the parent who remains

a note to my readers:  many of you know me and know my mother, so i feel it's important to point out that--like most of my poetry/creative writing--this piece is not autobiographical or even biographical.  it is, however, influenced by my own reflections at witnessing the strength and grace of many "parents who remain," including my own gorgeous mama.

she looks out the window and notices that the grass has been mowed.

someone mowed the grass and she never noticed and she can't think

when

or who

but it must have needed mowing and she is grateful

someone mowed the grass.

in a couple of weeks, she will need to mow it again.

and again after that.

and again and again and again.

for the rest of her life, this grass will need to be mowed.

she can do that.

she can absolutely do that.

she looks over at her husband's aunt

a very old lady

whose own only child lives an ocean away

and she knows that this aunt will need to go to the doctor soon.

in a few months, she will need to be the one to move this aunt
into a nursing home.

and visit her after that.

again and again and again.

for the rest of her husband's aunt's life, she will need to be looked after.

she can do that.

she can absolutely do that.

she looks around her at the house and all the people in it

a lot of stuff and a lot of people

and she thinks of oil changing, thank you card writing, retirement planning, dishes washing, grocery shopping, churchgoing, window replacing, dinner eating, dog medicine giving, trash taking out, taxes completing,

and representing

out and about in the world

representing

and deciding

all that deciding

that she will need to do.

deciding.

she can do all of that.

and

looking at her children,

all grown up

as grown up as they will ever get in her eyes,

she does her very first deciding since everything changed.

she decides:

i will watch my children be heartbroken.

i will not try to cover up their pain or pretend it doesn't exist.

i will not offer them stupid platitudes that make them feel oddly guilty about being sad.

i will not act out when their father's memory seems to get more attention than my living presence.

and

i will accept their help when i really need it.

they are each, in turn, finding her in the room

every few minutes

checking in with their eyes or a hand on her arm as they walk by

because

she is heartbroken too

and she knows they know that.

a person called okay

the second installment in a week-long series exploring our rituals of talking to ourselves

it's okay you're okay it'll be okay everything's okay okay okay okay?

{step} {step} {step}

{stop}

it's okay you're okay this is going to be okay sh sh sh sh sh keep walking

{step} {step} {step}

{stop}

{inhale}

mmmmmmmmmmmmm

{inhale}

{step} {step}

{pause}

{step} {step}

everything's fine everything's fine everything's fine keep moving

{hand to chest}

{taptaptaptap taptaptaptap taptaptaptaptap}

yep got it got it yep got it

{clamp jaw}

{stepstepstepstepstepstepstepstep}

{breathe out through nose}

{eyes cloud}

{stepstepstepstepstepstepstepstep}

basted

the second installment in a week-long exploration of the rituals of apologizing

she sits and she stews.
bubbling broiling basting baking in a badbadbadbadbadbad soup
her nostrils are flared
(which she doesn't know).
she is biting her lower lip
on the inside
(which she doesn't realize).
she is super duper bigtime watch-out-honey this-is-gonna-hurt
pissed.

and no one speaks to her for a few minutes
because
well
because they know better.
and no one tries to help
because
they've seen this before.
and everyone just waits
because eventually
she
will
blow.

and when she does, she will send flames shooting up the walls / she will scratch the paint off the coffee table / she will rip up the curtains with her incisors and crunch gravel with her molar teeth.

after all that
she will stop.
and maybe cry a little bit.
or a lot.

because she knows that she's made a mistake.
she is the one who screwed this up.
she is the one to blame.

and because no one is harder on her than she is on herself,
this makes her skin feel hot and her head feel like it's crammed very very full of those little styrofoam peanuts,
and it will take her a long time to get to

i'm sorry.

metallic

the second installment in a week-long exploration of the rituals of starting again

he clamps his teeth together so hard he can feel his jaw muscles clenching
birds scatter and squawk at the creaksqueakscreech when he lifts his right arm right out in front of him.
he wonders what the spiders and the ants on the cement below him think
when they get caught in the snow flurries the rust flakes that float down from his elbow as it extends.
a rush of blood and his fingers are all tingly as he extends his palm.

he is vaguely aware that he is forgetting to smile
but he makes eye contact and considers that a victory.
he shook one hand at the entrance of this one interview and even if it all goes to shit from here
that's more than he did yesterday.

later
he clatters down the sidewalk
and the trees in their planters wave and cheer him on.

torn

part two in a week-long series about the rituals associated with napkins...yes, napkins

i look in her eyes and notice
for the first time
how often she blinks.
she laughs raises her eyebrows lowers her eyebrows presses her lips together.
i start to speak and she is nodding
already
before i've gotten two words out
she is nodding.
her chin is tipped down
slightly
and her eyes are looking up at me
slightly
so that i know she is
righttherewithme.
what i do not know
is that she is sitting on her hands
because her therapist has suggested that she try it.
what i also do not know
is that if she weren't sitting on her hands
she would already be three rips into her napkin,
on her way to having 64 perfectly-torn squares in a little stack,
on her way to having six of those stacks in a row beside her fork before the entree is served,
on her way to arranging those six stacks in a three columns of two and then two columns of three.
what she does not know
is how long she can sit still.

much

part two in a week-long series about the rituals of summer-vacation-taking

she doesn't care for the beach much
but
this is where they have wanted to come
every year
since the oldest one could say the word ocean
so
she packed the sunscreen the bathingsuits the raggedy towels
and proceeded to have fun
their way.
she got tangles out of hair
she held hands jumping over waves
she made rules about how late they could walk on the pier without a grownup.
today
she sits on the porch of the rental, half-reading her book as they and their spouses unload the cars
bringing in water wings and sand pails and sunshades.
she watches them swarm into the kitchen where she earlier unloaded the only kind of macaroni the toddler will eat, the favorite potato chips for the son-in-law, the special milk for the one with allergies
all things she knew to bring without them even asking.
she feels the place fill up with her favorite kind of noise, the unconscious noise of family, and keeps it to herself that
she doesn't care for the beach much.

answerer

part two in a week-long series all about the rituals of being friends.

she looks at her phone

and sees the name flash up.

she would love to answer she would love to talk she would love to

re

connect

but

she is so busy she only has three minutes she has her hands full

with

the potato chips she just dumped on the kitchen floor / the ponytail she's trying to get in / the phone call she has to return from two weeks ago to the gas company about that bill / the gas she needs to get so she can drive to work / the text from her mom she needs to return / the stuff she was supposed to read for her meeting tonight / the book she needs that she left in the car / the keys she can't find

anywhere

and they haven't talked in so long so many months to catch up on so much she needs to wait for a long stretch she needs to block out some time

so

she lets it go to voicemail.

three minutes later

she looks at her phone

and sees the name flash again.

same name.

she laughs, knowing that the longest message-leaver on the planet has struck again,

knowing that the voicemail timed out and the longest message-leaver on the planet has called back to finish the message,

knowing that the message will be hilarious, rambling, silly, loving,

knowing there will be no reproach for not returning the last two messages

the ones from last month.

she feels a rush of warmth and wistfulness and sorrow and gratitude and humility that she doesn't have time to tease apart.

she is on the run.

one minute later

she looks at her phone

and sees the name flash again.

same name.

and in a matter of seconds she realizes

there is no rambling silly message.

she stops.

she recognizes the code

their s.o.s.

their i need you now ritual

three calls in a row

and she drops it all

everything that was on her plate

everything right down to the plate itself

to answer the phone

and sit patiently with her friend at the edge of the deep, dark well.

kind

a kind man
he is a just a very kind man.
knotted fingers younger than they look
from years of building things at work building things at home fixing things at other people's houses and under other people's cars
because he is a kind man.
slowly
he speaks
slowly.
he doesn't pause between his words but he doesn't rush them out of this mouth either.
he doesn't feel that what he has to say is the most important thing to say
so if it doesn't get said then that's okay.
for him
there is no such thing as running out of time.
there is just
time.
he is one of those rare people
now
who really notices the weather
every day.
he takes it in
acknowledges it
in some way he communicates with it.
his brother has watched him do this for years
and believes that this intimacy
this frank communion
with the weather is the reason he is so
rooted
and so kind.

mintier

we can hear her laugh crackling down the hall
long before she busts through the door,
leopard-print shirt drizzling from those bony elbows,
eyes shiny with delight and long swoops of electric blue eyeliner.
the energy in the room is measurably higher
joules bouncing off chairs and tables and v-necks and strappy sandals
decibels tilting up and up and up
all of us burning more calories as we
turn it up
turn it on
take our turn romping around in the light she gives off.
she is
as ever
happy to see everyone
taking each face in separately, distinctly, uniquely
in its own time.
it's clear that now
the pesto tastes snappier
the mojitos smell mintier
and even jack seems funnier.
her smile is radiant as she listens to a story about a groundhog
leaning her small square hips against the wall
and nodding along with the teller of the tale.
she has no idea that she is the life of the party.

luxury

she totters over to the bench and leans on the glass to take a rest.
glasses adjusted
watch checked
throat cleared
she waits.
she waits better than her sons and her daughter
better than her grandchildren in seattle
better even than the counselor they're sending her to see for her forgetfulness.
she has waited all her life, and it comes naturally to her.
she doesn't fidget
she doesn't sigh
she doesn't pace around reading the bus schedule every sixty seconds to fill the moments.
she is still
enjoying her breathing
noting the angle of the sunlight on the downtown buildings she can see from here
musing about whether to make chocolate pie or banana cake for homecoming at church.
when the bus comes, she will
climb the stairs slowly
make a joke with the driver
and ride all the way to the pretty coffee shop across town.
at the shop, she will order a large latte with almond milk and hazelnut
and she will sink into the plush velvet chair in the thick of things
people watching and sipping.
she giggles to herself at the prospect of this small private luxury
this weekly adventure that's her own favorite secret.
she has earned it.
she waits.

chapstick

she picks the dry skin off her lips and flicks it on the floor
bites her bottom lip with her top teeth
chews the inside of her cheek with her molars
rubs her lips together over and over again
and then she puts on some chapstick
the one that comes in the black tube
without any real flavor to speak of.
she buys them in packs of ten or twelve
and stashes them four or five at a time in her purse
her beside table
her medicine cabinet
her glove compartment
(where they often melt and run all over the operating manual in its plastic sleeve).
she's been known to find them in the refrigerator and in the couch cushions.
once she found a plastic target bag with 33 of them
loose
hidden in the back of the linen closet
behind the extra set of sheets
the ugly ones she never used but kept for linen emergencies
whatever those might be.
don't get me wrong:
we are talking about a powerful woman
in the world.
she negotiates mergers
she picks up the check
she silences board rooms
brilliant
meticulous
in control.
but chapstick
she cannot be without chapstick
chapstick gets the best of her.

free

she looks at me when we all sit around the table
which is surprising because
she's the only one who ever has.
she
in fact
turns to me many times on purpose choosing me over the others for whatever morsel she has to share
it strikes me as funny but laughing is inappropriate so
i cover it up with a cough and a napkin swipe
like i'm in a sitcom.
ha.
she's laughing right now all about how she's wearing purple pants for the first time in her life and she dares anyone to say something about it.
no one says anything about it
not even anything nice, which i think is odd and probably a little rude since i'm sure she was fishing for support there
a little bit of encouragement.
i don't say anything either because i am mesmerized by her gold eyeshadow.
it might not be the first time she's worn gold eyeshadow, but it might just be the second or third time.
she doesn't have it quite right yet.
this is the first time i've ever met her so i wonder
has she always been like this?
or is this new?
and i have a strong impulse to ask her,
lady! how did you get so free?
it's a ridiculous question so i keep it trapped just under my tongue
while i watch her say the things we've all wanted to say for ages
but haven't
because we were scared to look like we didn't know what we were doing.

counted

she works very hard
she works for herself
she works all the time
and
he is constantly at her side
asking for something
a drink / watch this / a french fry / find it / a carrot / help me
she
with her smartphone buzzing
and biscuits in the oven
and thirty-two new work emails since 2pm today
is poking her finger in his mouth to get out the grass he likes to eat for some reason
she does this automatically
without thinking about it
while thinking about something else
the dentist appointment she has tomorrow
and whether he will sit still long enough for her to get her teeth cleaned
or if she should get a sitter
or if she should just cancel it and try again later
like she did last time
she runs her tongue over her teeth
and thinks maybe if all her teeth fall out
they could give her new ones anyway
but those are dentures
and dentures are for old people
her phone buzzes again and she remembers the biscuits
and she saves them from burning
perfectly brown buttery yummy
and even though she burns her hand when she takes them out of the oven
she counts it as a victory
she counts his fingers and toes
she counts her blessings
she counts the number of minutes she has to respond to thirty-three emails before she hands him off to his dad and runs out to her lunch meeting
she counts on making at least seven out of eight green lights if she's going to be there on time

tailored

red hair
but not that fiery red
not the red that makes you think of sex and lipstick and fishnet stockings
dishwater red
even against the everyday black
this woman's ensemble
her uniform

she is
very tailored
it's not just her pants
it's
more than that
her
words are well-composed
always
fitting
the moment just right
appropriate
her
movements are not too small
not too out of control
just enough
to communicate what she's trying to say
her
laughter is sized for the amusement
it doesn't quack or hoot or god forbid snort
no
it is a lovely, lilting, honest laughter
bubbling out of a slightly open mouth with crinkled but not wrinkled eyes

for twenty-seven days i have been watching this woman
and i have a feeling that today will be the day
i am determined to catch her
out of balance
off kilter
in flux
i am determined to see her eat chocolate pudding out of a cup with her finger while rocking the baby in one arm and jamming her feet into her size seven perfectly matte black flats and making a phone call to see why the recycling hasn't been picked up in three weeks

or something like that

serious

his skin is
slightly rough
arms, back, hands
(smooth legs though
he has smooth legs)
the roughness is nice
it feels real
it makes sense
it feels like something a girl can hold onto
his back is wide
wide
i think his scapula
could sprout wings
seriously

yes
his body
is serious
he is a man
with a serious
body
frank
honest
tangible

and i don't think
his heart
has come to grips with that body yet

i can tell it
when he laughs

angler

too skinny legs in too big pants
she's getting smaller everytime we see her
her smile is huge on her face
now
and the wrinkle between her eyes
is deep
she's got extra skin in the fold of her elbow
and behind her knees too
she does everything more easily
now
more sure of herself
when she walks
more confident
in her potential to bend
she angles herself into conversations
with a lightness
she's never shown before

nice guy

he's like a grown-up kid in a button-down shirt
in an office
at his big desk
covered with lots of papers and gadgets and
stuff
he's a nice guy
in his 40s
still thinking of his parents and their friends
as the adults
he's a nice guy
who loves his wife
and feels bad when she gets a migraine
and gets irritated by her stubborn refusal to take medicine
and goes home to take care of her anyway
he's a nice guy
from a good family
who drinks beer
and isn't very tall
and doesn't put on airs
and has dark circles under his eyes
and looks women in the eye when he speaks to them.

thick

his fingers are too thick.
he's a normal-sized man
average
i suppose
head in proportion to torso
torso matching legs
i've never seen his feet outside his shoes
so i can't speak on those
but overall
averagely average
except
his fingers
his thick
sausage fingers
no hair
one ring
it's the right size
the ring
it's not squeezing or constricting or smooshing finger flesh out on the top and bottom
but still
i can't look at his hands too much
i know it's wrong
but it kind of grosses me out.

childlike

she has twenty different laughs
and most of them
are full of mischief.
she has a little girl's smile:
it makes her cheeks get round.
it makes her eyes get all sparkly.
it takes over her whole sweet-smelling face.
she has an "ooooh!"
she has a "yes!"
she has a "you all did such a good job!"
this woman,
she will jjjjump, clap, talk a mile a minute;
i have seen her when she just couldn't be still.
this one,
she is like a child
in the best possible way:
she has a great capacity for joy.

sugar

she bitches to her friends
she slurps her lollipops
one in every color
and one that's rainbow swirl
and she smacks and licks and slobbers
as she bitches
about her life
in little bits and pieces
little pieces parts
this person that conversation those shoes
she spins it negative
she spins it in boohoohoo
she wiggles herself into a tight-fitting girdle of listen-to-how-bad-this-sucks
and all the while she sucks that sugar