Guilt
Posted on February 4, 2016 Leave a Comment
His mother decided to name him Joseph, since their last name was Klein, and it seemed droll enough to her that he should spend his life being called Joseph K. She expected he would be surrounded by other Josephs in his life – which, in fact, he was – and, thus, be distinguished from them by the “K” – which he also, in fact, was. That this occurred without any true effort on her part, and without any understanding of its significance by those doing so, was a primary source of her amusement in those early years.
The trial had been lengthy and, largely, not amusing. Not even a trial, per se. Just months and months of arduous tedium, which had suddenly become their reality, day after day after day. But that was no longer important. It was done. Over. To what end and for what purpose, these many years later, no one could say, least of all Joseph K. – or his mother, for that matter. As trials go, though, it was generally typical, personally atypical. Now, over.
They had survived.
On his first day of kindergarten, a grayish morning, she walked steadily up the front steps to the school, lightly gripping his left hand. Oblivious, Joseph climbed beside her excitedly, spindly legs darting here and there. His mother trained her eyes purposefully ahead, aware of the stares and whispers, ignoring them nevertheless. Leaning down to kiss him, she glimpsed the gaggle of onlookers.
“You’re going to love school,” she said, gently brushing the loose strands of hair from his forehead to the side, skeptical eyes looking up.
“Ok, Mommy,” he agreed as he took his place in the line of children waiting at the unopened door. He smiled; she smiled. He turned to face his new teacher; she turned to face the frosty crowd.
Do these people ever give it a rest? she thought, descending the steps defiantly – almost brazenly. This is what they wanted, wasn’t it? Chin forward, she swept by them.
***
He did love school. She had been right. So much so, he had gone on to become a lawyer. Joseph Klein, Counselor-at-Law. Of course, his mother was very proud. And vindicated. Yes, mostly, she was vindicated. No, she had not become a lawyer, but he had – and it was the next best thing in her estimation.
“Mom?” He asked the voicemail, as if it would answer back. “I’ll pick you up at ten on Sunday, okay?”
Today was Tuesday; Sunday was Mother’s Day.
He tossed the phone aside, looked up, then scribbled “Joseph K” on the letter he had been reading before thinking to make that call. A few minutes later, the phone dinged. It was a text from his mother: 10 am fine. See you then.
***
A bleak morning such as this was always a disappointment to him. Especially in the springtime. A spring morning should be bright, he thought. Bright, promising warmth sometime later in the day. It was neither. The sky was dreary, the color of days-old snow, muted and discouraging. He pulled up to the curb and beeped the horn. His mother had told him not to bother coming to the door to fetch her. It made him uncomfortable, but he followed her direction. In the next second, she was closing the door, and then walking toward the car, plastic Shop-Rite bag in one hand, keys in the other.
“Happy Mother’s Day,” he offered, as she sat down next to him.
“Yes, thank you.” As she placed the keys and the bag in her lap, he leaned over to kiss her lightly on the cheek.
“You’re going to love this place.” Too eager.
She played with the keys, plastic bag uncrinkling slowly. The lines around her eyes did so as well, skeptically.
“It’s really nice.”
What difference does it make? After everything she had been through, this is what was to be. After all I endured, you ungrateful miserab. She had been excited to spend the day with him. To go to an early brunch.
The letter, which was not supposed to have come to her at all, had come on Friday.
Dear Mrs. Klein:
Thank you for registering to visit with us during our upcoming Mother’s Day Open House Meet and Greet. We look forward to seeing you and your family that day!
Warm regards,
The Team at Independence Care
It was an oxymoron, at the very least. Independence Care. An insult, an indignity. She was independent. She needed no care. For God’s sake, she could text. She would not go.
She went.
There were no stairs, only a vaguely unlevel concrete walkway with a painted metal handrail, jutting crookedly from the weeds along the side of the building, which she impudently refused to grasp. With any luck, she would fall and break her hip.
She did not.
***
Sheepishly, apologetically, Joseph asked the receptionist to validate his parking ticket, while his mother walked on ahead of him, spindly legs darting here and there.
“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He felt the heat of the mixed gazes upon him – the other children, like him, commiserating; the other parents, like her, reproachful. Chin down, he slunk by them.
It’s for your own good, he could not bring himself to say.
“No, not so bad.” The knife, deep in her heart, twisted. The trial, it seemed, was not over.
They could not survive.
Boots
Posted on January 22, 2016 2 Comments
The cool thing about the internet is that you can look up stuff like, “What day of the week was January 19, 1978?” It was a Thursday.
On Thursday, January 19, 1978 (a school night), I slept over my best friend Lia’s house. The only reason this had been allowed was that a snowstorm was predicted, and we were guaranteed a snow day when we awoke on Friday. I’m not too sure why we assumed this to be a guarantee, since the superintendent of the school system at the time rarely called off school. Thus far, we had sucked it up and trudged through snow, subzero temperatures, and hurricanes almost as a rule. And we cursed him for this – early and often – but that’s another story.
I know this was the January blizzard of 1978 – and not the one in February, a few weeks later – because Lia’s house still had some plastic, red and yellow, light-up Christmas candle decorations visible on the roof outside her bedroom window. (Actually, these were awesome decorations which, I believe, my current next-door neighbor must have also bought from Branch Brook Pools in the ‘70s – meaning, that is, they will last for-e-ver). The next day – January 20th – was my mom’s birthday, so maybe my being allowed to sleep out on a school night had more to do with that than the impending snow. Either way, the stars were in alignment.
Earlier that evening, we had gone to visit my grandma. On the way home, the snow began to fall – first, as sparse flurries tickling our faces while we left the nursing home, then in earnest as we neared Nutley, where my parents dropped me off at Lia’s house. Bounding up the stairs to her room, I recall hearing a radio somewhere in the house playing Rhinestone Cowboy, and I dug that song. It was a sure sign that we were set – I hoped – for a full night, and a full next day, of uninterrupted play with our stuffed toy camels named Humpy (uh, never mind), and whatever else it was that second graders did in 1978.
The snow fell. All night. It floated from the sky, half-lit by the rampant whiteness, those plastic candles glowing brightly underneath. We watched (nestled with our respective Humpys, of course), whispering our plans to brave this newly-fallen tundra in the morning.
Oh, wait. I had no boots with me. A minor – albeit somewhat important – detail (in the mind of a second grader, anyway). Drifting off to sleep, nuzzling Humpy in the semi-lit darkness, I anticipated tomorrow’s winter amusements, sans boots. It was a risk I was prepared to take.
Pfft. Boots? Boots are for suckers.
In the morning, there was a ton of snow. Everywhere. The sunlight glinted off of it, almost blinding us. But our eyes were young and tough. And so were our feet. You know, the feet with no boots? The feet – my feet – with only red Thom McAn sneakers to protect them from the mountains of unshoveled snow piled to almost a third of my total height.
Outside we went. A full morning of snow abbondanza – snowballs, snow forts, snowmen, snow angels, and the ritualistic eating of snow. Snow caked on our mittens and hats. Melting snow leaking through the space between our mittens and coat sleeves, dripping inside our wrists. Dampening the seats of our pants. And drenching the hems of our Toughskin jeans. When I finally realized I was missing a sneaker, I panicked. I tugged my foot out of the snow, grayish sock sodden, and wondered how I was getting home without her noticing. “Her” being my mother – the “Her” with the power to spoil this perfectly wonderful snow day over a lost sneaker. (Back then, kids didn’t have ten pairs of sneakers; they had one. And now I had a half of one.)
Red stands out in the snow, right?
Oh, but not that day. We could not find that red sneaker.
We went back inside. We had the obligatory French toast and hot chocolate feast which follows all fine snow outings. The gray sock – and the Toughskins – dried. And my dad came to pick me up.
Whew. Because he didn’t notice the missing sneaker. It was probably all he could do to drive the four blocks to get me in that snow. Not being a snow lover, lost driving in town on the best of days, even on bare roads, and almost certainly preoccupied with the work of snow removal both behind him as well as ahead of him that day, he was mildly oblivious. Thus, I managed to get home with only one sneaker. And into the house. And then back outside, boots securely on both feet. A close call, for sure.
On Sunday, after it had been nearly 40 degrees for 3 days, the red sneaker must have appeared in the slush. The doorbell rang, and there was Lia, holding it. Handing it to my mom.
“We found the sneaker!”
Oh, yes, thank you. The sneaker. Buh-bye. Thanks for stopping by. See you tomorrow at school.
“Not so fast, you.” The sneaker landed with a thud on the towel which had been carefully placed to separate salty, wet feet entering the house from the recently redone floor. “You wore sneakers in the snow?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you call? I would have walked over with your boots.” Happy birthday, Mommy.
The “duh” hung in the air like a bunch of wet snowflakes barreling towards a plastic Christmas candle.
Duh. Then I started sniffling. And coughing. Because second graders don’t pay doctor bills, as I was reminded then. Which I thought of, again, the next day, while walking to school,where I thanked Lia for kindly returning my red sneaker. While wearing my boots.
Boots, the likes of which I have worn in every single snowstorm since 1978, Thursdays and otherwise.
I Want My Weather Channel
Posted on January 21, 2016 Leave a Comment
Does anyone else in the NYC area miss the Weather Channel with a profound unhappiness, or is it just me?
It’s awful enough we have to weather this potential snowstorm (yes, I went there) minus El Bloombito’s crack Spanish admonitions, which I’ve only recently – begrudgingly, barely, really – accepted. His absence in the circus entertainment that is a NYC snow removal presser is deeply missed. That’s only taken about three years to get over, by the way. And I say barely, since I would welcome his cantankerous snow updates back in a hot second – with or without the Spanish – but especially with Ray Kelly and the wildly entertaining sign language lady. Alas, this is never going to happen.
To further spoil a once near-perfect news equilibrium, in March, Verizon sneakily dumped the Weather Channel, pretty much after the snow season had already passed – I suppose, hoping we wouldn’t really notice. But I noticed. All summer. I noticed. Compelled to watch this Accuweather garbage in order to find out if I should: a) sit on my deck sipping a Margarita, or b) bungee the lemon-slice raft to the filter and take down the “Living on Island Time” sign hanging on the back of the house. Verizon’s Accuweather channel has proven low-budget and boring, consistently. It is devoid of the quality music chosen by the Weather Channel to unfailingly accompany the local forecast. Worse yet, Accuweather wants to give me this substandard weather forecast for a whole bunch of other places I don’t care about.
Yes, I know the Weather Channel does that, too. But Jim Cantore never disappointed me. He was always holding his hat with one hand and a microphone with the other, while balancing precariously on a snow mound, in exactly the right place. Even if it wasn’t nearby, the local forecast was still either ticking across the bottom of the screen or just minutes away from being replayed. I could count on this. All day, every day.
Did I watch Storm Stories? No, not on purpose. But you can bet I watched it when I wanted to see the weather forecast. They had me like that, and I know I’m not the only one. Now I have to look on my phone, which is maddening, since I’m old and refuse to wear reading glasses. (Yes, I know I can make the numbers bigger on my giant iPad-like phone; I’m not doing it). It’s just not the same. I want continuous, alarmist, cable news-type coverage of my weather. It’s not for the preparedness. It’s for the entertainment. A storm without a panicked Paul Kocin or Jim Cantore enraptured by thundersnow? No, thanks.
The only thing this storm has going for it is the possibility of continuous special coverage by Pat Battle, since it’s a Saturday. But who am I kidding? I want that and the Weather Channel. And my MTV. Damn it.
#BringBackTWC
The Wet Spot
Posted on January 19, 2016 Leave a Comment
On a dark, desert highway. No…just kidding.
On a dark, living room carpet, a cool spot at my feet, the warm realization arose that I had stepped on a pretty decent-sized spot of German shepherd urine. Danced, that is. Or something akin to danced, but probably more like non-rhythmic jumping. Whatever it was, my foot landed in dog pee. And it was gross. My sock grew heavy – but at least I’d had one on. You know what? Maybe that wasn’t such a good thing, after all. No way was I carrying that thing home.
Just, ugh.
But there was this 8-track playing Hotel California. That’s what my friends and I had been dancing to on that sunny afternoon in 1979. We may have just previously been listening to the soundtrack of Annie. Or worse, The Muppet Movie. Who knows? Doesn’t matter. At the precise moment my foot landed in the wet spot, Hotel California was playing.
I spent the next 30 years trying to figure out what a colita was. I still don’t know. Anyway, whatever it is, I don’t care. It’s probably a tree or something. The song was important enough that I carry this particular memory with me on my A-list of key childhood moments, not-so-tucked-away in my brain. It was just that damn good.
So, thanks, Mark, for having the Hotel California 8-track. And thanks, Yolanda and Helen, for suggesting we “dance” that day. And thanks, Glenn Frey, for co-writing cool songs about mysterious things like colitas.
Oh, and thanks, Brandy, for the wet spot.
Ride
Posted on January 18, 2016 Leave a Comment
Often, distracted, she almost hit the gas instead of the brakes. While first learning to drive, her stomach would drop in that infinitesimal moment during which she had to decide. Brakes or gas. Brakes or gas. Thankfully, though, she had always chosen correctly – later laughing with her mom as she pulled into the closest open parking space in the Pier One parking lot, and then nervously pushing her head into the backrest of her seat as the car finally settled. Or whispering, “Ok, got it right,” to the rearview mirror, barely missing the garage door.
There was that time, too, she saw the neighbor’s dog. And she had hit the gas. Luckily, his tail only brushed the front tire; but she saw the look of terror in his eyes as he crooked his head sideways and caught her glance, galumphing across the driveway and up the stairs to his yard. Maybe it wasn’t his terror, but hers.
Brakes or gas. Brakes or gas.
* * *
“I can pick you up,” she offered, bits of Dorito dust nestled in the left corner of her mouth.
“K,” her brother twirled his backpack over his shoulder, “Thanks. 11-ish.”
“Ish? Or 11?” she rolled her eyes, not bothering to turn around.
“11.”
“K.”
She didn’t watch as he left, hopping into the front seat of someone’s car. Whoever it was that was able to drive him to work that day. Realizing she had made an orange fingerprint on the corner of the page she was reading, she quickly licked her fingers and wiped them on the front of her jeans. She put the magazine down, opened a bottle of water, and then dozed off for a few hours.
* * *
“I’m up. I’m up,” she fumbled, cell phone alarm blaring mutedly from under the couch pillow. No one answered, since she was alone. She tried to remember why it actually was that she was stunned awake, then snatched her keys from the coffee table and headed out to pick up her brother.
As she pressed the ignition button, she thought of going back inside to grab a heavier coat. It was colder than she thought. Sometimes she waited a good half an hour before her brother came out, and she didn’t like to leave the car running, since he didn’t help her pay for gas. He asked for a ride just infrequently enough that she felt funny asking him for a couple dollars, but just often enough she sometimes resented it. Tonight, she was indifferent, so she backed out of the driveway to get him, forgetting both the coat and his frugality.
Her cell phone buzzed in her pocket. She guessed he was making sure she was on her way. She ignored it, pulling into the parking lot, where there was only one other car – a green Subaru with a flat tire that had been there for two months – and a dumpster. Must have been a slow night, she thought.
Brakes or gas.
* * *
Disoriented, she kept her left hand on the door handle. Once, she had seen a segment on a news show about what to do in an emergency. While the car was sinking, she thought at least she could open the door and get out.
It wouldn’t open. Was it locked? She couldn’t remember, but she tried to feel for the button with her right hand. The car was starting to fill up with water. She didn’t know how much time she had, and it was so dark. She couldn’t tell if the car was upside down or right side up, but she kept pushing the door and feeling for the unlock button.
Her feet were starting to feel wet. Then her calves. Her knees.
“Fuck!” she cried, frantically.
The cell phone buzzed again. With her right hand, she yanked it from her pocket. Calm down, she thought, squinting at the screen. There was a text from her brother:
Don’t need ride.
Catching her breath, she dialed 9-1-1, the icy water beginning to slosh around her chest. Holding the phone above the water, she cursed, “Why won’t it fucking go through!?” She tried again, this time noticing the tiny No Service in the upper left corner of the screen. The water reached her neck. She dropped the phone, then anxiously grabbed onto the rear view mirror, where she caught her glance.
The look of terror was hers, after all.
Winning
Posted on January 13, 2016 Leave a Comment
It isn’t really about winning the money. You know that, right?
Yeah, sure, it’s great fun to imagine all of the ways you might live out the rest of your life spewing ridiculous demands, like to be surrounded by only white furniture and carpeting, or to wear a brand new pair of shoes every single day, or to have only Mayan tuberose candles in your hotel rooms, whether you’re actually there or not. For an army of hangers-on to bound at the chance to satisfy your slightest whim, all while you never spend another moment worrying about money again is, at the very least, mildly entertaining. At its most staid, the prospect of your actually founding The Human Fund is, well, awfully generous of you, now, isn’t it? To eliminate the stress, the uncertainty, the fear of financial dependence and all of its associated anxiety is exhilarating, liberating. Imagining what we would do with a billion dollars is an incredibly compelling diversion.
It isn’t really about winning the money, though.
We like to think money could – and would – fix everything. Make our lives easier. End all of our problems.
And maybe it would.
But the true lottery in life isn’t about money. It’s about playing the hand you’ve been dealt with grace. It’s about getting through all of life’s trials with dignity, gratitude, and kindness.
If money could bring back the dead, transform regret, or buy our souls content, it would be worth so much more than it actually is. But, like Billy Joel said, “The money comes, the money goes. We know it’s all a passing phase.” And it is a passing phase.
Money is just paper. Yes, we need it to survive and be protected, to provide for ourselves and those for whom we are responsible. Money is necessary – but, ultimately, it will never satisfy us. Money is necessary – but it will never give us peace.
Life isn’t about winning the money. It’s about winning the journey. If you win the money, terrific! It’s almost a guarantee you won’t, though.
Tomorrow, you’ll wake up, and everything will be just the same as it is today.
Win your journey.
More Than a Paycheck
Posted on May 4, 2015 Leave a Comment
Once again, we find ourselves approaching National Nurses Day (Wednesday, May 6th), International Nurses Day (Tuesday, May 12th) and National Nurses Week (May 6th – May 12th), celebrated throughout our country with employer-sponsored stress-relieving massages, medical-themed tchotchkes, pens, totes, and – of course – bagels and coffee. It’s probably no coincidence that Nurses Day happens to fall around Mother’s Day and Teacher Appreciation Day. There’s a common theme in there, I think. Or maybe it’s just because Florence Nightingale’s birthday is May 12th. Either way, I’m sure Hallmark has encouraged its popularity.
Every dog has its day, right?
Someone said to me it’s silly to celebrate National Nurses Day. Or week. Or anything of the sort. You get paid, she said. Take your paycheck and go home. A day of recognition – let alone a week – is superfluous, unnecessary, and a self-directed pat on the back with a handful of overkill.
Except that Saturday was National Naked Gardening Day. National. Naked. Gardening. Day. If naked gardeners can have a day, so can nurses. Even naked nurses (but that will have to be May 9th, since May 8th is National Student Nurses Day, and Wednesday of National Nurses Week is National School Nurses Day, which happens, this year, to also be May 6th). Confused? Me, too.
I’m not confused about nursing, though. It is a gift to commit to quality healthcare, in whichever branch of the profession you choose to do so. To all of my fellow nurses, I wish you a week of honor, pride, satisfaction, and professional re-inspiration. Through your continued dedication, I hope you bring awareness to the importance of nurses to everyone you encounter.
It’s not all about a paycheck to us. But we’ll take the tote bags, thank you very much.
Cool Grandma
Posted on February 15, 2015 1 Comment
Sometimes the people you least expect to emulate are those you become in life. It kind of sneaks up on you. Like when you’re walking out of church on a Sunday morning and you mutter, “Where the hell are my keys?” as you cross yourself with holy water. Or you realize the dusty pile of books next to your couch contains titles like Irish Folklore for Dummies, A Walking Tour of Brooklyn, and Shogun.
Shogun? (I know, right?)
Or when you’re asked, “Are you reading the newspaper?” while not speaking on the phone to your mother after a full ten minutes.
These quirks are handed down like treasured heirlooms – only much better.
I thought that all I had of my grandmother were memories. In some ways, I often believe she is still alive. After all, a woman so full of piss and vinegar (the good kind) can’t possibly have died. Had I not seen it for myself during a grey stretch of February days, I’d never have believed it. How could a five-foot tall woman who told off perfect strangers in Woolworth’s, or slowed her car (no, not stopped) on the West Side Highway to let me drive, or who made bold pronouncements like, “She has horse teeth, so I hate her” be dead?
It defies the boundaries of possibility in my mind.
This woman – who served frozen Marie Callendar’s lasagna for Christmas dinner, never baked a cookie in her life, and once flew to Paris for a weekend – couldn’t have given up and died. Not when she told me she would never be old. Never be like the other grandmothers. Never sit in a rocking chair or knit blankets. Never admit her real age to anyone.
And she didn’t.
She bought me (and quite possibly herself) a neon pink sweatshirt emblazoned with “Frankie Say Relax.” She took me to the Village to have tea on a Saturday afternoon in my Doc Marten’s. She let me listen to the Police in the car on the way to the mall. And she didn’t tell my mother I was faking it when I called her to pick me up from school because I didn’t feel well.
Listen, I’m happy for all you people (one of her favorite expressions – you people) with grandmothers who made seven course dinners and scrubbed floors with Pine Sol. But I loved my grandmother and her dusty South of the Border knick-knacks, lovingly placed among her tiny, hand-painted yellow set of table and chairs. My grandmother, who had a framed sepia picture of Jesus with a small crack in the corner hanging by the front door. I loved my grandmother, who took me to Belmar and Avon-by-the-Sea, wore an Hermes scarf, and had more than one pair of earrings in her ears (unheard of for grandmothers in the eighties), and who let me get the New York strip for dinner, even though she knew I wasn’t going to finish it.
She was so the coolest.
Because she had mastered YOLO long before there was YOLO. She knew you only lived once, so it made no sense to be uptight about it. Or at least she had figured this out by the time I knew her. I only wish she had lived her once a little bit longer, that we had more than just these little legacies, these subtle, but unmistakeable, variations of her uniqueness which she has passed down – hopefully not only to me, but to all of her children and grandchildren.
Of course, these are much better than plain old memories. And she was much better than a plain old grandmother. And she is missed.
A Winter to Live
Posted on February 11, 2015 2 Comments
I’ve said it a bunch of times: I believe the universe is not accidental. There are those who’ve argued with me that, perhaps, I ascribe meaning to events in order to create an orderly pattern where one truly doesn’t exist. Don’t we all merely connect the dots of our lives meaningfully in hindsight? It’s a valid argument. But I believe what I believe. And here’s why.
Yesterday, I opened my younger son’s backpack to examine all of the papers stuffed inside which he had neglected to show me. I came across a heavily-Xeroxed copy of a short biography of the children’s author, Lois Lowry. Daniel, my son, and I discussed her book, Number the Stars, which his fifth-grade class is currently reading. As I skimmed her list of other titles, one in particular jumped out. Immediately. Vividly. A Summer to Die.
In the summer following fifth grade, just after I had turned eleven, I read A Summer to Die, a book about two young sisters, one of whom is diagnosed with leukemia. After a short coming of age, there is the realization for the protagonist, Meg, that bad things happen to good people. The sister dies. But good thing happens, too. In the story, a baby is born.
I had forgotten the name of this book, the identity of its author, and most of the story. However, I did remember – not accidentally – the part about the sister’s nose bleeding, and that it was a sign of leukemia. Being a hypochondriac, I filed this information away for frequent future (and melodramatic) use. For reference whenever even the slightest hint of blood tinged one of my tissues, believing this knowledge to be power in preventing my own untimely – but otherwise completely probable – death from leukemia before age twelve. I thought if I acknowledged the possibility, it would never happen. Kids don’t die in real life.
But kids do die in real life.
The only other memory I took (also not accidentally) from that story was the horror I experienced when – even for a split second – I imagined how I might feel if my own brother were to die. Or how he would feel if I were to die. Then I would cross myself quickly and think of something else, teary-eyed and frightened. Mercifully, it didn’t happen to my brother. Or me.
But to my own children, it did. Daniel lost his older brother.
Recently, I was amazed by the offense taken by so many in response to Nationwide’s blunt – if not cheerful – Super Bowl commercial about the importance of childhood safety. I’m not here to argue the appropriateness of its having been aired during that most important of yearly events. I do know, however, the overall disdain for the message is a lot like my terrified reaction to A Summer to Die.
As my younger son turns eleven today, I continue to be amazed by his ability to face life’s uncertainty head on. He doesn’t live in a world contrived by frightened adults, unable to face their own mortality (let alone that of a child’s), while stuffing themselves with hot wings and chips. He is steeped in reality. Full of courage. Resilient. Realistic.
Hugging him tightly yesterday, I told him about A Summer to Die. About how I could not even have conceived of the truth of such a loss as an eleven year old. That at eleven, myself, such a thought was the plot of nightmares. Of whispered gossip among adults. Of stories like A Summer to Die. I told him of my admiration for his very real strength.
Bad things happen to good people. Bad things happen to children. But good things come from the strength which grows afterward. Living continues through this strength. I look to Daniel to learn how to keep living.
Because good things happen, too.
Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Hostage (For Kayla)
Posted on February 10, 2015 2 Comments
I
Among seventeen anxious months,
The only constant thought
Was of the life of the hostage.
II
We are of one reflection,
Like the prisoner
For which there is proof of life.
III
The hostage whirled in peaceful endeavors.
It was a small part of the pantomime.
IV
Sand and stone
Are one.
Sand and stone and she
Are one.
V
We do not know which to believe,
The justice of cause
Or the justice of righteousness,
The hostage weeping
Or just surviving.
VI
Crystals of sand filled the guest’s mirror
With imitative hospitality.
The shadow of the hostage
Adrift, alive or dead.
The answer
Traced in the shadow
An unfortunate certainty.
VII
O barbaric men of insanity,
Why do you imagine futile airstrikes?
Do you not see how the hostage
Suffers at the mercy
Of a woman with rigid virtue?
VIII
We know noble undertakings
And silent, unfathomable horrors.
But we know, too,
That the hostage is remembered
In what we know.
IX
When the hostage reappeared,
She blessed our futile peace
With hope.
X
At the sight of hostages
Kneeling in sand
Even the wailing mourners
Would demand peace?
XI
She rode through Aleppo
To a bus.
After she played with the children
And painted
The shadows of reality
For future hostages.
XII
The sky is blue.
The hostage must be dead.
XIII
It was night all day.
It was morning
And it was morning again.
The hostage will
Be remembered well.
A Girl by the Bridge 
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