnecessary to explain that Alek is simply impervious to all conflicts of any nature. That’s why after our time together, I must indulge in a great book. Last week, I immersed myself in Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl. Again. Despite this third reading, I absolutely cannot understand the basic nature of the story. Girl missing, presumed dead. She’s actually just the world’s greatest bitch on a wild manipulative rampage against all the people in her life. What’s her motivation, exactly? I guess no one understands her, and that is what makes the author a genius, because, clearly the reader does not understand her either. It is a great book – I heard a soccer mom on her cellphone say so. I think any book is worth giving it the benefit of the doubt with three readings. That done, I have filed the book on the bookshelf behind the television. I arrange my books alphabetically by title, as I am not one of those people who can often remember the name of the author – and this one rests between Dubliners by Joyce and Great Expectations by Dickens. That’s good. These two needed space between them. It strikes me that I have no books on this shelf that start with F and that will be a challenge I will never fulfill, because now I’m dead.

I digress. But I suppose even dead people get off track in the afterlife. So, back to the non-event of my death. The last thing I did in life was sit in bed and read The Awakening by Kate Chopin. Is that ironic? An English teacher explained irony to me once a long time ago, and ever since then, I’m always unsure if I am using the term correctly. (I’m pretty sure my insecurity with the word may be another, much deeper form of irony.) The Awakening is a book I have read over and over – it’s not that it deserves more than three readings, it’s just that I keep thinking I must have misunderstood the final scene and perhaps if I read it again, it will change. I’m not stupid. I know the print won’t physically change, but maybe my interpretation of it will. It hasn’t. I have lost count of the times I have read this story – it’s enough times that page 127/128 has fallen out of the story, and always seems to be replaced as 128/127, so that I read that Alcee has left her before he visits her. This does not negatively affect the story experience at all, proving it is a masterpiece. I took an entire course in college on determining the qualities of good literature. Had I only known this simple proof of the flipped page back then, my professor may have recognized me as a genius.

Back to my death experience. It was simply falling asleep and not waking up. I have heard many people say that’s how they want to die, and I have always found the claim interesting. “When I die, that’s how I want to go – in my sleep!” It’s always stated as a forceful assertion, not a wish. And where are they planning to “go” exactly, in death? Isn’t that the bigger concern? It seems to me that in planning a trip of this consequence, it’s more important to focus on the destination than the method of travel. And now, speaking from experience (which is a totally new attitude for me, please understand), I can safely assert “going” in your sleep is not the best way. It seems your death should be more of an event. How will I ever distinguish this sleep from any other? If I had any control over it, I’d take a re-do and die in a fire, perhaps jumping from the roof like Bertha in Jane Eyre. That’s a story she can tell and keep people’s attention.

Anyway, on Thursday, I woke and realized I had no physical body. Well, I did, but it refused to yield to my thoughts. It stubbornly stayed beneath the sheets, legs akimbo (I could not resist using this word – I’ve always wanted a context for it), head lolled to one side, my eyes fixed on the wall opposite the alarm clock. Even this does not change in death – no one wants that blasted clock to ring in the morning. I lie with my body for several minutes, thinking this may just be a temporary paralysis, but this is different -  limbs are not responding. The light is oddly dim, not the early morning sentinel of the day, but rather a feeling like my eyes are clouded and no matter how much I blink, the film will not dissipate. Try as I might, I cannot discover the point of interest on the wall opposite the alarm clock. I have no photos, there or elsewhere, and certainly no artwork. The door is closed – the window shade is drawn. Now that it is morning, there is a strange line of light giving shape to the window shade. This anachronism must be it.

Some people live by that saying to “try, try again,” but not me. I’ve quite given up on my physical body. This statement sounds almost heroic of me, but really, I discovered I could move without it. Quite by accident, of course, as are most things of particular amazement in our lives, I drew a deep breath and hoisted myself up and out of that bed. I could not bear to look at my body laying there. Has anyone ever explained lie/lay to you? It’s a fucking nightmare of a puzzle, worse than Sudoku. I’m not sure my physical body repulsed me, but the debate in my head of lie versus lay that my dead body incited was too much to bear. I had to move away.

I wondered if it would start to smell. If there is one thing I cannot tolerate, it’s the idea that I emanate a bad odor. There have been many times in my life I have had to escape to a ladies room and sniff myself like a wounded beast, certain some malodorous vapor was seeping through my skin. I was mostly foiled in any definitive discovery, which led to further confusion. Others around me seemed to keep a distance for some reason, and I am sure I saw people of a certain age and economic background wrinkle their noses. Perhaps that is the trick behind achieving wealth and success: superior olfactory senses. The better to smell your money. In any case, my physical body, who had never done any great favors for me, was not going to suddenly start now that it was dead. Its death was most likely my fault. I could see no sign of foul play, as they say in those TV crime dramas. What would the smell matter? No one had ever been in my apartment, much less my bedroom. Okay, that’s not true. The building superintendent came in once to fix a leaking pipe. I told him I didn’t mind the small flow of water across the tiled floor, it sort of added a new feature to the apartment. He turned his bulk towards me, holding my gaze with his puffy, walrus-like face, and suggested I wait in the hall. That was awkward.

I began my day – my new life as a dead person. It was somehow freeing. Made coffee and toasted a bagel. I was anxious to see what would happen when I ate. I was hoping for The Invisible Man affect, which might teach me more about the process of digestion. You do know, of course, that I mean THE Invisible Man, the science fiction guy created by HG Wells, not Ellison’s Invisible Man. I knew the latter way too well already. (Side note: you can only imagine how these two titles played with my sense of alphabetization.) Turns out I wasn’t hungry. I sat looking at the food and coffee, admiring the smells and shapes like they were items in a museum. I never touched them once they were on the table. In my mind, there was a very thin glass case around them, potentially alarmed, and we have already discussed our mutual dislike of alarms.

What next? My memory is unclear, either because that is what happens to memory in death, or because that is what happens to memory of mundane life. I did find myself on the subway, and I am glad to say it was the best ride of my life. People literally walked into me, sat on me, grabbed the same bars as me – there was an extraordinary amount of physical touching without any apparent repulsion. It was truly fascinating. My physical senses were hyper-sensitive – I felt like I was tingling. The image of those attractive and cool vampires in the Twilight series comes to mind, how they sparkle in the sunlight, but the analogy does not carry that far. I do not, did not, and never will, sparkle. However, I felt like a holograph image of myself, there but not, blurred at the edges, leaving a mark with my movements for an infinitesimal moment. There is no other explanation for death. You’ll understand some day.

The best part of death is moving. Again, there is no real memory or explanation, you just do. I know there were crowds at my stop, there always are – I saw them, heard them, smelled them, touched them – but did not feel them. Without any effort at all, I was up the stairs and on the street, moving along with humanity, feeling more in sync with the world than I ever had. If I wanted to focus on something, it was as if my will pulled it towards me (or me towards it) with a vacuum force. Once I discovered the possibility, I was in and out of these vacuum bubbles. Walking alongside a darling child in school uniform. Stopping to admire a dog chained to the doorway of a coffee shop. Hovering above the group waiting at the crosswalk, so I could see the pattern of people, cars, people, sidewalk, people, cars, people, sidewalk. Death is somehow very empowering.

And thus we arrive at my place of employment. If there is one adjective I have heard throughout my life, it is reliable. Like a tire that every vehicle obviously needs, but no one thinks about. We are always shocked when a perceptive mechanic mentions our tires are bald. Having only died the night before, I am still on the work schedule, so I am compelled to show up. I am anxious, like before a happy surprise- excited, to see how my co-workers will react to my death. I have never spoken much with any of them, but this event certainly gives me an edge in the break room discussion. I approach the schedule to see which register I will be working, and feel someone come up behind me to do the same. Good morning, I think. My thoughts receive no response. I have no voice, and eye contact has always been out of the question. I forgot about this detail.

Neither voice nor eye contact is required to work register 7, so I should be okay. My work day goes as usual – occasional lines, annoyed people parenting more annoyed children, seniors shuffling by with sugar-free candy, co-workers discussing sports. My death has not changed me enough for anyone to notice under these fluorescent lights. They are particularly bright today – that summer noon bright when even sunglasses don’t help much. They cast a foggy cloud of yellow light everywhere, making it hard for me to see the details on people’s faces.

Stepping back outside to the real world, the fog changes to white. I can’t feel it, but I can’t see details of buildings or even my feet moving along the sidewalk, so I know it’s there. It’s alarming enough to erase the memory of my ride home. I am definitely feeling less empowered.

Glad to be back in my familiar space, I turn on only the lamp. The cast shadows help me feel less alone while I wait for Pat and Alek. I consider going in to see if my body is still there, but even I have no interest in seeing me. I notice that The Awakening is on my coffee table now, and wonder if my body has been having a nice day here at home without me. I am strangely nervous and can’t seem to find a way to relax. I decide a bath is in order.

My entire life, I have struggled with the water temperature of the bath. There is something about the heat that is absolutely enticing, but I can never immerse myself in it. Countless times I have fallen asleep on the bathroom floor, waiting for the water to cool. It strikes me that this time will be different, without the limitation of my physical body, and the thought does calm me down a bit. As the steam begins to rise from the fall of hot water, I turn towards the mirror over the sink and cannot see myself. It’s a fantastic effect: I know I’m there, but the mirror is covered in a fine film of water vapor, first blurring and then erasing my image. I let my clothes drop to the floor, in a technique I learned long ago, which prevents me from having too much physical contact with myself. The steam helps them slide right off, falling in a puddle on the tile floor. The leak appears to be back, so I shove my puddled clothes to one side to allow the water to move along the floor. It seems that if water can be persistent enough to break through a metal pipe, twice, I should allow it to have its way.

I step through the steam into the hot, hot water. As predicted, there is no scorching of skin, no need to nervously dip in and pull back repeatedly to adjust to the temperature. I immerse myself. I am fearless. Leaning my head back along the edge of the tub, I stretch my self to its full length and fill the space –shoulders wide beneath my neck, each vertebrae touching the side, then bottom of the tub, arms underwater and out alongside me, grazing the sides, feet pushing the opposite end. I imagine myself camouflaged, like a nameless reptile in an oversized tank adorned with a wild jungle theme that he obviously abhors. We assume camouflage is a natural skill, but I believe it’s a learned behavior in response to humans only. I close my eyes to deepen the camouflage effect, and get that sensation of sinking that is the moment before deep sleep. I feel my self slipping into this total relaxation, body shrinking in the space so that my head is being pulled down the edge. My hair acts as an anchor, slowly pulling my head underwater. I feel the water lap my ears, like tiny waves on a remote beach. My eyes open suddenly, panicked to see the larger world. My window shade is drawn, and I note that the odd yellow light is still seeping in along the tiny space between shade and window pane. That consistency reassures me and I let my eyelids fall back in place, covering my own windows. I wonder if the building superintendent will see a light emanating from the edges of my eyelids, and what color it will be. I’d like to believe it might be the blazing orange I associate with Bertha, but it’s much more likely it will be the soft yellow of the Louisiana waterways. I no longer feel the line between water and face. I am floating. Sinking.

Falling. 

You

You
Are a wonderful person
In
This world of cynics
Keep
...Your strength, your soul
Love
Your Self
as you deserve
Love
Your Self
Fully - Freely - Forever
As we love you.

11/10

Passing of Time

Passing of Time

In and out, she passes by me

Off to school, to the game, to dance

Someone new, not quite sure

Just passing the idea to her friends

After class, she passes by him

A glance, a smile, an attraction

Just for fun, a flirtation

Passing notes in study hall

It begins, they pass their nerves

With friends, alone, a couple

Now he’s special, they’re in love

hearts are passing limits

In and out, she passes by me

Pure joy, in love, in life

Come and meet him, welcome him

Family members passing judgment

In and out, he passes by me

Family dinners, movies, games

Now he’s my family, trusted

The passing of time reveals

It ends. Love passes by.

The pain, in love, in life

Photos come down, forget him

Passing as strangers.