I met Delia at work many years ago. She was a tiny, dark haired woman with a bubbly personality and a red hot temper if you crossed her. We liked each other immediately and in time became more like sisters than friends.
Delia came from Cuba when she was little more than a teenager. Sent ahead by her parents to find a job and a place to live she was scared to death but very determined. She frequently boasted of the fact that she had no accent. Oh! She had a very pronounced accent! I loved her malapropisms. “Jet lash” instead of “jet lag” and “like a bull in a Chinese shop” were two of my favorites.
Delia and I spent hours talking about Che, Fidel, Ghandi, Martin Luther King Jr. and Jesse Jackson. We talked about our childhoods. She told me of Havana Vieja, El Malecon and El Morro Fortress. She described the courtyard of her childhood home, the synagogue next door and the laundry that flapped from balconies in the hot sun. I told her about the house I grew up in, the mighty Chattahoochee and rainy summer days in Georgia.
I learned to speak Spanish with a Cuban dialect from Delia. She often thought it was funny to tell me the wrong word and stand back and watch. I once told a woman from Nicaragua that her “chango” was cute. She was furious that I had called her baby a monkey.
Delia loved to cook and I loved to eat. She made me arroz con pollo (chicken and rice) fried platanos (bananas) and my all time favorite, fried yucca. She tried to teach me to cook. We giggled at the inedible creations I turned out and in time she gave up the cooking lessons.
I once rode with Delia to the eye doctor to pick up her new glasses. She blatantly ran a red light. I clutched the seat and squeaked, “Delia! That was a red light.”
“I didn’t see it,” she said. “I’m legally blind without my glasses. Sit back, relax and don’t worry. I won’t kill you! But just in case, say ‘Pio!’ You don’t want to die without a pio.” (peep)
A quiet week day afternoon found us alone in the sanctuary of Our Lady of Las Vegas church, looking for a statue of “La Virgen de la Caridad del Cobre"
… "Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre, the patroness of Cuba. Delia loved her and wanted me to see her. As we searched toward the front a priest came from seemingly nowhere, moving quietly in his sock feet. “May I help you?” he whispered.
“Where is El Cobre?” asked Delia.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The statue of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre,” she replied.
“We do not have one in this church. We have a lovely bas relief of Our Lady of Lourdes in the apse.”
“Bas relief? You don’t have a statue of Our Lady of Charity of El Cobre? You don’t have a statue of ANY of the saints?” Okay. She was a little loud but she got that way sometimes and there was no one there but the three of us.
The priest pointed furiously at the door.
“Get… Out … Of … My … Church!” he hissed through clenched teeth.
We collapsed in the car in the parking lot, laughing and gasping for breath.
“I wonder what was wrong with him,” Delia said.
We went to the closest botanica and bought a statue. She is lovely, soft blue, carrying her child and floating above a small boat with three men in it. She stands in my house today along with yellow sea shells and a green scapular that a friend gave Delia when she had melanoma some forty years ago.
I don’t really know what happened. A few years ago some small, inconsequential (and they are all small and inconsequential) annoyance came between us. She didn’t call me and I didn’t call her. The annoyance fed on itself and we both became proud and in time we lost touch.
There were days when I thought to call her and didn’t, times when I remembered the love we had for each other and wondered if she missed me as I missed her. I missed her but I was stubborn and fearful of rejection.
Last week a mutual friend called. I knew the moment she said, “I have sad news,” that she was calling about Delia. “She had cancer again,” she said. “She was only sick about three weeks and she left us today.
I am left with the statue, some pictures, and a hole in my heart where Delia used to be. I always thought I would see her again. I always thought we would talk and laugh and eat yucca again. But for pride and fear of rejection, we might have. I will never know.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
for Martie
In May of 2006 I wrote this for my friend Martie. I had not yet met her but knew her only through her poetry.
Calico Basin
in the evening
setting sun turns the ruby hills
afire
a young breeze plays fast and loose with
buffalo grass
and Mormon tea turns its pale yellow flowers
shyly
from the glory of the
the red Indian paint brush
cliff dwelling swallows
swoop low in glee
playing catch me if you can
with the cats claw acacia
jack rabbit on his way to bed
turns for one last look at the day
deep purple cactus flowers
close in sleep
blue night slides over canyon walls
and lays comfort on the silent desert
Calico Basin
in the evening
setting sun turns the ruby hills
afire
a young breeze plays fast and loose with
buffalo grass
and Mormon tea turns its pale yellow flowers
shyly
from the glory of the
the red Indian paint brush
cliff dwelling swallows
swoop low in glee
playing catch me if you can
with the cats claw acacia
jack rabbit on his way to bed
turns for one last look at the day
deep purple cactus flowers
close in sleep
blue night slides over canyon walls
and lays comfort on the silent desert
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Fiona and the boys...
Fiona and the boys…
I had lunch with friends at Einstein’s Bagel today. We were crunching on everything bagels and discussing the state of the world when Fiona and the boys came in. Everything kind of stops when Fiona and the boys come in. Fiona is a lovely woman, about 25 and she pushes the boys in a triple stroller. The boys smile and wave to the customers. It’s obvious they know they are loved and admired. Brendan and Owen are 3 year old blond, blue eyed twins and Colin is a dark haired, dimpled two year old.
Fiona pushes the boys almost 2 miles for their Saturday treat. She takes them out of the stroller and puts small containers of different foods in front of them, then goes to order her own bagel and milk for the boys. They wait patiently while she opens their milk. No shoving, complaining or screeching for Fiona’s boys. No fits or tantrums when the world doesn’t go their way. The boys talk while they eat and Fiona joins them. Occasionally there’s a “Thank you for sharing with your brother” or a “Please put your milk down and eat” and Fiona’s boys do as their mother asks. If you listen you will discover why they are so well behaved. Fiona treats her boys with love and respect.
When they have finished eating the boys hop down from the table and begin to “tidy up.” They put their trash in the trash can and sweep the crumbs from the table with one hand into the other. They think it’s great fun. Customers stop by the table to chat with the boys and Fiona. The boys are happy to answer, “What’s your name?” and “How old are you?” and Fiona gets the inevitable, “Are they triplets?” She is gracious and soft spoken with an Irish accent as she explains that Brendan and Owen are twins and Colin is a year younger.
After the table is tidied and all the questions are answered and the boys are sufficiently admired and praised by those sitting around them Fiona says, “Shall we get back in the buggy?” The boys hop back in and wait to be buckled and with big smiles they wave and call, “Bye” as Fiona begins the walk back home.
Today someone called out, “I’ll bet their dad is proud of them” and Fiona answered, “Yes! Good bye now!”
But a few of us know the truth. About a year ago, when Colin was not quite a year old, Fiona’s husband decided that he didn’t want children and he left the family. He no longer sees his children and they have simply forgotten him. He does support the boys but Fiona is left with their care and no family in town. She is grateful for her friends who help by caring for the boys while she works and she tries to remain cheerful for her children. She says she stopped crying a couple of months ago and focuses only on her boys. I am not making a judgment about her ex husband; I have no idea why he no longer wanted his children, but I am making a judgment about Fiona. I think she’s one heck of a mother and human being.
I had lunch with friends at Einstein’s Bagel today. We were crunching on everything bagels and discussing the state of the world when Fiona and the boys came in. Everything kind of stops when Fiona and the boys come in. Fiona is a lovely woman, about 25 and she pushes the boys in a triple stroller. The boys smile and wave to the customers. It’s obvious they know they are loved and admired. Brendan and Owen are 3 year old blond, blue eyed twins and Colin is a dark haired, dimpled two year old.
Fiona pushes the boys almost 2 miles for their Saturday treat. She takes them out of the stroller and puts small containers of different foods in front of them, then goes to order her own bagel and milk for the boys. They wait patiently while she opens their milk. No shoving, complaining or screeching for Fiona’s boys. No fits or tantrums when the world doesn’t go their way. The boys talk while they eat and Fiona joins them. Occasionally there’s a “Thank you for sharing with your brother” or a “Please put your milk down and eat” and Fiona’s boys do as their mother asks. If you listen you will discover why they are so well behaved. Fiona treats her boys with love and respect.
When they have finished eating the boys hop down from the table and begin to “tidy up.” They put their trash in the trash can and sweep the crumbs from the table with one hand into the other. They think it’s great fun. Customers stop by the table to chat with the boys and Fiona. The boys are happy to answer, “What’s your name?” and “How old are you?” and Fiona gets the inevitable, “Are they triplets?” She is gracious and soft spoken with an Irish accent as she explains that Brendan and Owen are twins and Colin is a year younger.
After the table is tidied and all the questions are answered and the boys are sufficiently admired and praised by those sitting around them Fiona says, “Shall we get back in the buggy?” The boys hop back in and wait to be buckled and with big smiles they wave and call, “Bye” as Fiona begins the walk back home.
Today someone called out, “I’ll bet their dad is proud of them” and Fiona answered, “Yes! Good bye now!”
But a few of us know the truth. About a year ago, when Colin was not quite a year old, Fiona’s husband decided that he didn’t want children and he left the family. He no longer sees his children and they have simply forgotten him. He does support the boys but Fiona is left with their care and no family in town. She is grateful for her friends who help by caring for the boys while she works and she tries to remain cheerful for her children. She says she stopped crying a couple of months ago and focuses only on her boys. I am not making a judgment about her ex husband; I have no idea why he no longer wanted his children, but I am making a judgment about Fiona. I think she’s one heck of a mother and human being.
Friday, December 31, 2010
akimbo
for my friend, Billie Jean James
I see you standing akimbo
astride the desert warp
in red gladiola
stemmed with black boots
your head turns
to the sound of pain
borrow pit
neap tide
leafing tree
I see you
on the first quarter of the moon
riding a flow of words
drifting
gone
and still here
do not wrap that old robe about yourself
and leave us
once we dreamed on paper
swept up in a word dance
you carried us with you
under your red beach umbrella
do not leave us
I see you
gone
and still here
Billie Jean was a poet, teacher, environmentalist, feminist, activist and one of the most energetic people I have ever known.
I see you standing akimbo
astride the desert warp
in red gladiola
stemmed with black boots
your head turns
to the sound of pain
borrow pit
neap tide
leafing tree
I see you
on the first quarter of the moon
riding a flow of words
drifting
gone
and still here
do not wrap that old robe about yourself
and leave us
once we dreamed on paper
swept up in a word dance
you carried us with you
under your red beach umbrella
do not leave us
I see you
gone
and still here
Billie Jean was a poet, teacher, environmentalist, feminist, activist and one of the most energetic people I have ever known.
Monday, December 27, 2010
bad juju
The day we arrived in Hawaii, Rudy’s son, Jeff took us to the beach by his house. We watched the surfers, met Charley Woofer, the famous Great Dane and I took loads of pictures. As we wandered along the beach, Jeff said, “One thing to remember in Hawaii. Don’t pick up anything from the beach… no rocks, no shells, nothing. It’s bad juju.” Rudy and I looked at each other and I could see it in his eyes! His rebellious streak was showing. He restrained himself and didn’t pick anything up. Well, at least, not then.
On Wednesday, Jeff and Sarah took us to the lava fields to watch the sun set on the beach. I noticed Rudy bending over and I watched him as he picked up a small, black piece of rock. I flashed him my best “no no no look” and he flashed me his best devilish smile.
The next morning Rudy and I drove to the hotel on the other side of the island where we spent the last three days. It was glorious. We wandered around Lahaina, exploring shops, beaches and restaurants. We saw hula dancers, birds, geckos, fish and adorable children everywhere. We talked to Hawaiian natives and tourists from all over the world. We went to a luau of course. On the way home from the luau we were waiting at the elevator talking to a young couple with a one month old baby who was clearly finished with Hawaii and registering his complaint. Rudy and I stood back and let the frazzled parents get on first. I followed. Slam! The door closed on me, bruising my right arm and wrist and knocking my skull from one side to the other. I saw stars, literally. I staggered for a while and my poor husband kept asking, “Are you sure you’re okay?” I wasn’t sure but I soldiered on.
Next morning we were eating breakfast and the room began to move. I looked at Rudy; he looked at me. “Earthquake?” I whispered. He nodded. I was glad. I thought it was damage to my brain from the elevator. It was only a 3.8 earthquake but it was an earthquake! That was also the day Rudy dead bolted our hotel room door from the inside and we had to wait while three housekeepers and a security man unlocked it.
On Sunday we flew from Maui to Honolulu happy and tired and talking about the “next time in Hawaii.” It was raining in Honolulu and as we were getting off the plane I noticed our luggage sitting on the tarmac. I said, “Look Rudy! Our luggage.”
In Honolulu we had a 3 hour layover. We ate, chatted, I drank Starbucks eggnog latte and the time crept up on four hours. The airline official said there were a few small technical problems with the plane’s lights and we would be late departing. Lights? They expected us to believe it was something wrong with the lights? Finally we boarded. The lights looked perfectly fine to me.
About an hour into the flight the attendant made an announcement. “If you are feeling ill please let us know right away. Is there a doctor or EMT on board?” A doctor or EMT? There was a doctor and he joined the attendants in the galley where they were caring for a man who was not feeling well. Not feeling well with WHAT? Several people around us quickly donned masks. We had no masks! Who thinks to take masks to Hawaii? Apparently several people around us. The doctor stayed with the man for the rest of the flight.
We arrived home about 11 pm. It was pouring rain and cold. Rudy grabbed two of our suitcases off the carousel right away. They were easy to recognize from the bright yellow bandannas I had tied on the handles. Then we waited while all manner of luggage rolled past but no more yellow bandannas. At midnight the carousel was empty and we were a suitcase short.
The nice lady from baggage claim said, “Come with me.” She was pulling two suitcases someone had obviously not claimed. I wondered why. Didn’t they recognize their own luggage? We followed her to her office where she asked for our baggage claims.
“Mr. Stolz,” she said, “you are in luck! This is your luggage.” She handed Rudy one of the bags she had been dragging. The bandanna had come off. “Now will you need a taxi?”
“No, we are parked in self parking.”
“Oh my! I think all the buses stop at 1 am. It was quarter to 1.
The one bus driver at the curb said he was not going to self parking. Tired, bedraggled, soaking wet and frazzled, we stood and looked at him. “Okay! Okay!” ” he said. “Get on!” I had the distinct feeling we weren’t really welcome on his bus. There was one other lady on the bus, bundled against the cold. As the bus lurched away from the curb two of our heavy suitcases slid off the rack and smacked into her left leg. I could see big problems in our future. “Naw, I’m all right,” she said, as we dragged the bags off her. We dropped her at the employee’s parking lot and circled the airport, happily on our way to self parking.
“So where’d you park?” asked the driver.
I looked at Rudy and he looked at me. “Rudy, it’s been 8 days! I was hit in the head by an elevator, remember?”
“You don’t know where you parked? Where’s your ticket?” barked the driver.
“In the car,” said Rudy. I had to laugh. I just had to.
I remembered we had parked by a pick up point and row by row the bus driver searched the parking lot. “Here?”
“Not here.”
“Here?”
“Not here.”
Suddenly it was right in front of us. “There!” I said.
The bus driver grabbed our luggage and threw it in the trunk. I honestly think he was happy to get rid of us.
At home we unloaded the luggage and took it all in the house. We were extremely surprised when we discovered the luggage and all the contents were soaked! Soaked! And then I remembered they had been sitting on the tarmac in Honolulu in the rain. As I began to unpack I found a small black rock in Rudy’s overnight bag. I waved it at him! “Bad juju!”
“You don’t really believe that do you?”
“Of course I don’t. I am a reasonable woman. I am not superstitious.” But still… I put his small black rock on his book shelf.
The rest of the story is simple. I went to the hospital December 23 and was released about 7 pm Christmas Eve. Christmas went well except I took lots of pictures and then pushed the wrong button and zip… I lost them all! All! And of course we lost our major gift for granddaughter, JoJo and my daughter lost a gift she had bought for Rudy but that wasn’t such a big deal. Strange, but not a big deal.
But tonight Rudy is at work and I stuck a small load of laundry in the washer. I was on the sofa, reading when I heard it! Kerflunk, kerflunk, kerflunk. It sounded as if the clothes were kind of off loaded in the washer. Wrong! I listened as the washer moaned, whimpered and… died!
I am currently tearing through closets looking for a box the size of a small black rock! It should be back in Hawaii in a couple days and Rudy will never miss it. .
On Wednesday, Jeff and Sarah took us to the lava fields to watch the sun set on the beach. I noticed Rudy bending over and I watched him as he picked up a small, black piece of rock. I flashed him my best “no no no look” and he flashed me his best devilish smile.
The next morning Rudy and I drove to the hotel on the other side of the island where we spent the last three days. It was glorious. We wandered around Lahaina, exploring shops, beaches and restaurants. We saw hula dancers, birds, geckos, fish and adorable children everywhere. We talked to Hawaiian natives and tourists from all over the world. We went to a luau of course. On the way home from the luau we were waiting at the elevator talking to a young couple with a one month old baby who was clearly finished with Hawaii and registering his complaint. Rudy and I stood back and let the frazzled parents get on first. I followed. Slam! The door closed on me, bruising my right arm and wrist and knocking my skull from one side to the other. I saw stars, literally. I staggered for a while and my poor husband kept asking, “Are you sure you’re okay?” I wasn’t sure but I soldiered on.
Next morning we were eating breakfast and the room began to move. I looked at Rudy; he looked at me. “Earthquake?” I whispered. He nodded. I was glad. I thought it was damage to my brain from the elevator. It was only a 3.8 earthquake but it was an earthquake! That was also the day Rudy dead bolted our hotel room door from the inside and we had to wait while three housekeepers and a security man unlocked it.
On Sunday we flew from Maui to Honolulu happy and tired and talking about the “next time in Hawaii.” It was raining in Honolulu and as we were getting off the plane I noticed our luggage sitting on the tarmac. I said, “Look Rudy! Our luggage.”
In Honolulu we had a 3 hour layover. We ate, chatted, I drank Starbucks eggnog latte and the time crept up on four hours. The airline official said there were a few small technical problems with the plane’s lights and we would be late departing. Lights? They expected us to believe it was something wrong with the lights? Finally we boarded. The lights looked perfectly fine to me.
About an hour into the flight the attendant made an announcement. “If you are feeling ill please let us know right away. Is there a doctor or EMT on board?” A doctor or EMT? There was a doctor and he joined the attendants in the galley where they were caring for a man who was not feeling well. Not feeling well with WHAT? Several people around us quickly donned masks. We had no masks! Who thinks to take masks to Hawaii? Apparently several people around us. The doctor stayed with the man for the rest of the flight.
We arrived home about 11 pm. It was pouring rain and cold. Rudy grabbed two of our suitcases off the carousel right away. They were easy to recognize from the bright yellow bandannas I had tied on the handles. Then we waited while all manner of luggage rolled past but no more yellow bandannas. At midnight the carousel was empty and we were a suitcase short.
The nice lady from baggage claim said, “Come with me.” She was pulling two suitcases someone had obviously not claimed. I wondered why. Didn’t they recognize their own luggage? We followed her to her office where she asked for our baggage claims.
“Mr. Stolz,” she said, “you are in luck! This is your luggage.” She handed Rudy one of the bags she had been dragging. The bandanna had come off. “Now will you need a taxi?”
“No, we are parked in self parking.”
“Oh my! I think all the buses stop at 1 am. It was quarter to 1.
The one bus driver at the curb said he was not going to self parking. Tired, bedraggled, soaking wet and frazzled, we stood and looked at him. “Okay! Okay!” ” he said. “Get on!” I had the distinct feeling we weren’t really welcome on his bus. There was one other lady on the bus, bundled against the cold. As the bus lurched away from the curb two of our heavy suitcases slid off the rack and smacked into her left leg. I could see big problems in our future. “Naw, I’m all right,” she said, as we dragged the bags off her. We dropped her at the employee’s parking lot and circled the airport, happily on our way to self parking.
“So where’d you park?” asked the driver.
I looked at Rudy and he looked at me. “Rudy, it’s been 8 days! I was hit in the head by an elevator, remember?”
“You don’t know where you parked? Where’s your ticket?” barked the driver.
“In the car,” said Rudy. I had to laugh. I just had to.
I remembered we had parked by a pick up point and row by row the bus driver searched the parking lot. “Here?”
“Not here.”
“Here?”
“Not here.”
Suddenly it was right in front of us. “There!” I said.
The bus driver grabbed our luggage and threw it in the trunk. I honestly think he was happy to get rid of us.
At home we unloaded the luggage and took it all in the house. We were extremely surprised when we discovered the luggage and all the contents were soaked! Soaked! And then I remembered they had been sitting on the tarmac in Honolulu in the rain. As I began to unpack I found a small black rock in Rudy’s overnight bag. I waved it at him! “Bad juju!”
“You don’t really believe that do you?”
“Of course I don’t. I am a reasonable woman. I am not superstitious.” But still… I put his small black rock on his book shelf.
The rest of the story is simple. I went to the hospital December 23 and was released about 7 pm Christmas Eve. Christmas went well except I took lots of pictures and then pushed the wrong button and zip… I lost them all! All! And of course we lost our major gift for granddaughter, JoJo and my daughter lost a gift she had bought for Rudy but that wasn’t such a big deal. Strange, but not a big deal.
But tonight Rudy is at work and I stuck a small load of laundry in the washer. I was on the sofa, reading when I heard it! Kerflunk, kerflunk, kerflunk. It sounded as if the clothes were kind of off loaded in the washer. Wrong! I listened as the washer moaned, whimpered and… died!
I am currently tearing through closets looking for a box the size of a small black rock! It should be back in Hawaii in a couple days and Rudy will never miss it. .
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
at the post office
There was an older, very sweet couple in the post office today mailing a small but very heavy box to the Netherlands. The post man said, “You have to fill out a disclosure slip and get this duct tape off the edges and address it correctly. Next!”
They filled out the disclosure slip, removed the duct tape and replaced it with the clear tape the postman had given them. They took their box back to the counter. People behind me were getting restless and thought the couple should go to the back of the line.
“Fill out the rest of the disclosure slip and bring it back!” snapped the postman.
I am familiar with disclosure slips from mailing stuff to my grandson in the Navy so I helped them fill it out.
“Where’s it going?”
“The Netherlands,” said the lady. Her accent was very heavy.
“Are you from the Netherlands?”
“Oh yes, many years ago now.”
“It’s such a heavy box,” I said.
“It’s clay for pottery.”
“Let’s put art supplies,” I suggested.
When we were finished the man winked and said, “I hope we don’t get sent back again.”
“Good luck.”
I could hear the people behind me muttering as they approached the counter again. I hoped they didn’t get sent back too.
The postman weighed the box, stamped this paper, tore that one and rang up the little box. “Seventy six dollars and 16 cents,” he said. “It would have been cheaper to just send money.”
The couple paid the money, turned and headed for the door. As they passed me, they smiled. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” I said.
I am sure it would have been cheaper to send money but the clay in that box was a precious offering and very important to the couple. I understood. I was also mailing a very precious and important package; a birthday box for my Little Mary.
“Next!” called the postman.
They filled out the disclosure slip, removed the duct tape and replaced it with the clear tape the postman had given them. They took their box back to the counter. People behind me were getting restless and thought the couple should go to the back of the line.
“Fill out the rest of the disclosure slip and bring it back!” snapped the postman.
I am familiar with disclosure slips from mailing stuff to my grandson in the Navy so I helped them fill it out.
“Where’s it going?”
“The Netherlands,” said the lady. Her accent was very heavy.
“Are you from the Netherlands?”
“Oh yes, many years ago now.”
“It’s such a heavy box,” I said.
“It’s clay for pottery.”
“Let’s put art supplies,” I suggested.
When we were finished the man winked and said, “I hope we don’t get sent back again.”
“Good luck.”
I could hear the people behind me muttering as they approached the counter again. I hoped they didn’t get sent back too.
The postman weighed the box, stamped this paper, tore that one and rang up the little box. “Seventy six dollars and 16 cents,” he said. “It would have been cheaper to just send money.”
The couple paid the money, turned and headed for the door. As they passed me, they smiled. “Merry Christmas!”
“Merry Christmas!” I said.
I am sure it would have been cheaper to send money but the clay in that box was a precious offering and very important to the couple. I understood. I was also mailing a very precious and important package; a birthday box for my Little Mary.
“Next!” called the postman.
Thursday, November 11, 2010
my mother's house
on the odd occasion
I drift into my mother’s house
ruby
emerald
sapphire
earrings lined neatly
on the dresser
today she wears diamonds
tiny jar of honey
lifted from the drugstore
where she eats breakfast
placed exactly on kitchen counter
tea bags in custard cup
await her pleasure
I find her there
an abbreviation
cross legged on her bed
paper napkin in her lap
tuna sandwich on white bread
her hands are swooping birds
pecking at the food
flitting eyes asking questions
a northern creature
transplanted to the south
her voice still holds the sea
damsel fly skimming the top
her life is a hand knit afghan
that turned out smaller than she expected
anger is her portion
and she roars
the echo
of a full lifetime of
never enough
I drift into my mother’s house
ruby
emerald
sapphire
earrings lined neatly
on the dresser
today she wears diamonds
tiny jar of honey
lifted from the drugstore
where she eats breakfast
placed exactly on kitchen counter
tea bags in custard cup
await her pleasure
I find her there
an abbreviation
cross legged on her bed
paper napkin in her lap
tuna sandwich on white bread
her hands are swooping birds
pecking at the food
flitting eyes asking questions
a northern creature
transplanted to the south
her voice still holds the sea
damsel fly skimming the top
her life is a hand knit afghan
that turned out smaller than she expected
anger is her portion
and she roars
the echo
of a full lifetime of
never enough
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