Atonement

"May their memories be a blessing."

I must believe in this. I do believe in this. They are not merely obligatory words, the way we say "G-d bless you" after someone sneezes. The way we say "See you soon" as we say good bye "for now."

When memories are all we have, this is more than a blessing. This is life as we know it. These memories are the things we carry, day to day, night to night.

I have much to be thankful for, despite the burden of sorrow, wrapped in a bundle, attached to my shoulders. I hope I have never hurt anyone, intentionally or otherwise.

How do you mend broken hearts, broken promises, broken links?

Reflect. Repair. Refresh.
May you be inscribed in the Book Of Life. Your book. Your life.

Chai Anxiety

Every day is a To Do list,
things to write, things to read,
things to begin, things to finish.
Fear of forgetting thoughts, fear of missing out.

I don't know how to say 
to hell with it all, I don't care, clear the deck,
cross the items off and start fresh.
Sleep is elusive, a tangled landmine,
a thousand shards of
unfinished, broken ideas
festering underfoot.

Life is light
and I am afraid of the dark.


Speaking of Fears:
In case Facebook goes away, please feel free to subscribe to this, whatever this is.
Blog? Journal? To Do list? <g>
There's a link somewhere on this page. Let me know you are out there. As the good book says: "Don't make no difference what nobody says. Aint nobody like to be alone."

The Things We Say for Love

I called my mother every day
Just to hear her voice.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Are you okay?” she asked
That’s all we needed to know.
Those calls are over and it will never be okay.
Now I’m the mother
texting my children every day, asking
“Are you okay?” and
waiting for my children to check in every day
to find out if I’m okay.
Sometimes I am not
but I don’t want them to know.
I wonder now how often
my mother reassured me
all was well and
she was okay,
when all was not well, when she was not okay.

Send in the Clouds

Don’t bother

They’re here

Move over, Stephen Sondheim.

Have I got a song for you.

Write an elegy for the end of summer, the last picture show of orange sun and cappuccino flesh and verdant leaves of grass.

Autumn elbows in, impatient for its stage cue.

Here it comes. Enter, laughing.

Send in the clowns.

I thrive on the page and stage, your presence and pleasure from things I share give me air and life. Applause is an upper.

“I can see it from my house.”

A Very Deja Vu, Caterpillar to Butterfly Moment of Zen

The transformation is complete.

I am officially my mother and father. Working on a tan as if I never had skin cancer.

I’m outside by a pool, eating fruit, blasting Elvis Presley, and forgetting I have a woe in the world.

I walk into a pool, hands on hips, not interested in getting my hair wet. I lean against the edge and work on crossword puzzles.

What’s next on the playlist? Jerry Vale? Vic Damone? Frank Sinatra? Jackie Mason on Broadway? (That enduring image of my dad at the outdoor pool at the Catskills hotels, putting cassettes into a portable radio player and not sure if the volume was on is a mental painting I wish I could paint.)

It’s Labor Day in reverse. Giving birth to the soul and spirits of those that brought me to this moment.

Crow Choice

It is mid-afternoon on Long Island. Not exactly Green Acres territory. We have traffic. Diners. People. Lots of people.

Why do we have roosters?

What is the point? A neighbor nearby hasn’t figured out roosters are noisy and needless.

There she crows again!