what is it

I got drunk one time and tried to Google one of my memories. Upon discovering that it didn't work that way, I pushed my laptop to the floor and wept bitterly.

I think I remember it all; I think everything is tucked away safely.
And then I see a photograph,
hear a song,
smell the scent of patchouli and cologne,
and some random moment will come, fleetingly, hazy,
before disappearing again,
leaving me grasping at the smoke.

I've utterly forgotten touches,
the nuances.

Push the blanket over my head,
and strain against the dark,
seeking what I'm losing day by day.

I'm psychic.

I can see my future. Lucky me, you say...quite a skill. For a few weeks each summer, I can to peer into my future; one rapidly approaching with the passing of every school year, soccer season, and school photo. I get angry, sometimes, at time...spinning out of control, going so fast I feel like I'm missing whole chunks of weeks. Desperately slipping photographs into a box in my closet to hang on to every gap-toothed smile.

For these weeks, I drink hot tea in the evening in the silence; no TV, no radio, only the occasional hum of passing cars or a neighbor's thumping radio. I wash my face extra carefully, cook myself vegetables and rice, and indulge in hot baths with Radiohead playing quietly. I can see myself withering away like this once their lives have left my home. I find it extraordinarily difficult to picture life without them.

Today my car door opened and my son blustered in. It felt like the air inside the car had been a vacuum and it was popped open to full richness again. He chattered, intelligently, asking me pointed and thoughtful questions about war, about God, about girls, all in a thirty minute car ride. He made a joke that initially caught me off guard with its mature humor, and then made me laugh until tears came. He said quietly during a brief lull, while looking out the window at passing fields, "I love you, Mom."

He told me about a girl he met in school, just before the end of the year, with "blonde hair and eyes like Callie's and a pretty smile"..a girl named Skye. I asked why he never told me about her before. He shrugged. "I dunno. Didn't want to. Now I do." I asked if he had talked to her. No. Why? "I'm nervous."

We spoke with no radio, quietly, almost reverently, as my son opened up to me more than he has in months, perhaps since his last outburst about his father. He told me he was reading the newspaper on his iPad and his iPhone while he was at his grandmother's house and he was worried. Why all the war? Why all the fighting? How many people are going to die? He seemed somehow accepting when I said, "I don't know. I just don't know."

I watched him as he sauntered in the doctor's office, leaning on the counter and chatting with the receptionist in that easy way that some people have. That I don't have. That is every single bit his father. The receptionist was laughing and I could see how easy it was going to be for him to flirt with pretty girls once he got older and found his nerve. The young doctor, also a handsome brunette with an easy smile, joked and laughed with him before diagnosing him as being too awesome and telling him he was going to need to come back in six months to keep that under control. Didn't want the ladies knocking down his door, doctor said, throwing a wink my way.

We sang Ace of Bass on the way home...he knows all of the words to some of the songs now, and he laughed and was visibly relieved to be declared well again. He asked what movies were out now and then said we should go on a "date" to see a movie, so I said we'd do it. He sat back and grinned, his left-hand fingers absently tapping my wrist on the center console. The boy oozes charisma and charm around others, has become teacher's pet every year and is known by name by every secretary, janitor, and nurse at his school...but to me, he opens his inner doors and shares his quiet pain, worries, fears. I have waited for many years to see if he would trust and respect me enough, especially after losing his father, to allow me to be his friend and confidante. Today he made it clear he does.

This sounds like nothing to some, but this was a beautiful day to me. The small victories in parenting end up winning the war. Earning a child's trust and respect unlocks a healthy future for both of us: he knows he can come to me with anything and I will listen and care for him, and I know he is growing to be a smart, inquisitive, empathetic soul who will touch the world in beautiful ways.

He went back to his grandmother's tonight...I have an all-day conference tomorrow so she's staying home with him. I came home to my empty house, but it didn't feel so empty anymore. It's a home, a nurturing nest, a landing pad, a place of inspiration and hope, comfort and love, and for now, a quiet retreat for me to gather my thoughts and prepare myself for many more insightful conversations with the incredible people I am allowed to call my children.

The fundamental flaw

There are times....
there are times I feel
swept up in the exhilaration of life, the ebb and flow
pushing and pulling me in an intoxicating dance,
where I feel connected deeply,
fundamentally,
to the rhythm of life.
Where I feel so connected and in sync
to the people around me,
where we talk and understand and conversations can flow with some words unspoken as we all just
get it.
Meaningful glances over cigarettes and nods of agreement...
yeah, man.

How long has it been since that last moment?
How long have I been so disconnected?

I feel like a child stumbling into a conversation,
a talk where I missed the beginning and am struggling to pick up a thread.
A word.
A theme to connect with.
I too keenly observe behaviors, gestures,
subtlety of physical movement,
that I formerly ignored as I contributed my impassioned opinion.

Someone caught me at this recently,
he smiled and said, "What do you think?"
And I froze.
What
did
I
think.
What
did
I
think??

I think we're all drinking too much.
I think we're all ignorant.
I think we're talking out of our asses and nothing we say is going to make a difference.
I think we're all presumptuous.
I think we're all just going through the motions until one day we're the topic of conversation in a group of mourners dressed in black...
puffing on cigarettes,
shaking their heads...
yeah, man.

I think we're talking too much and we need to listen.
I think we're sitting too much and we need some action.
I think we're allowing the rape of our nature and the crush of our culture and the oppression of our freedoms because we're fucking talking,
talking,
talking over beer and shaking our heads in defeat...
yeah, man.

I think we're weak.
I think we're giving up on the fundamental freedoms, like the one of speech, in exchange for faster internet and nice ringtones.
I think we're sitting when we should be moving,
talking when we should be listening,
whispering when we should be yelling
and fighting
and pushing back,
instead of placidly complaining...
yeah, man.

I think we're going to reach a moment where we have to make a fundamental decision whether to be comfortable or to go down swinging, whether to take the 2 year contract with no exit clause or to tear the paper in shreds and walk away from corporate dependency.
I think we'll reach that moment in this stupefied state of weakness and complacency,
and we will lose.
Shaking our heads...
yeah, man.

So what do I think, dear friend?
I think we're working with a fundamental flaw.
We have already accepted defeat.
When we're protesting at Duke Energy while we shop at Wal-Mart,
when we pick and choose which evil to boycott and which to support;
when we have allowed the subjugation to fully infiltrate our lives to the point of no return.
I think we should have another round,
sing along to this song a little,
enjoy this night...
cause we're already done.

Take it back

If I could take it back..
rewind the clock...
to that time.
Gritty, hot summer in the city.

There was that moment,
my skirt blown round my thighs by the swift passing train
and us alone on the platform of the L, watching
the sun set over the skyline, all
purples and pinks and grey smog and neon graffiti on
the walls.

Your fingers laced with mine,
the freckles on your knuckles.

The smells, the heat, the
music.

The time.
Passed quick, it was a blur,
but now I can
recall every moment.

I recall moments where I should have,
if I could have,
turned to you and stopped the clock.
Told you it was you.
Told you it was this road,
not another.
On that platform,
before the train swept in,
I could have stopped it all.
But I was too
deep.

I stepped off
and your eyes filled with questions.
The years have swallowed the words
that were left hanging there.
My heart
still hanging around...
waiting for the L.