When death is fresh

I do not fight the tears.

My beloved brother is gone,

and a mysterious force grips

and holds all of me

in darkness.

An anniversary

connotes celebration,

but the first year

marker of Dan’s death

is anything but.

I begin to move, but

don’t want to.

If a pleasant memory dares

surface, I beat it back

into the darkness amid

echoes in my lonely mind:

“Too soon.”

I am in disbelief

when death anniversary

five arrives.

So soon?

My life is back on track,

but Dan again fills my thoughts

and shafts of light

penetrate the darkness.

But when a friend

offers a funny story

about my brother, I reply:

“Too soon.”

When I observe

the fifteenth year

of Dan’s death,

there is no darkness.

Just a bright light

that illuminates every

corner of his short life,

virtues, vices, silliness.

And when another brother

offers a funny story

about Dan, I reply, “Too soon.”

And we laugh uproariously.

I sit on a bench, glancing back and forth,

The sun bathes the surroundings in splendor,

Highlighting the lively atmosphere,

Kids chasing one another,

Women lounging in leisure,

Teenage girls stealing glances at sun-kissed boys.

The giggles and laughter fill my ears,

Yet, I feel like an empty, useless soul,

Despite the joy, sadness creeps back in

The darkness persists despite the sunshine’s warmth,

It has found its roots in me,

Sharp and insistent.

Tears stream down my cheeks

Perhaps due to the breathtaking scene before me,

Or tears of joy, I am not sure,

But deep within my heart,

The feeling lingers on,

The feeling of missing a soul.

They say that the best thing to happen to you in life hasn't happened yet. I don't have a retirement plan. Did you know that oysters are still alive when you eat them? I cut the woman in line, smiled grimly at her, and told her to keep my change, because nothing I have adds up anyway.

I write and words come out. I don't have a rhyme, or reason to any of this. Nietzsche said, "And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane..."

"...by those who could not hear the music." No one hears it but me - a lone, sad melody. I'm like one of those dogs that responds to a whistle no human can hear. I wonder if in a parallel universe, I'm famous, and this life I'm living on earth is a kind of reprieve from that mayhem.

Be grateful, they say.

Be humble, they say.

I try to be a better person, every day. I recently started taking Prozac. I'm like that Simpsons episode, you know how they're always predicting the future. The grandfather takes the orange pills and is sedated. He knows this. It's the joke, the entire point of the moment. But let me tell you something - those orange pills? They keep me from rocketing into the atmosphere, or digging a hole underground that fits my body perfectly.

I drove too fast on the highway, passed a car that had been going 40 in the fast lane. It's a woman, she's my age. Applying mascara, some kind of bottle in between her legs. A balancing act, deserving of praise. I only had respect, and drove away.

I knew a girl with anorexia so bad that she gave herself Osteoporosis. When I looked that up to spell check it, "Ozempic" came up instead. How ironic. I'm grateful people are getting the help they need with that medicine. But I'm also pretty certain that they are hearing the music of the masses, screaming to be skinny, everyone hearing it. Everyone slowly dying from the message.

I'll tell you something: read a book. Go the park and watch the geese. Throw bread crumbs at them and cast a spell, make up a song and sing at the top of your lungs.

And just maybe, that will trigger something, the best day of your life happening right before your eyes, a song that only you can hear and appreciate because you sat down and wrote the damn thing, a writer that sings and expects nothing.

A glance through the window from the front sidewalk revealed that the little coffee shop was typically busy, though much of the customer traffic was “to go”, leaving fully half of the tables and booths free despite the line at the counter. Tuesdays were, he’d assured her several times, the only free day on his busy work schedule, so Tuesday it always was… up until now.

The match had surprised her in the first place, though her photo was a good one, and was getting her tons of swipes. But this guy? The picture on his profile was off the charts, and his bio even better. She’d found herself skipping back to it a dozen times or more even after her swipe. He did finance law, and had won civic awards for his charitable, “pro bono” work, and besides all that he was a tanned and muscular outdoorsman… but amazingly he’d proven even hotter in person; tall, fit, thick hair, perfect teeth, his demeanor oozing confidence like spoons-full of sugary, lick-able syrup. Lila had been attracted to plenty of guys in her time, but she’d never felt herself physically gravitating towards someone as she did to him, as though he was the sun at the center of the whole sexual universe. However, after spending three months of Tuesdays getting as physically close to him as a woman could possibly get to a man she still felt as though he was as emotionally distant from her as was the moon. And now here poor Lila was, stuck in his orbit, rotating into his hemisphere every Tuesday only to be deep-spaced the rest of the week.

But still she came back. She came back because she had to. It amazed her at all that a man like him had reciprocated her interest. She had taken note of the wistfulness in the eyes of the women at the nearby tables that first Tuesday, especially those sitting alone, that they were not her. The looks on their faces had been affirming for her, a practical trophy, proof that he was everything Lila believed him to be and that she was worthy of him. And his interest had been real. Especially that first Tuesday. From the moment she’d walked in he had remained laser focused on her. He had listened, and related, warming her emotionally with how he leaned in so attentively, to the point of allowing his coffee to grow cold as she rambled on, and catching the waiter’s eye for warm-ups before she’d even noticed hers had also cooled. It was embarrassing in retrospect, the way she’d jabbered on that first time, like he‘d turned on a spigot in her that wouldn’t shut off. She’d told him everything half-ways interesting about herself that she could think of in the hopes that he would find something in her to like; revealing her past to him almost frantically (at least the pasts that were shareable), peeling down into the more fervent onion of of her life, even dicing into some of the fleshier parts which were better left unsaid on a first date, just as she would peel away her clothing a little later in the evening, exposing some other fervent parts for him to savor.

It was humiliating to recall, or would have been if he hadn’t seemed so absorbed, laughing along at her sillier anecdotes as though they were already familiar, like he’d known her forever, or at least that he’d always adored someone just like her… a younger sister perhaps? And he had received her clues so nonchalantly; the toe of her shoe that “accidentally” found his calf under the table, the frequent need to freshen her lipstick, or her undistracted gaze which noticeably widened whenever his lips parted. God, he had hurried her from the coffee shop just in time, sensing her willingness to proceed with their entanglement, recognizing that each time he smiled, or spoke, that Lila was imagining how juicy it would be to crawl between his lips and to loll inside them, a tiny Lila tasted and tossed by his roiling pink tongue before being chewed up and swallowed into his depths. God! She had almost ached for the ecstasy of it that first time they met, of being chewed up by those perfect teeth and swallowed.

And there hadn’t even been alcohol. Amazingly, perfectly sober she’d wanted that… to be chewed up and swallowed. At the end, she’d practically begged for it, and he had obliged. Lila had gone home with him willingly. More than willingly in fact, as it had been she pulling him away by the arm, it had been her tingling with desire for whatever would happen, good or bad, every fiber of her longing for it. There are always risks and rewards to be weighed during the inception of a new life, at the genesis of creating a new character within yourself. The reward here could be the easy, comfortable life she has never known, and the fantastical idea of that life was plenty enough to push her past the thought of any peril. Besides, it was so obvious he was a good guy.

She had gotten everything she wanted that first night, and more (it goes without saying that so had he). Of course, he had not “literally” chewed her up and swallowed her, though he might as well have. So much so that she rushed back again and again every Tuesday to meet him. And now here she was once more, for the umpteenth time. Only this time was different, wasn’t it? This time it wasn’t Tuesday. This time she had not come here just to jump into his bed. No, this time she was here to solve a mystery, and to validate an intuition.

Always before it had been Tuesday, and always the coffee shop. There were no deviations. Just as it was always the new-smelling Mercedes taking them on the short ride back to his place; everything in the coffee shop, the car, and the apartment feeling sterile, modern and clean, just like he did. It was also sex, nothing else. Yes, it was a little off-putting that Lila never really learned enough about him to introduce anything knew into this relationship she wanted to build, but the sex was great, and that was a start. Sex; passionate sex, sometimes on the very edge of rough, almost diminishing sex. In her feelings it was as though she, and only she, whenever she wanted, could pull some undiscovered animal from inside him that he had never been aware was hidden in there. And for her, she had never felt more desired than when twisted or flattened beneath him, succumbing to the beastly urges that her naked body was able to manifest from within him, beginning with a thrust and ending in a gutteral growl. No, Lila never was more alive than when swallowed beneath him.

But shouldn’t they be past that starting point by now?

Initially that had been enough, sex on Tuesdays, but Lila was craving more. Any woman would. She deserved more. So when her curiosity finally reached its breaking point Lila broke tradition. And now here she was, standing outside the coffee shop on a Wednesday evening, gazing in at what she assumed to be the Wednesday Girl, a young, somewhat pretty woman who was sitting in the same seat that she, Lila, the Tuesday Girl, had warmed just the night before.

Though somewhat pretty (he could certainly do better), the Wednesday Girl was really nothing more than a blur on the edge of Lila’s vision, as the Wednesday Girl was irrelevant. Lila was focused instead on the way he was leaning into her, completely interested in whatever trivial thing she was pattering on about… though Lila did take notice of how the Wednesday Girl positively twittered from that attention. So it was with both widening curiosity and some discretion that Lila awaited an opening to slip inside, into a booth where she could better see and hear the Wednesday Girl, from which she could observe her expressions, and ride the waves of her familiar emotes. As she did so it became obvious to her how, as a currently non-participating observer, he had picked up on Lila’s clues that first Tuesday. Anyone in the coffee shop paying the slightest bit of attention could see that this Wednesday Girl was ripe to be ravaged, and that she was here with just the man to do it. The signs and signals were blatant to even a casual witness, weren’t they? It was almost a cautionary tale. “Get a room” was the common remark for such a situation as this, though the coffee shop’s upscale clientele were too polite to say something like that out loud… and too inclined to accept the free lesson in manipulation. It is something, after all, to sit safely back in the weeds and to watch an apex hunter at work.

Looking around the cafe Lila saw there were other girls, too, watching. Girls seated alone in other booths, some pretending a lack of interest, some full-on staring. It soon occurred to her that perhaps that one over there was the Friday Girl? Or could she be Sunday?

Strangely enough, Lila felt no jealousy, nor anger. Instead she felt a kinship with these women, a sisterhood, understanding that their heavenly bodies were no different than her own, having become trapped inside his orbit like assorted Venus’. But Lila had discovered what she had come here on this “off” day to find. She now fully appreciated her Tuesday situation. She understood that he really was too “busy” on these other days, that her day was truly the only sliver of pie available… but Lila had a slice, didn’t she? She had an “in”, so-to-speak. Perhaps if she put in the work she could grow her piece of the pie? After all, the Wednesday girl was not so pretty, nor the Sunday girl either. Lila might garner another day for herself, and then three?

Somehow she never thought to cook for him. She did not weigh the option. She might have thought to clean for him, but that was not the life she wanted… servanthood. She’d might as well continue working as to do that. God, no! If she went that route he might even want her to become a mother. No, she could acquire more of him, and she would do it the easy way. She would become better in his bed, more aggressively compliant until she owned him. She would make herself essential to his needs, to his pleasurable desires. Life is a competition. To win it one must be game enough to play. Lila would play.

With time he would surely see that she was the one. There was an unmistakable passion in him when they were together, a passion that surely must be unique to them, though it did not occur to her that these other women in his celestial, coffee shop harem might feel the same.

”Harem.” Why had she thought to call it that? It was an ancient word to apply to this modern situationship, wasn’t it? Yet what else to call it other than a “coffee shop harem,” at least until she could win out? Regardless, Lila was trapped in his gravity now, and could never settle for another, lesser man. And she’d never found one yet as perfect as this one was, so she would have to be content to share until she could work her way in closer, remaining patient until time rotated her back into the warmth of his attention, back to…Tuesday?

Was sharing, she thought as she watched them, not better than losing him altogether? A glance around at the other tables showed Lila the look in her own eyes.

When the happy couple left it was hurriedly, the Wednesday couple. Lila‘s breast restricted into a painful ball as they breezed out the door and into that lucky girl’s night. Lila motioned for her check while the other pretty girls pushed away from their own lonely tables and slowly filed out, one by pitiful one. When the waiter finally made his way over Lila’s way he was young, with playfully satirical eyes hidden behind curly hair and a scraggle of beard.

”No worries, mam. It’s taken care of.”

It’s taken care of? Had “he” paid for her coffee? Lila was sure he hadn’t noticed her. So far as she could tell his eyes had never strayed from the Wednesday girl… not even a glance Lila’s way in acknowledgement.

Misinterpreting her mortified reaction, the waiter said more quietly, “I got it.”

Her head snapped around at that. “You got it? Why?” There was an unintentional, though noticeable snarl to her nose that rightfully set the waiter aback.

”I don’t know. You were sitting alone. You seemed nice. I thought, maybe…”

Her chuckle did not originate from a nice place. “You thought, did you? Well, isn’t that rich! You thought I’d be interested in you? A waiter? Is that what you thought?” Another chuckle.

”Hey, look. I apologize. I was just trying to be nice.”

”Nice? You think I want nice? Did you see that guy that just left? The one in the Armani suit? Did you see anything nice about that guy? That’s what I want. What I deserve! Not some creepy waiter in some stupid coffee shop.”

”Got ’ya!“ Familiar with rejection, the waiter picked up her lipstick-stained cup. “Like I said lady, no worries. If that’s the kind of guy you’re after, I have no doubt you’ll get what you deserve.”

Her eyes were hateful now. She waved a flippant hand. “I’m done with you. Where’s the manager, you little prick?”

The waiter gave her that irritating, satirical smile again. “Oh, sorry! The manager is off today.” He started away, then stopped. “But hey! I’m the owner. If you have a complaint I’ll see that it gets to her.”

Lila’s blood was boiling now. She needed to bitch, but what was there left to say, and why waste time on this idiot? She really did not enjoy being a bitch, but when the argument is lost insults are all that is left. “No, I don’t have a complaint. But thanks for the coffee, Asshole.”

”No problem!” He called it out after her, as she was already headed for the door. “Hey! See you next Tuesday?” Even with her back turned to him she could hear the delighted smile in the little-shit’s voice. “You are the Tuesday girl, right?”

He and I used to count down the days to it. When the day came, he would iron the navy suit I loved and I would wear the purple dress he bought me for our first anniversary. We would dance a silent waltz around the living room, giggling like school children into the night. Sometimes we would miss our reservation and have to eat takeout in our fancy outfits.

He made sure to bring me a flower for every year we had spent together. Last year, I woke up to a basket filled with four dozen and one roses. This morning, I reached over to wrap my arms around him and embraced nothing but a cold, empty bed. Old habits are hard to break.

Now, the same date marked on my calendar feels like a black stain on the year. It's just a day that reminds me that the strong man I loved is gone. I don't hear his goofy chuckle at the television, or the sound of his sports radio echoing through the kitchen. These days, I hear nothing but the sound of my own two feet shuffling through this empty house. I feel suffocated by his absence.

I sit down on my couch, next to his spot. I can hear his voice in my ears: "Darling, everything I have is yours. Everything, that is, except this spot when my game's on. You know I get a weird angle from the other side of the couch."

He was an odd duck like that. I would tease him about how passionate he got about baseball. He would tease me when I cried while watching my soaps. No one tells you about those little things you'll miss so dearly. The banal stability of long-term partnership is comforting in ways you don't expect. When it's gone, it's like the rug is being pulled out from under you over and over from the moment you wake up to the moment your exhausted brain finally lets you fall asleep.

The doorbell rings. I shake my head and snap myself out of my pity party. I send the metaphorical guests home, sweep the floor, and get my head on straight. He wouldn't have wanted to see me like this.

I look through the peephole and see a giant bouquet of roses. My stomach does a flip as my heart beats out of my chest. Logically, I know he's not going to be holding the flowers this time. My heart doesn't quite get the message, though. I see a familiar smile peek out from behind the roses.

"Hey, grandma," he says.

"Oh—Oh, sweet pea! Please come in. Get out of the rain." I open the door wider and wave him in.

He struggles to set the vase down on the dining table.

He nervously runs his hand through his hair. "50 roses, right?"

"What's that, dear?"

"50 roses for 50 years?"

My face falls. "Yes, this would've been the big year."

He clasps my hands in his. "It still can be—still is. Mom told me about your tradition and all us grandkids are going to keep it up. So happy 50th anniversary, grandma."

He pulls me into a big hug and just holds me for a while. Before I know it, my lip begins to tremble and the dam breaks. Tears start streaming down my cheeks as my shoulders rise and fall sharply with every deep sob. I've already cried every last drop I had because I missed him. These tears are new, they're—happy. Happy because I have such a caring bunch of grandchildren. Happy because I was fortunate enough to once have been loved by him.

I finally manage to regain my breath. My grandson steps back and rifles around in his pocket. "I almost forgot—I have something for you."

He pulls out an envelope with my name written on the front in handwriting I hadn't seen in the past year. "Mom gave this to me. She said grandpa gave it to her just before—before the end to keep until the big day."

I'm shocked, though I shouldn't be. It was just like him to leave me one last surprise. I carefully pull out a folded-up letter and reach for my reading glasses.

* * * * *

Darling,

I knew that if I let you think I forgot our 50th anniversary, you would've raised me from the dead just to kill me for it. I know I'm nearing the end of my book, but our story continues to live on. I want you to know how much you mean to me, dear. Some folks are unlucky enough to never fall in love, and here I am, getting to fall in love with you over and over again.

First, I fell in love with your mind. And no, not just because you helped me keep my own head screwed on straight. No, you were smart as a whip and the top of our class all those years ago. I guess now that you can't divorce me, I can admit that I wasn't half bad at calculus. I just wanted to study with the pretty lady with the sparkling eyes.

Then, I fell in love with your heart. You guard your heart, dear, but only because you're capable of loving so deeply. You taught me how to be vulnerable and how to protect something with my life. You taught me what it really felt like to cherish someone and cherish a partnership. And darling, I cherished you until the end.

One day, you told me the good news. That day, I fell in love with you as a mother. You sacrificed for us to have the beautiful family we have today. You created life and gave me the children who taught me how to love someone more than life itself. You taught me how to always put our family first.

Some see marriage as a big decision you make one day: "I do." I see it as choosing someone every day for the rest of your life. So thank you, darling. Thank you for letting me choose you. Thank you for choosing me back. And most importantly on this day, as I'm palling around with Roberto Clemente up in the clouds, happy anniversary.

Don't let all that love go to waste, dear. Take all the love you gave me every day and give it back to the not-so-little-ones we love so much. Be nicer to yourself. Know that our kids all hope to be just like us when they get old and gray, too. We did alright.

* * * * *

I close the letter and smile.

"Are you okay, grandma?"

"Yeah." The clouds part to let a sunbeam through the living room window. "We're okay."

People always think you’re insane,

if they’re living in their safe little bubbles, so mundane.

They can’t just be happy to see you laughing, they have to rain on your parade.

Twisting that silver lining into the headlights on a plane.

But its always the truth they manage to evade.

Some of us can still find joy in this race.

We can still hear the music no one else hears.

If you’re feeling happy, let them try to keep up the pace.

You don’t owe the haters anything,

don’t let them prey on your fears.

If the smell of roses makes you smile, don’t let anyone take that away. If you love the sound of thunder, that’s okay.

We should love one another every day,

embrace the differences in each other every way.

Find joy in the little things, come what may.

I weave a dance of madness not yet defined

Waiting for an apple extended from the vine

To distinguish who and all that I am -

A hero or mayhap, the sacrificial lamb.

*

Dancing in a rhythmic form -

A gyrating force -

Propelled against the norm

This body seeks a wild abandon

A persistent pirouette so random,

Inching closer to the woven madness

Forging through handwoven sadness

In a tapestry of life’s dance divine

The madness comes through to shine.

Bright is the plight that you write

Regardless of others’ lack of delight.

Dance, a rhythm of madness and full measure

Created in pleasure for what you so treasure.

Accompaniments of music and devised steps

Seek release of what’s hidden in your depths

Some won’t hear the music, they will be errant -

Seeing only your dance as madness inherent,

But it's much more true as an overbearing parent

It steers you in the direction of riches therein

Creating a dance made complete with perpetual spins

Casting you amid winds of life's ever shifting fate

Lifting bands seeking to bind with burdensome weight.

*

So, dance to life's music only you may hear

Despite the notes others may find quite queer

Hold tight to this madness of dance ’til your death

For ’tis truly the essence found in life’s very breath.

Still, in a room of prismed light

Reality fading into the silent night

A fairytale unfolds inside gilded halls

The dream has begun, wonderland calls

Glittering crystal, marble, and gold

Scenes of splendor, the courts of old

Rich brocade, damask, and silk

A Persian cat supping upon milk

The ambiance of an amber fire

The far off cry of a beckoning lyre

Do not fear, for you’re not alone

Someone is there welcoming you home

As you stare into the mist, hope blooms within

Their voice comes softly, riding the midnight wind

You wish to remain but the curtain must fall

Your straining ear catches the whisper of their final call

One day, no longer a dream will it be

But the never ending fantasy of you and me.

i am trying to communicate to you the feeling of grief

i can tell you that we're roasting over god's firepit

and i am a stuck pig,

oozing oil everywhere

i can tell you that grief

is my cat pushing her paw out to be touched one last time through the bars of her carrier

and the sterile smell of euthanasia

i can tell you that grief

is the look on my father's face,

when he hears the word 'mother'

i can tell you that grief,

is when i catch my love enduring beyond existence

i want to grab you by the shoulders and direct you to a pit in the dirt and say, 'here, look, there is my grief. it's in this hole, right here.'

i want to show you

but grief is not a hole, or a sucking chest wound

grief is middling,

it is a piece of sidewalk with the water running through it

and thunder and lightning striking two miles away

i can tell you that grief

isn't all sadness

but more so,

absence

How do you fight demons?

With the smiles of children.

New toys and candy,

the smell of apple pies

baking on a Sunday morning,

jumping in dead leaf piles,

swinging and sliding,

running and playing.

How do you fight demons?

Not with guns or swords,

not with strength or power,

but with the sweetest,

gentlest, kindest,

most innocent,

least violent of things.

With the smiles of children.