When you were 4 years old

You asked your mom if the stove was hot,

But you touched it anyway,

And you learned.

You learned to not touch the stove

Because heat causes pain.

Even now at the age of 17

You remember the pain.

You do not want to experience it again

So you shy away from stoves,

Even when they are off.

When you were 11 years old

You came home to your childhood

Pet sleeping.

Except, he was not,

And you learned.

You learned that everything is temporary.

You learned to not think something is permanent

Because it will fade.

Even now at the age of 17

You remember the pain,

You do not want to experience it again,

So you shy away from dogs,

Even when they’re adorable.

When you were 17 years old

Your heart was broken,

And you learned.

You learned that people leave,

You learned not to love

Because love hurts.

And even now at the age of 19

You remember the pain,

But you have not really learned.

You still chase the charming smiles

And the soothing voices.

You imagine lips as a stove,

You know it will hurt,

But somehow you do not care.

So intil your brain can learn

You will touch the stove.

You will buy pets.

And you will continue to love.

-Maybe I don’t want to learn

In health it was easy. It was fun. She was kind, charming, loving even. She had an easy laugh and she joked around. When the mood lasted, it even made you forget how bad it could get the rest of the days. Sometimes things were so good he even believed the conversations they would have on a loop about how both of them were going to change things from now on. Start fresh. Sometimes weeks would go by without an argument.

And they would have these fleeting moments of peace and love and he would be reminded why he said yes god knows how many years ago.

But like the wind or the tides, she changed unannounced. And it was not her fault, he knew. She was sick, that monster in her brain had gotten the best of her. It made her cry on the floor in empty desperation. It made her sleep for days on end. It made her fight him, curse him, tell him she hated him. It made her want to do nothing, be nothing. It made her refuse and discredit the help she needed. It made her put on a happy face for everyone but him. It made his existence irriate her. It made them both so lonely and so hopeless.

In sickness it was unbearable. And he was not supposed to say it or complain about it because it wasn’t her fault, not truly. But it wasn’t his either. He wants to fix it, but he can’t. He’s supposed to help, but she won’t let him. He tries to be understanding, but the years chip at his patience. He fights back, knowing that he shouldn’t. He carries on, without knowing where it’ll lead.

Because when you’ve vowed to love someone, when you know that you have (though somedays, if only in thought, you guiltily doubt that you still do), you find it in you to bear the unbearabe. It isn’t healthy or right. It needs fixing, and knowing that is how he knows the monster hasn’t taken over him yet. Not entirely, anyway. But he pushes through because he promised he would. And he honestly doesn’t know what else there is to do.

And then, the good days come and in health her memory is wiped clean and her smiles finally enter their frontdoor. And they’re hopeful again that from now on... They’ll start fresh. It’s easy for a while. And then it isn’t again. And he wonders, on both good and bad days. And she wonders, when the monster decides to give her some peace of mind...

How much can our love take before the sickness breaks it?

i smoke a cigarette with my hair down.

ponytails look young and

i am attempting to suggest maturity

as my mother is thrown from a bar

by a man in a uniform

he bought

at a strip mall.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

when she falls to the bedside

crying whiskey tears

and lapping up blood

from a nightstand head wound.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

as a cop asks me if im old enough for that

and hands over my mothers ticket of indecency

for making love to Jim Beam

in public.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

as she wakes to tiding sink waters and asprin,

tightening a robe around her sickness and

asking if i got a light,

because she knows i always do.

i am smoking a cigarette with my hair down

while she forgets the nights spent

sobbing in her daughters lap

gripping her bruised chin,

spitting and slurring:

"your daddy was right about you girl, you know that?"

now i am smoking a cigarette

with my hair up

in the bathroom of a Motel 6,

a blonde mass of tangle

held together by a rubber band i found

in her purse.

and as she beats on the door

with whiskey fists

i lock tired eyes with the mirror

and cut it off.

They were both young when they married. Both loved each other instantly. There was so much passion and love in their getting to know each other. He was a passionate man in everything he did, and in her soft spoken manner, she understood.

Children followed, and the singleminded passion branched off into family, home, career, and building futures. Through their goals, they stuck together. What one lacked, the other made up in plenty. They went through ups and downs with equanimity.

She was frailer in health than him, although her mental strength was exemplary. They supported each one with tenderness and understanding. She was ever patient, and often she tempered his impatient dynamism, turning it into an adult thing even though both of them were youthful.

To her, the family came first, and to him she was first. They loved each other for who they were, and not what they should be. They gave each other room to grow, although they were knit together.

Sixtyfour years, they saw their family extend, with children, grand, and great grand too. They were cosmopolitan in embracing a world culture, while their children fretted about choices. Their home was an umbrella against the pouring rain, and the two birds lived in eternal love.

He watched her health grow frail each passing year. He was there to monitor her blood glucose, her blood pressure, providing comforts as best as he could. He argued with the doctor over the dosage, for he had written her readings meticulously. The doctor had to admit his error, for his dosage was not something that worked on this patient.

Such was the man’s dedication, he even knew how her body responded.

The time came when she was critically ill. The children gathered around him, lending him the support he needed.

She was hospitalized in ICU, and everyone had given up hope. But, he wanted a ventilator attached to her. “She said she would be back, and she will be,” he said. No one had the heart to say otherwise.

The doctor mentioned that it was a final choice, and once the ventilator was on, they could not take it out, despite the condition she would be in. “What if she were to be in coma?” Would he like her to be in a vegetative state? It was a chance that had a heavy burden. He decided to take the chance despite advice not to.

The next couple of days, they took the ventilator out, and the first thing she said when she saw him was, “I love you my darling.”

As my wife lays in bed, I make her a cup of tea. I think about all those years ago when we said “in sickness and in health.” I remember smiling into her eyes as I said the words. I remember holding her hands in mine, feeling like we were wrapped in a love so strong it would keep out all the ugly in the world forever.

But forever is a long time. And ugly didn’t creep in. It burst out our mouths and lived right there with us.

No one ever tells you how hard every day can be living with someone. Getting used to annoying habits, divvying up chores, trying to keep old friends. Arguing over toilet seat etiquette, crumbs on the counter, or how to put dishes in the dishwasher. No one ever tells you that adding a kid in the mix can spell disaster if you still argue over the toilet seat.

Then came house hunting. Growing family, needed more space… I think the real estate agent started a pool in her office: The odds were not in our favor. We had knock down, screaming fights about what we needed in a house. Forget what we could afford. But we did manage to buy a house. Ugly came along as part of the family.

By the birth of our third child, I’m not sure we loved each other anymore. It was all used up in worrying about paying bills, constant exhaustion and who was going to do what when and where the fuck were you until 3 am, Billy? Like I wasn’t supposed to have a life with my friends anymore just because we were married with children. I mean, I get it, it’s not easy taking care of three kids and keeping house, cooking and cleaning. But damn, I commuted four hours a day and worked long hours so she could stay home with the kids and we could live in her fucking dream house, and sometimes I just wanted to have a drink with the guys without getting my head handed to me when I got home.

And now this. She’s so sick she's withering away before my eyes and I keep thinking about those words we said so long ago. She could live another 20, 30 or even 40 years the doctors say, but she'll need constant care. I’ve stuck by her through hell, but am I supposed to keep sticking, watching her fade away and with her any hope of being happy with what life I have left to live? I don't think so...

So, that’s what got me here, holding her as she sips a cup of her favorite chamomile tea laced with a little something to help her sleep with the angels. Parting is such sweet sorrow…

They say you control me, as I am the head, and You, the neck. They say that through my stomach, You influence my heart... but the truth of your power actually lies beneath the navel of this boiling teabound bergamot orange. It is only after the moment where the pressure is released... that You,

are nothing to me.

I no longer need You… and You, no longer control me. I can think clearly, and I, am completely, rational.

Awaken, and no longer blinded by nature's hypnosis I can now unpeel You, from your power.

It is solely within this everescaping ephemeral moment where the monkey holds an unloaded gun… that I can see You,

for whom You truly are -

No strings attached.

Copyright © 1986-2018

Alan Salé

All Rights Reserved

contact: AASalehi@gmail.com

PoetryByAlan.com

“Hi! I’m your sister?”

I was washing dishes when the email came.

From: 23andMe

Subject: A DNA relative has sent you a message

You want secrets, huh? Well this ain't fiction. 100% true. But it's personal (and recent) so you'll have to endure just a couple more secrets...

Anonymous author. Dark corner of the internet. Odd handful of readers. So shhhh!

Hands still wet from the dishes. About to instant message my biological sister question mark. Question mark?

Wait... what???

A year earlier I’d spit in a cup for a mail-order DNA test. 99 bucks. And now: 'Hi exclamation point I’m your sister question mark (?!).'

Sarah Jacobs. Sarah fucking Jacobs. (Jacobs???)

Mom's got a ton of secrets, but "Sarah Jacobs?" No way.

Wait... Dad?

Dot dot dot. Sarah Jacobs is typing.

..........................

It was just before Esther's 14th birthday when the Nazis came.

She pleaded with her father to shave his beard. German officers would use combat knives to shave Jews caught with beards on the streets of Krakow. He wouldn't do it.

She never spoke of the Holocaust to her children. She never told them how she'd remove her armband to climb under the ghetto wall to walk the streets of Krakow. How she'd carry banned books beneath her coat to study in forbidden schools.

She didn't want to talk about it.

Not the time the tanks rolled in. Not the time she left home with only one bag to move into a cramped apartment in the ghetto. Not the time she fist saw the inside of a concentration camp or was separated from her parents never to see them again.

And certainly not the rape, torture, and deaths she witnessed for half her life until being freed from Auschwitz by the Red Cross at age 27.

Wait... So how do I know all this?

..........................

Sarah Jacobs is typing.

..........................

The story she'd tell would uncover secrets that had hidden the truth of my origins for 39 years -- a story by all accounts remarkable at several generations (and way too big for this weekly challenge).

Getting to the bottom of it thus far has included an interview with my mom. (Actual quote: "Oh, honey I thought it was another guy!"). An urgent trip home for some bonding with the man who lovingly raised me. (He's cool with it). A week's holiday with my teenage daughter to break the news. (Also cool with it). And a flight to Berlin to break bread (ok, we smoked a joint) with the biological father who never knew I existed.

In a surreal twist, my newfound biological brother (did I mention I have a brother?) sent me a documentary film about our biological grandmother's harrowing experience surviving the Holocaust.

Later this week, I'll visit Sweden where both my grandparents were rescued and reunited before emigrating to Brooklyn, opening a Jewish deli, and having a baby boy. Of course that boy would turn out to have his own incredible story, including a surprise introduciton to a grown son he never knew existed.

Wait... so now what?

Sarah Jacobs (not her real name) and her (our) brother have agreed to meet me and my daughter later this fall to honor our grandparents with some Jewish deli in LA.

And in the interest of truth and honoring the legacy of Esther and all of us who've suffered too many secrets, I'll keep chipping away at telling the story.

*23andMe is a wildly popular commercial DNA testing company based in the US

The vegan at the front desk with her smoothie.....

"Please don't put that s*** in a see through container for all of us to see," I want to say. "You should try this recipe." She says when she sees me glance towards the repulsive green slim. "Kale, spinach, sweet potato and wheat grass. Delish and nutrish." I do believe she wanted to reach out and poke the roll hanging over my belt to shame me. "If you ask me, any kind of grass should remain on the ground; for that matter so should kale, spinach and sweet potatoes," is on the tip of my tongue, but I say, "I'll take it under advisement." Her father's a VP. That's my polite way of saying, "There is not a chance in hell your ectoplasum is gonna touch my lips."

My neighbor across the street with her vegetable garden.....

"Oh for Christ's sake. Here she comes with her tisket a tasket basket again." I say under my breath, not really caring if she hears me. "Hi!" My wife says from behind me." I

didn't know she was there. Shit. I hope she didnt hear my mumble. "How you doin Rita? What ya got there?" "Well today I'm happy to say I've got a bumper crop of zucchini and a couple of eggplant too. I know how much you both enjoyed grillin these puppies up last year, so I came here first. You can use them, right?" "Oh absolutely Rita. Thanks so much. Sebastian loves it when I grill veggies, don't you honey," she says looking at me for a response with those two chocolates that melt me into saying, "Yes. Thank you very much Rita," with a smile, instead of, "Oh no he doesn't!" I man can do much worse than a white lie.

Old Doc McFarland....

"I want you to come back in 3 months. If you blood pressure is still high I'm going to write you a presciption for meds." He just can't understand why my blood pressure is so high and why I keep gaining weight at my yearly physical. "So tell me. Are you exercising?" "Yes." I lie. "Are you eating a healthy diet?" "Yes. My wife see's to that." I half lie. When I am with my wife, love makes me do all sorts of crazy thinks like eating grilled zucchini and eggplant. And when I'm not with my wife....

My wife.....

"The extra weight on you doesnt bother me, as long as you are healthy." She says when I get back from my physical. I don't really want her to shut the f*** up like all the others, so I let what she says about my current situation go in one ear and out the other. She loves me and I really love her too, but I also love something she wouldnt approve of, that's the reason why I must continue to deceive her. Do you tell grandma that you hate her cookies? Same principle. At 34, it's just all so perplexing and disconcerting to my lovely wife that I'm gaining weight and that Dr. M wants me to go on blood pressure meds. "Don't they cause erectile dysfunction?" She asks with a concerned look on her face. Oh no way baby. Don't you worry about that. If I have to go on the meds, rest assured nothing could keep Mr. P from coming out to play. What do you say we go upstairs now?" Why would I want to get her upset and let her in on my only weakness? Does it make a guy a bad husband to keep one minor detail from his wife?

So here's the deal. You can keep a secret right? I'm really good at what I do and I never leave a paper trail. Wrappers crumbled and tossed, and baby wipes at all times in the glove compartment keep my car oil free. Here goes, and please don't judge:

Each day on the way to work, even though my wife has taken the time to prepare me overnight oats, I stop at Jack in the box for a bacon egg and cheese biscuit. 99 cents of delish. Yeah. Duh. I know, not nutrish. I've been hitting up Jack for years on the way to work, long before I met my wife. And lunch? She wants to pack me a healthy lunch, but I tell her I'm getting a green salad at the office cafeteria cheap, $3.49. And then instead, mainly because I convince myself it's good to get out of the building, I hit the dollar menu at, McD's, BK, Arby's, Hardee's, and sometimes TacoBell. The dollar menu clearly doesn't break the bank although I did start out with a limit of 2 items, I'm now up to 4. 4 bucks clearly will not break the bank and I have promised myself to stop this charade at some point, really I do, but it's almost as if my car just drives to the fast food joint on its own. It's not like I'm cheating on my wife, or am I?

The study was supposed to be simple. I needed the cash, they needed a test subject; it was a simple arrangement. They hook me up to a machine, and I think about different things. Sometimes they let me nap or read a book.

It was easy.

When I joined, there were a lot of forms to sign. A lot of promising not to talk about this with anyone else. Top Secret, the documents reminded me again and again. I didn’t see what the big deal was, but they were paying me well enough that I’d be able to afford rent for a few months until I found a decent job.

My friends had started to notice my increase in wealth. “How come you finally started coming out with us? Did you get a new job?”

I shrugged the first thousand times they asked, but it gets old eventually. “Sort of,” I explained one afternoon, sitting at the bar. “I’m doing a clinical study.” I enjoyed the looks on their faces as they envisioned being poked and prodded, downing strange pills. “Nothing too obscene; I go into a room, I drink a bottle of water, and then they hook up some electrodes to my head and then I just kind of chill for a few hours. Every now and then they ask me questions, but nothing invasive. It pays pretty well, too.”

“Sounds like a sweet deal,” Kennedy observed. I recognized the look of interest (who doesn’t like easy cash?), and I suddenly felt uncomfortable. I wasn’t supposed to be talking about this, but it’s not like I gave out any real details.

I shrugged. “Kind of boring, actually.” I checked my watch. “Anyway, I should be going. Supposed to swing by my mom’s.” I managed to look apologetic for bailing. In truth, I was headed to another session with the Top Secret Team of Scientists. So top secret, I wasn’t even sure what their machines did. Not that it mattered, too much.

As usual, when I got there, they did a thorough search of my person. Searching for wires, or something, I’m sure. Then they insisted I drank a bottle of water, and I they didn’t hook me up until I was all finished. No liquids in the room, they would always explain. The session started off the same as all the others. “Have you told anyone about this experiment.” Yes.

For the first time since starting, I lied. “Nope.” I saw the two men observing the screen exchange a look. I shifted in my seat, and they asked if they were sure. It wasn’t an unusual question, but I still felt nervous. “Positive,” I lied again.

A man I had never met entered the room, then. He looked angry; his brows were furrowed, his round cheeks bright red. “Who did you talk to?” He demanded.

“No one,” but I couldn’t help but replay in my mind the scene at the bar, what exactly I had said.

“Not too much detail,” One of the men watching the screen murmured. I tore my eyes from the angry man, to glance at them. They weren’t paying attention to me, staring intently at the screen.

“She looks familiar, though.” The other man said.

The angry hulking figure glared at me and then stomped over to the other two, shoving them out of the way. He scowled, “You gave information out.” I cowered in the chair; somehow they knew what I had done; I couldn’t think of anything to say to get me out of this. “Worse, you gave information to a competitor.”

Confusion outweighed my fear, briefly. “A competitor? I hardly gave any details, and only to my friends.”

The screen turned to me, and I saw Kennedy looking back at the screen, the same expression of interest painted on her features. The bar was still in the background, and it took me a second to realize that it was my memory of Kennedy at the bar. “She’s not a competitor. She’s a bartender.”

The angry man shook his head, yanking the screen back toward him. I saw the other two men wince at his rough treatment of the machine. “She works for our competitor. She gets paid to weasel information out of unsuspecting employees, and sends it back to her employers so they can get ahead.”

“But... she’s a bartender.”

He snorted, “She’s a corporate spy. What better way to get information than from a bar frequented by members of the scientific community.” He sounded disgusted, and frankly, I felt it. I had known Kennedy since middle school; she was always the most honest person I had ever known. She’d been keeping this secret this whole time? If that was true, what else had she been keeping from me?

“I...” I don’t know what I intended to stay, but the man who was apparently in charge shook his head.

“Get out.” He demanded. “Your study is over.”

“But sir, the research--”

“I said she’s done.”

I started to panic, I needed this money. I still hadn’t found a job, despite how hard I had been looking. I knew this wasn’t going to last forever, but I didn’t think it would end so soon. “No, I won’t talk about it with anyone else.”

“You’ve already broken our trust. Get. Out.”

“Use me.” He paused as he was about to order me once more to leave. “I can give her false information. Tell me what to say, I’ll say it. That way you can complete your experiment and lead her off whatever you’re working on. Please. Clearly, you can check whether or not I actually tell her what you want.”

He paused, still, and seemed to be considering what I had said. When he nodded, I slumped into my chair in relief. “But we are done for today. Leave.” I nodded, and the other two began unhooking the electrodes from my head.

That day is how I began keeping more and more secrets from my best friend. It was the day I lost all trust in her. And it was the day I realized I’d been spilling all my secrets to strangers in a lab.

#secret #challenge

If you love someone,

Tell them.

No one deserves to lay awake in bed

Tossing and turning in doubt

Wondering if they’ll ever be

What you want.