I always questioned who my father was before the hair decided to settle between his chest, Before he was sentenced to manhood, Was he a believer of far-off things? Would we have been friends? Did he fight for possession of the brownie whisk with the entire fist of his mouth? I wonder if on his road, He carried his hopes in his bindle, And if he will ever get around to leaving them wide-open again. Dad, You are a mighty thing of your father’s distance and your mother’s vocabulary, But who …
He was on emergency leave when it happened, home in time for his mother to enter hospice, greeted at the airport by volunteers waving little American flags. I was “home for Christmas,” my meager belongings stored in a CubeSmart storage unit while I figured out my next move. Danny had started stealing my stuff to sell for cash hoping I wouldn’t notice, waiting outside the blood bank for it to open in the morning so he could sell plasma after his latest attempt to get clean failed. I’d gotten a …
As frail as I am with my bandaged head my stumbling abnormality of gait I can still lift my son a leg up into the crotch of the Kwanzan cherry. I can still wrap my one good arm around his waist and heave. I can stand there at sunset spotting him in his tiger-faced rain boots his firefighter’s costume complete with helmet and ear-piercing red whistle (the hatchet had to go). Where low sun gleams in the eye of an exoskeleton a tiny mirror of cicada reflects the setting sun and worn- out father …
Our synapses start firing as we form and recollect anecdotes or events that have impacted us throughout our lives. We lose and regrow important brain connections that may lead to a forgotten smile or worse. There is a certain amount of suspension of disbelief when we listen to a recounting of such stories, especially when the elocutionist is a charming storyteller, past his centennial year. I hate to admit that part, questioning how clear or fuzzy a memory appears. Most of the time, it isn’t …
To be old in the time of disease is to be angry for the crushed wren on the sidewalk; for the resurrection lily, its stem bent by the storm; for school children who carry their nightmares in backpacks; for the dead tree in my yard waiting to disintegrate; to be angry at liars who ignore courts and recounts; for hungry families without three full meals; for women with more babies and less choice. I wait for hours of music to wrap me, tickle my ears, awaken my soul; for raucous evenings, family …
“Do you want to die?” Sundeep’s brother asks. I nod. Devidas whirls the playground spinner before I have time to grip the metal bar and hold on for my life. He races around and attempts to knock us off with sheer velocity. While I rotate like a kaleidoscope, the ground sparkles with broken glass littered below. His brother, Sundeep, falls first. I’m almost thrown from the wheel, but as the only girl in the group, it’s imperative I hold on. At the last minute, I …