The Bitch is Back

The bitch is back. Yes, that's right--my nemesis. She must have seen the bumper sticker, "ya'll can go to hell, I'm goin' to Texas," and decided it would be a nice vacation spot-- heat and all. I thought I may have heard her calling my name in the distant rumbling of thunder last week, but convinced myself it was simple paranoia. For a moment, I caught a glimpse of her insignia, like Zoro, burned out in the grass near my apartment. But, I turned my head for a second glance...and poof! It was gone. So, I thought nothing of it. Even, last week, when my husband's brakes went out, my dog was covered in infectious spots, and my son had an asthma attack all on the same day-- I just chalked it up to a rough one. I mean, everyone has those, right? However, when I walked into my new apartment this week, only to find the laundry room leaking water from a broken pipe, walls infested with mold and a bipolar air conditioning unit that couldn't decide between hot or cold air, I began to see her fingerprints everywhere.  Now I am certain she has come back like Lex Luthor on the heels of Superman, intent on nothing but my total destruction.  But I'm sorry. This week I'm not in the mood to play. This week, she has met her match. So wherever you are, Murphy Law, I hope you're ready. You're vacation's getting cut short. 'Cause, girl, I'm sending you straight back to hell!

Beauty From Injury

I awoke in a dizzied blur, aware of nothing but searing pain and a tube lodged awkwardly down my throat. Unable to speak, tears burned my cheeks, as I played a sadistic game of charades with the nurse keeping guard over me. “What do you want, honey?” Her voice was saccharine. I gestured toward the tube. She replied, “I’m sorry, but I can’t take it out. It’s helping you breathe.” My eyes released a flood. At that moment, I didn’t give a rip about breathing; I only wanted the pain to stop…anyway possible. 

Life coaches will remind their clients, to “stay present”. I truthfully had never really thought about or experienced that level of consciousness, until this point in time. I was definitely fully present, in this moment; and believe me, there was nothing I wouldn’t give to be a million miles away from here, soaking in the euphoric drip of morphine. Instead, the recently stitched up tear in my esophagus was made irate by a ribbed piece of plastic parked haphazardly on the fresh wound.

Only a week earlier, my orthopedic surgeon had made an egregious mistake while performing a double-level cervical fusion on my spine. At some point during the surgery, his scalpel slipped, tearing a large hole in my esophagus. This wasn’t realized until a week later, when I appeared miserably in the ER, with green, gravy-like pus oozing from my suture site.

I was filled with infection and a gaping hole in my throat when they rushed me into surgery to try their hardest to remedy the mistake.  This traumatic event turned into a six month process of hard-core antibiotics, being fed through a tube in my chest,  restless nights terrorized by nightmares of dying, and at last…recovery.

I’m not so sure, whether staying present was a positive in this case. In moments where I focused on my present circumstances, fear eroded my mind. Yet, when I was able to step outside of that pain and focus on a future where this one traumatic event was given a positive purpose, then I began to thrive.

   
I know everyone has trauma in his or her life. But perhaps it is in that pain, our stories can be shared, honestly, without playing emotional-charades. In this place of vulnerability, we feel understood, and genuine human connection can occur. This is where beauty and true art emerge.

Comfortably Numb (a work in progress)

I remember the day clearly.

My hands fell flat against the cold, opaque pane of glass. Drops of condensation wept beneath them -- an action I couldn't bring myself to do. Perhaps, my hands spared me the duty. In the kitchen, pastries, lemonade, and a cake made themselves awkward guests on our kitchen counter-- an eery way of feigning happiness. They stood out, almost a joke, amidst the swatches of dark fabric filling the room-- except for my mother of course.

 She, drew everyone's eye in her vibrant, red, A-line dress. Her breasts struggled to stay inside the black, lace boundary that contained them. It was my father's favorite dress, undoubtably for this very reason. Mamacita, I remember him whispering into her ear as he would slowly kiss the back of her neck, running his hands down the lines of her body, enveloping her waist like a glove. Ooh, gross! I would turn my head, pretending to be embarrassed by the affection. But secretly I loved it, and would give anything in the world to see that sight at this moment--to simply put an end to all of this.

My mother informed the guests to follow suit with her color choice. Dress in color, celebrating his life. It's what he would have wanted, she smiled through the tears of every phone call she made. After about the fifth call, I ran upstairs and pulled the covers over my head, knowing at any moment my father would walk through that door and all this nonsense would be over. Only a couple of people complied with my mother's wishes of vibrancy. Most, however, fell in line with old Catholic tradition. This, however, didn't seem to sway my mother. She kept to her script.

She was comfortable with scripts. Every evening before tucking me in she would tell me a story of a beautiful female angel who fell in love with a mortal male. The day came when it was her beloved's time to die. She cried out for God to save him, refusing her heavenly duty of escorting him to the other side. God answered her prayer, but at a heavy price. She was cast from heaven and made human, never more to use her gifts of the heavenly realm. However for her, it was worth the sacrifice--the promise of growing old wrapped in her beloved's arms, exploring the Earth hand in hand.

The night my mother told me the news of the explosion, I had a dream she was that angel -- sacrificing herself for my father.

She had ended each of our nightly sessions with a lullaby she had crafted only for me. Now this is our secret song, she warned me with a lovely warmth to her voice. Don't sing it to anyone else. Not even daddy. I curled my pinky around hers and she kissed it gently, sealing the promise.

Today I broke that promise. Like a dog waiting for its owner's return, I pressed my face against the window by the front door, whispering the lyrics she taught me under my breath. I pictured myself curled up beside my father, singing him our lullaby- hoping he might hear them and find his way home: My little angel, sent from above. Whenever you need me, you'll find a heart filled with love, I breathed into the glass by the front window, leaving a circular pattern that faded as quickly as it came.

to be continued...

I loved you yesterday

I loved you yesterday


But somewhere between polished fingernails

Laced with painted cherry blossoms and

Scabbed feet watermarked by Monet's Water Lilies,

My heart ceased to beat--

A heart that once rushed to life

With each golden sunset reflected in your eyes

And every moss stained rock leading to high places.

I knowingly set it on that trail

Awaiting the tread marks of your boots

Or the stab of the pointed satin slipper.

Oh God! Something to make it alive!!

But it only lay there

Trampled and scarred--

Too weak to breathe its rose watered oxygen...


Until he came

With Christmas bells and slow dances by firelight

The smell of pine needles lingering on my skin

And his rich coffee laden vibrato

Humming deep within my chest.

Amid whispers of orange trees and blue skies,

My heart took its first sips of life

Reminding me of what I was missing...

Reminding me of what had been there all along.

Tread

Branded skin

Oil of the moon

I painted the sky with pieces of you.

Dazzled lips...undressed rubies.

Bones crushed beneath 

The weight of words unspoken.

Shadowed treads across the heart

Deep within the swamps of murky kisses 

Entangled in an embrace 

That left us drowning

Ripping and clawing 

Our way toward freedom

We pushed the other under the mire,

To gasp for air.

Was it worth it in the end, 

Oh my darling of sirens?

To heed the call 

Of a melody so enchanting?

In a canvas somewhere

Lay pieces of us 

Painted with the oil of the moon.

The bluest of skies.

Branded skin.

Taste

Guardian of my past and future –
My world has imploded

I watch as you bathe languidly in my destiny.

If I’m your beloved,

Caress me with whispers of a secret language

Only we two share.

Fill me with tender kisses,
Till I’m drowning in the grasp of your love –

The incandescent beauty of two becoming one.

Crawl beneath my skin and pour

The fragrance of your spirit

Into every ruptured and scarred artery

Of my soul.

Until I’ve tasted the very last drop of its fruit

And know…

You are good.

Irreplaceable

If I could take your pain and freeze it in time, 

I would journey to the ends of the earth and bury it deep beneath the final ocean wave,

Where it could never again singe your skin or drain breath from your lungs…

Steal sunlight from your eyes.

Your eyes -- I would fill them with diamonds

So your joy sparkled in the light of day

And when evening came, your starlight was a beacon for the wayward soul.

The dark of night would no longer be needed for asylum

The glare of morning could not sear your tender heart.

The truth is, you deserve far more than I could ever give.

You are prized far more than diamonds, moonlight, or daybreak.

You are the reason oceans roar, lungs gasp, hearts beat.

Without you, children would cease to laugh, feet would cease to dance…

The stars would fade from the sky.

You are irreplaceable, my friend…

You are HIS.