welcome mat
and i’m sorry i didn’t let you stand your ground
but after you ripped our red rug from under me
let me stumble down to my knees
i knew it wasn’t you and i who were meant to be
it was the front door with the chip on the paint that your mom made when she brought in a new red chair
where i left to my first day of work in the bright red dress you never liked
where you brought her in through in your favorite color
and i could never let you speak for yourself
when its always been your hands who do all the talking
turning the door knob
turning yourself away from me
turning yourself into someone i do not know
i know enough now to get up and leave
there's no shame in that
only shame in my taste in decor
our welcome mat was too inviting
Apartment Numbers
He paused with his fist in midair, his eyes wide and staring on the bold golden numbers on the door. 383. He knew he should knock, he knew he should focus on why he came here, yet he couldn’t stop thinking of those numbers. 383. How many times had he gazed at them? Months ago, he would’ve double checked the letters against the address she texted him before their first few dates. He’d seen the numbers many times, dropping her off, picking her up, coming over to watch movies. There must’ve been times he forgot to look at them; maybe the first time she invited him in, or after late nights watching her fumble with the lock after a few too many vodka tonics. He sighed. 383.
Knock knock.
The door swung open. Her roommate, was it... Emma? Ella? She was never around much, and the few times he’d seen her, she was in a hurry to be somewhere else.
“Oh! Hi Mark! Do you and Anna have a date tonight? Fun! Come in! I’m just heading out!” The door shut behind Emma/Ella before he was able to return the greeting.
“Oh, hey.” Anna says from the doorway of her bedroom. “Sorry about Emily.”
Emily. Close enough.
“I’ts okay. I’m guessing you didn’t tell her?”
“No,” Anna says, releasing a deep breath. “I haven’t had the chance yet.” She makes her way into the living room, closer to Mark, who’s still standing, rather awkwardly, right infront of the door.
“Well, typical Emily.”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah.”
The two stare at eachother for a moment, unsure of what to say next.
“Well,” Anna sighs, finally looking Mark directly in the eye, “might as well get this over with. Your stuff is in my room. I’ll be right back.”
Mark nods, glancing around the room for the last time. He smiles softly as Anna returns with a small brown box with his blue sweater he’d given her sticking out from the top.
“This is it, I guess.”
“I guess. Hey.. I’m sorry it had to end like this... but the move, and the job, it just so much.”
“I know, Mark. It’s okay. We both agreed it would end worse if we did long distance.”
“You’re right.” He sits the box down to give her one last hug. “Bye, Anna.”
“Bye, Mark.”
He hears the door shut behind him, and takes a moment to gaze, once again, at the gold letters. 383. Anna. 383.
Mark walks down to his car, packed almost entirely to the brim. He carefully places the box of his things on the passenger seat, next to two other small boxes. He gazes at the three boxes, a smirk on his face as he scans the content. He reaches out his hand to touch one particular item in each box, a blue sweater, all identical the one he’d lent Anna. Satisified, he starts his car, then pulls out a pencil and small black journal from the center console. He opens the journal to his list, and marks a line through 383-Anna.
“And next,” he says to himself, “421-Christine. 10 minutes away.”
421.
Rewriting the 27 Club
“Do you know how many artists died with a white lighter on them?”
There’s weight buried here. And now every time my thumb drags across a metal wheel, begging to ignite a flame, I dig it back up. I think of your mouth. Toxic-drip of alcohol fumes. Of the way your fingers kept tugging at my waist. The white plastic, an SOS in the thicket of the night. How you thought you’d save me. The way you were just slightly too disoriented to grab the bad omen from my hand. I feel the way your thumb sat at the crook of my thigh. And how when I hid my hand behind my back your other arm slipped around me to grasp on air. Too short to steal the lighter from my clenched fist. How the second your finger tips closed on the palm of your own hand the empty air between us felt more like water clinging to my throat. Something denser than the smoky way you had been laying heavy in my chest all night. Your hand stealing at empty space. And your eyes stealing at my face. Catching at the mouth. Becoming lost as they crawled their way up to my eyes. My closed fist, a missed opportunity, sending yours to burrow into the small of my back. Kneading its way up my spine. Pressing me into something close to the shape that I was meant to be. And I remember thinking that this was it. Pressure-shift, inevitable. But then you pulled me too close. And in my surprise you tore the lighter from me. Tossed it out the window. One fluid moment. Your albatross, my beacon of hope. My mouth was disappointment-dripping. And you misread that ache. Your face pinched. The back of your hand brushing away any traces of me-disheveled. You slipped me off your lap and stumbled out of the car into the street-lamp glow. And that lighter didn’t steal my life like you thought it might. But it stole your mouth on mine. So when you held it out to me, I threw it back out into the night, thanklessly. I held my tongue between my teeth to keep from screaming. But the cheap plastic didn’t care. Your skin kept drifting farther from mine. But the cheap plastic didn’t care. Maybe when they find me wasted, rotting, that lighter will be there after all. Cheap, white plastic. Plastic-you and flameless-me. Without a care.
trivia
between your silky lithe thighs I fall through time, observe the past and future, the above and below, the outer side of all things
words I spill are mute, unable to convey the tsunami that draws upon me every time I dare to lift my gaze from the pristine lily pallor of your silky thighs and look past the shadowy ocean of tattoo ink spilt across your chest, right into your icy eyes stuck staring inside the nature of things, such as myself
such as the tsunami roaring within, trapping warped reflections from the outside, its scale fails to scare you as you stare and you stare, reflecting me in the reflected glare of the moon
overwhelming and bare, barely breathing, so still, robbed of color aside from the eyes, almost as freezing as the night outside
that awful stillness transfixes me, instilling doubt in the order of things, making me question the notions of the moon and the night and the rest of the gloomy routine that lies somewhere out of reach, decrepit and forgotten like skin long since shed, the whole world mere cardboard decorations outside the fragile frame of your silky thighs
skin so soft, smooth and thin, silvery in the eerie reflected sunlight stripped of warmth by the sateless night outside, a sacrilege, a sacrifice, pagan poetry in the murky depths of my nightly mind muting me
my universe is described by the processes hidden beneath your skin, the thundering pace of your pulse, circulation of liquids in your juicy flesh, the arcane language of secret secretions within
it’s just a moment in conceivable time that will pass in a blink, slip past you unnoticed just like the rest of those fleeting seconds when I manage to sync with my body, otherwise overflowing, sinking in disbelief, when I freeze, afraid to breathe out the pitch-black scent of the reptile lurking inside
HOLES
Burning a hole.
A lit cigarette pushed against my dirty skin would be easier to tolerate than their eyes, judging, loathing, am I frolicking in a terrorist’s ashes?
It began so innocently. But promises come with responsibility. Was it my choice or theirs? Does it even matter? For longer than I anticipated, I played along. Smiled when they asked, “how is it going?”
“It’s good, better than good, it’s great!” Because it is what they wanted to hear. But it was a lie from the start. Never meant to be and my failure is mine but was it ever mine to begin with?
And that is exactly why I lay here hiding, with nowhere to hide; my sheets, my comforter, do not rise to the occasion, cannot cover for me. So I turn to words, pages, flipping, back and forth, none of them stop to meet me. Dropping as soon as I read them, a ball that will not bounce. Does not come back. Cannot be held.
Because, “Sorry,” I was told is not good enough. And the snail can fit under the rock. A bird can fly away. If I dig my hole, one shovel at a time, will it ever be big enough for me?
Something Less than Perfect
It claws at your soul, rakes holes in your heart, and leaves lasting scars in the place of memories. What is this thing, this wild creature of sorrow and hatred? Surely, it is something less than perfect.
It is an enemy. You have known it all your life, yet, for some reason, have never been able to fully understand it, nor have you been able to dispell it. It hooks onto your back and stays there, whispering in your ear, reminding you that you are something less than perfect.
It is always there, waiting for the right moment to strike. Whenever you stumble, it watches, chuckling. It replays those moments over and over again, until your mind is swimming with embarrassment and guilt.
Shame.
That is its name. Always watching, always whispering. Always telling you that your world is something less than perfect.
SHAME
The reflection I see is like a pebble thrown into the ricocheting waters of time, creating tiny waves of hope. I notice the stone is skimming in an older ocean now as it folds into a kaleidoscope of amazing colors. It seems that the sea is becoming my friend these days and I am one with it in my breath.
I remember how the wind was once like the shame I felt, blowing ever small grains of my existence in every possible direction. The nights were colder in the universe and I’d lost my footprints in the sand. The beaches were the friendless places I took my cares to when I was lonely.
My places were limited to the feelings I had, sometimes growing thorns out of self-hatred and cluttering space. I hadn’t intended to plant the seeds that I’d carried all those years. It happened though, a lot like the rain falls when you don’t want it to. Then again, the shame in my yesteryear’s was more like red hot lava I’d run from. I recall that I wasn’t as pretty or smart as the beauty queens were then and it hurt me. Let’s face it. Heated anger boils the blood when you are 16-years old and you’re mad at the world.
My daughter calls me “mother” and I am pulled back into the moment, looking into the blue eyes of my child. Though I want to tell her that I understand her, the words are losing me. When I call her name, it seems she isn’t even with me. “Was Laura ever really with me?” I wonder out loud as I walk on the shore.
“Oh, but I am here, mom,” I hear her say in my dreams and, there she is, talking with me. We pick up seashells and sing to the seagulls. Sometimes we converse with the lives we wished we had and we paint together. She is a 16-year old woman-child now and I, too, was young once. Though she doesn’t believe it to be true, I can relate to her.
Like me, Laura is trying to find herself in the wrong things and reversing the days into nights. She can barely open her eyes when the sun comes up, as though life tires her and she’s looking for endless sleep to come. When the dark night is around, she’s like an owl with a wide-eyed open stare and she doesn’t move.
“Mother,” I hear her call my name again, as I turn towards her and realize she needs something from me. “You said you’d give me a ride over to Lisa’s house,” She cries out, “She’s expecting me at her house, mom.”
My guess is that 17-year old Lisa will give Laura drugs and she will love her for it. Of course, my precious child adamantly denies any drug use and I am powerless. It seems to me that a child’s love for drugs is stronger than a parent. I’ve come to believe that drug addiction will destroy the life my daughter longs for.
She disappears, maybe gone forever, and Lisa’s parents are filled with the same concerns. I hold the telephone in my lap and wait for the calls to come. Mrs. Adams comes running to me with a note from Lisa: “Dear Mom and Dad don’t worry about me. I love you. Laura asks you to tell her mother that she loves her. We will be ok. Try not to freak out.”
I close my eyes and dream of Laura as an 8-year old again, two years prior to her father’s death, and I hear the sweetest laughter. I clearly see my husband, Danny, is carrying his ever precious daughter on his shoulders in the backyard. He’s a hero to her and he proudly calls her the queen of the universe.
“I’m a Princess,” our summer blond child giggles, warming our hearts with her signature smile and sing-song personality. I cannot help but agree with this child when she claims her ruler ship of our world. Yes, indeed, she really is a Princess to me.
“Twirl me around, daddy,” she giggles, as her then-29 year old healthy father, spins her around in circles and sings. He’s not only singing with his voice when his eyes light up the universe. How could I ever forget his blue eyes? Why would I ever even want to?
I return to the reflective waves of time, touching the pebble with my fingers, and the waves are expanding. The summer air has turned cooler and the ocean is serenaded by the birds and eagles. I think that all of life is beautiful when I swear I can see Laura walking on the shores of Capitola. I shout out her name on the California beach and beg her to stay home.
I’m only dreaming again and the shame I feel as a parent doesn’t compare to the adolescent shame I felt. The feeling has little to do with the body weight and physical looks I cried over when I was young. I feel shame, knowing that my one and only child is a drug addict on the run.
Days turn into weeks and months of trying to find my baby girl. The police have her listed as a “missing person,” and she isn’t alone. Hundreds of children run away from home every day. Though the police do what they can to help me find Laura, all of their efforts come up empty and I’m back to square one.
Losing Danny meant losing our 2-bedroom home in San Jose and moving into a high rise apartment complex. It put us in a neighborhood across town from where we’d been and added extra hours to my nursing shift in the hospital. I work longer days to pay the bills and Laura spends more time with her grandparents.
“Grandma, is it my fault that my daddy died?” Laura asks my mother, Debby, and she’s crying as no child should have to. My sweet mom looks her precious little granddaughter in the eye and tells her it isn’t her fault. The sun is setting and I’ve been working a 12-hour shift again. Grandma’s answer isn’t enough for a young girl to understand.
“Come on, Laura. Let’s talk,” I beg of her on my next day off, as we drive to the park and sit together. Even though some 960,000 people live in the city, it seems we are desperately alone. Laura doesn’t want to talk about anything at all and she tells me that she hates me.
I’d saved up for years, wanting to afford the house on Capitola beach, thinking the summer of 2010 will be turning point for us. My husband’s fatal heart attack in 2006 has put a wall up between us. My daughter is only 10-years, I am age-30, and we are strangers.
The beginning months of my daughters’ run from home soon turns into a full year, with only one single call from her. I am truly heartbroken. It is the year 2017 and Laura is ringing our apartment at 2:00 a.m. from Dallas, Texas. “Yes, I’ll accept the charges,” I cry out to the operator and I am definitely wide awake.
“Mom”
“Laura. I’ve been worried sick about you, honey. Where are you? Is Lisa ok? What’s going on?” I cannot get the words out fast enough, afraid she’ll hang up on me, and even more afraid of what she’ll say.
“I’m ok. Lisa is doing fine, mom. We’re living in an apartment with some friends and we’re surviving. I’m sorry I waited so long to call you. I was afraid you’d be mad at me and couldn’t bear it. I can’t talk long now. I’ll stay in touch.” Click. She’s spoken under fifty words to me and the phone goes dead. I cry and I scream, pleading with the heavens for an answer.
The diary Laura left behind is filled with names of people I didn’t know existed, places she’d gone to when I was a working nurse, parties she attended, and a long list of drugs she had taken. I realize the question to ask myself isn’t about Laura anymore. The question I need to ask myself is, “Was I ever really there for my daughter?”
“Get a hold of yourself, Brenda,” my best friend, Carol reminds me, “You’ve done everything you can for Laura. You’re a good mother and it’s not your fault that she’s run away.” Though I appreciate her intentions, I do not believe her. I can only feel the shame.
I’m too thin for my 5’6” frame and I cannot close my hazel eyes. Dating is out of the question and I live to work. Nursing was my mother’s profession and I copied her to a tee. I, too, was an only child and I also lost my father. But, unlike Laura, I feel closer to my mom than any other human being. If only I could be close to my daughter again, I’d never let her go. I’d take time to listen to her and she could tell me anything.
This is a story that doesn’t have a happy ending though. At age-20, my precious daughter, Laura Ann died. She was a thousand miles away from me, dead from a heroin overdose in a run down apartment. She hadn’t taken a step in the Capitola beach house I rented and we never did walk on the beach. She left me forever.
The police tell me that Laura was already dead when the paramedics come. She
was desperately underweight, curled up in a fetal position on a dirty couch, a sad
and deceased girl in Nevada. Laura’s friend Lisa had disappeared into thin air and
I’ll never know why my daughter was in Las Vegas.
I’ve tried to put the bits and pieces together, making a complete picture of the
puzzle of my daughter’s life and a mystery remains. I know very little of where she was all those years. I believe she moved from state-to-state, town to town, and lived to support her drug addiction.
The reflection I see is like a pebble thrown into the ricocheting waters of time, creating tiny waves of hope. I notice the stone is skimming in an older ocean now as it folds into a kaleidoscope of amazing colors. It seems that the sea is becoming my friend these days and I am one with it in my breath. I walk on the shores of the beach and remember my daughter.
Laura colors the hope I have inside of me, knowing I will be reunited with her in heaven someday. She walks with me in spirit, as we look out at the ocean and we laugh. She tells me not to worry about her ever again. She is with her earthly father and her heavenly father.
God be with her. I love my daughter.
