A Work in Progress

Sometimes this job is like a race. Like you're carrying this person on your back, and it's a messy race. You're tripping and sweating and you almost drop them. It's bouncy and there's trash everywhere. And if you can just get them over that line. To the line and throw them over. Throw them over and into the ER, you're obligation is fulfilled. Your job is done. You've won the race. And for a long time, that was it. Mission accomplished and I wasn't responsible for anything else. I didn't care about anything else. Get them to the hospital.  Dust my hands off and pat myself on the back. But somehow, they crept in. What did happen?  Did they live?  For the first time I asked myself.  I began to bring them home. I put them on a shelf and they stared down at me. They said, did you run fast enough?  Did you fall?  Did you drop me?  You threw me onto this island- over your line, but was it salvation?  I left in a hel...

Every year, I forget the lush color of too-tall grass. how bright the sun is on the way to work. my jacket at home, even when I need it. how long it takes for the trees to begin to bud. that mice can get into the house. the musty smell of impending rain. how soon sun lotion becomes essential. that carpenter bees love to eat my porch. how tired I get when the daylight lingers. the taste of a cold beer on a warm evening. my favorite songs that drive away the winter blues. that spring is my favorite season.

It is simple and concise. Far from elegant thoughtful yet chaotic, typed and careful. Paragraphs and lists. These are the reasons, the pains and unmet needs. The counting of the blessings. Thankful for the good times, it reassures and probably, assumes too much. This whole life in a few lines. Are these words enough, this simple correspondence. Enough for forgiveness, for understanding. Is it long enough to heal a broken heart. Is it desperate enough to make it okay, to pull the trigger.

I press my fingers into the bruise on the back of my right hand. It does not hurt enough. It does not take their pain away, It does not save him. Hand on top of hand, I did my best to pump his dying heart back to life. Never wishing so fervently for a patient to open his eyes and smile at us as we congratulate ourselves. A slow leak in the brain has left her a widow with only one month in. Does he have to die, to remind us to live? All of our tools could not compete. Could not reverse the damage. Still I plead with his heart. Just start again and we’ll give you what you want. I press my fingers into the bruise on the back of my right hand. It does not hurt enough. It does not take their pain away, It does not save him.

Last week, my grandmother turned 95.  For the last few years I have had a work in progress poem, progressively titled 'When I'm 92...93...94' and this year, I finally settled on the lines. Happy Birthday Grandmom, I'm sure Mom will print this out for you. When I'm 95, I want to be like you. I want to be alive! I want independence, children whose successes outweigh mine, and grandchildren I can sip whisky with. When I'm 95, I want to be like you. I want to be a good storyteller. But really I would settle for the stories. They are what define you. The one of bread handed over a fence, a proud little red wagon, or how a pair of pants set you free. Or how you picked up coal from the train tracks, your adventures at the cannery, and how much you loved selling stationary at the five and dime. When I'm 95, I want to be like you. I want to have found love. I want to have given all of mine and have it be enough. I want to know the secret of a long ...

I started the call cold and irritated. After your apathetic husband, flagged us down, then disappeared into a dark, unmarked doorway your shady apartment complex. Once we found you, dramatically laying on the floor. 'Come on, get up now dear, laying there isn't going to help your breathing' Stale cigarettes are in the air and as I give you a breathing treatment, I start my lecture on smoking. But as your story unravels I soften I kneel down to look into your face and put my hand on your wrist wishing I could do the impossible. I cannot make your husband love you I cannot make your children care what I can do is offer you my help such as it is I wish I weren't so jaded didn't approach such situations with a negative attitude but I grow suspicioius when displayed in your squalid apartment is a paper thin and absolutely enormous TV.

I don’t know this feeling but like others, it comes and goes. It fills me with anticipation, and sadness at the same time. I don’t know this feeling but like others, it sneaks up on me. It causes me to take time out, not to be alone. I don’t know this feeling but like others, it keeps me going. It reminds me what the reasons were, and what the future holds. I don’t know this feeling but like others, I’m in denial. I think I know what it is, but I’ve never been homesick before.

Inexperience worries that the dough isn't right. Flour covered hands roll with makeshift pin and juice glass cutter. A watchful eye of foreign ovens ensures nothing is on fire. Plain icing needs sprinkles, arranged on each masterpiece. Scrutinizing the mess, but pleased with their uniformity. Tears caught me by surprise, flown all the way home with one bite.

The laptop is warm on my knees I take another break for tea. The research continues, words reluctantly multiply. I'm probably overcomplicating it and distraction abounds. I hear something outside, or the relentless allure of the internet. When a sudden idea peeks around the corner and I'm back to the point. That five minutes of work certainly deserves a reward. More tea.

It shouldn't be like this it should be easy. All this change, jingling in my pocket, is not a sign of wealth. But when you hear it, you call it 'spare.' The desire to be generous stemmed by lack of resources, and cruel skepticism. When what is offered is not enough, there can be little difference between charity and robbery. Still. It should be automatic, like feeling for a lightswitch, offsetting a lifetime of punishment. Is food the goal, or a ticket home, or a pint, I can't tell. What story today for 20p? But whatever the pretence, whatever its intentions, I would have wasted it too.

I drive home with the radio on, trying to forget your dead face. I stand under my shower, trying to forget your panicked father. I pour milk on my cereal, wondering why you tied the knots. I watch TV on the couch, trying to forget the marks on your neck. I walk to the grocery store, trying to forget the hopelessness I felt. I wander through the aisles, trying to forget the sound of your crying mother. I workout for an hour, trying not to be mad at you. I stir my frozen dinner, wishing you had told someone. I drift into a restless sleep, wishing we had made a difference.

An class assigned sonnet-like response to "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" by the bard himself. It's not perfect iambic pentameter, but amusing. Some may want those abs to be a six pack, oh, but yours, I’m afraid is two liters; that and your tattoo of some womans’ rack, are barely hidden by your wife beater. You drive a tractor all day with a frown, you farm; in your trade no man is wiser; a hard worker from sun up to sun down, sadly your product is fertilizer. A solid education, you have not, you won’t be, nor can name the worlds leaders; most of your schooling spent with some ink blots, avoiding the stay with bottom feeders. But I love you, you idiot, you know. You have harvested our love, row by row.

Why do we fear aging? We try to prevent it, to stave it off. We wish to be younger, to pull the reins of time. We damn the wrinkles, dye the hair, cover the spots. We can’t wait to grow up, then can’t wait to stop. Still, we covet our parents’ experience, and long for our grandmothers’ wisdom. I do not fear age, no, I embrace the passage of time, as the older I get, the more I realize how stupid I was yesterday.

I am good at being single. I am getting used to it. I heat pizzas for one and laugh at my own jokes. I am independently minded, and find fun as the third wheel. I watch demoralizing chick flicks, have daytime fantasies of serendipitous meetings. I am self sufficient. I eat lucky charms for dinner and sleep late in the middle of the bed. I am bad at being single. I look and wait, but I don’t know where to find him. And when I do find someone I like, I have named our children, before I look at his left hand. When I feel lonely I don’t know where to turn. I settle for my cat.

Wind chilled wet hands steady the paddle against the wind, rhythmically slicing it into the choppy waters. The swell pushes me forward clumsily, as the spray leaps into my face. I am exhilarated, nervous, excited. The everyday produces a hard shell. Too many interactions with lifeless people. But here out on the water, I am freed. I shout it to the trees, to the heron in flight above me, to the sandy shoreline. I can still feel. My fears are put aside for one more day.

This job can wear on the heart. Can cause one to harden, and grow cold against the world. Everyday traumas and dramas, melt together, and even the extraordinary becomes a fading memory. Bloody gloved hands unconsciously go through the motions, methodically carrying out their tasks.

I am from a regular town full of regular people. People satisfied with purely living life. Sometimes I yearn for such simple desires as a two car garage, a dog, a big television. I am not special, yet feel unfulfilled. I’m a wannabe gypsy, a transient who fears the permanence of real life; of matrimony, contracts, escrow. But I have roots. Roots that are deep and don’t want to be exposed. Covered in the dirt of childhood, of old friends, of young and aging family members alike. I cannot just shake them off and plant somewhere new. I fear looking back with disappointment, but it spares my tail from being between my legs again. Still I search for the courage. A matter of closed eyes, trust games, and gambles. I take stock of where I’m from knowing I will inevitably leave again. Though I am inexorably tied to its people, its weather, its street names. But when I leave, I learn that where I’m from is where everyone else is from too.

The grumbling diesel engine of our ambulance brought us to a stop at the light. On the corner there was a little boy waiting to cross, holding his mothers hand. I could see him staring at us. I looked over and with his free hand, he waved tentatively. I smiled and waved back at him. Leaning over, I touched a button and lit up the ambulance like a Christmas tree. It was nothing compared to his grinning face. I had never been so proud as the light turned green and we pulled away.

Seven years ago I wondered how long it would take for 9/11 to be dramatized on TV or film. Five years ago I wondered if it had been long enough. “Flight 93” and “World Trade Center” together grossed over 100 million dollars. Only one million of that was donated- to build a memorial. Were these movies made in case we had forgotten? Because I have not forgotten. I have not forgotten how vulnerable and afraid I felt. I have not forgotten the whine of firefighter motion detectors going off in vain, I have not forgotten the frantic faces of people as they searched the dusty crowds for their loved ones. But I have also not forgotten how truly unified I felt with my neighbors. For awhile we were all friends, we saw ourselves in each other. It was practically utopian. Even I, who am not particularly patriotic, felt of one mind with the citizens of this nation. I remember television being suspended for days. I remember Dan Rather crying on Letterman. I remember pausing to watch every...

It was hot and he had walked for a while looking for just the right place secluded and out of sight this was a private party. It hadn’t rained in weeks but he wouldn’t have noticed that. The hot gravel crunched under his shoes and nothing could distract him. He felt for the back pocket of his jeans where hard metal jutted out awkwardly. It barely fit, but he wouldn’t have to hide it much longer. The wind blew and made little change to the treeless landscape. He finally stopped and sat with his legs crossed like an expectant child in school but he had nothing to look forward to only one more task to carry out. He dragged his hands on the unpaved ground one last attempt to feel. It was full of little stones appropriately hard and uncomfortable. He pulled the gun from his pocket and felt its weight. He raised it to his temple, surprisingly cool against his skin one more dry, ragged breath squeeze and pop. His hand fell and he slumped sideways. When the wind blew, dust stuck to his sweaty ...