I blink.

I blink, and I am there, with you, at the beginning. Our first date, I think. Maybe the second. You look young. Healthy. It’s 20 years earlier. We are kids, poor in life but rich in hope.

You're wearing the blue dress I loved, and your hair is up. Your nails are red. You stopped painting your nails at some point. I'm not sure when, but I think I know why.

I feel overwhelmed to be in this moment again, not sure why or how. I just stare at you, eyes wide, jaw slack.

I smile, and you smile. Feeling awkward, you kiss me. "What?" you say, seeing the puzzled look on my face.

"I'm just happy," I say. "I can't believe I’m here."

You smile and kiss me again. This time you mean it. My hand touches your cheek, and you lean into it. You're real. This is real.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm some time else. We're fighting. I'm in the middle of yelling something. Your face is red. Your nails are blue.

It's three years later. A month before the wedding. It was a stressful time. We fought a lot. You threatened to call it off twice. You gave me my ring back a week before the ceremony. Cold feet. That night I went to your apartment, and we fought and then laughed and made up and drank a bottle of wine and decided to elope.

We were married at the court house the next day. Your parents were mad, but we told them we would still go through with the bigger ceremony. It was paid for already, so why not?

But that's not now. That's weeks away. Now I am in your apartment, and you are yelling at me. You call me selfish. You say I'm an asshole. But this me, the me I am now, is not angry. You are here. I don't want to fight.

"You're right," I say. "I am an asshole. I'm sorry."

You look at me oddly, waiting for the "but ..." Waiting for me to regroup and come back harder. I never apologize, and it throws you. You're like a prize fighter whose opponent just went down without a punch. It's a win but a confusing victory.

You glare at me and turn around, without a word. You're still mad, but I'm not. I reach out and squeeze your shoulder. You're warm and alive and real. I don’t want to let go. “Please,” I say. "I need to ..."

And I blink.

I blink, and it's later. Our honeymoon. We're in the ocean, the waves lapping at our legs.

You're in your white bikini, your hair sun-streaked, your skin tan. The moonlight is bouncing on your eyes. Your hand holds mine, and you stare at me with that look you give when I slip away, far away. That look that says to come back home.

"Sorry," I say.

"As long as you're back now," you say, pulling me into your arms.

We kiss, and I taste the salt on your lips. I smell the ocean on your skin. Your body is soft and warm, and I pull you tight, feeling you breathe against me.

I know how this night ends. We make love on a towel on the beach and fall asleep with sand in our hair. This was my favorite night. On my desk at work is a photo of you in this bikini, taken on this beach, on this night.

When it gets bad, when you struggle, and I work late nights to pay the mounting bills, feeling guilty that I have to choose between money or you, I will look at that photo and come back to this moment.

But now I'm here. And I kiss you and squeeze my eyes tight and fight back the tide of emotions. I don't want to leave.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s Christmas. I have Lucy in my hands, and you squeal when you see the puppy. You smile and hug me and tell me you love me.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s New Year’s. We are in Times Square. My company sent me here to help open the new branch, and we lived in a nice apartment for six months, enjoying the big city life. Your hand is in a mitten, and you grip me tight as we stare up at the dropping ball.

“I love you,” I say, but you cannot hear me, because the crowd is so loud. 5. 4. 3. I squeeze your hand tighter. "You're going to miss it," you say.

“Please don’t let me go,” I say to you, to me, to anyone.

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in your bakery. You opened it the week before. I have a dozen roses in my hand, and you are beaming.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s dark. We’re in bed. You are on top of me, and I am inside of you. You ride me, your nails in my chest. You lean down, your hair brushing my face. You moan, and your mouth opens.

I grab your arms and roll over, on top of you now. I stroke your hair and look into your eyes. “What’s wrong?” you say. “Why did you stop? I was close.”

“I know,” I say. “I just don’t want it to end.”

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re on the couch. You have a cold, your head on my chest. I hand you a box of tissues.

"What's happening?" I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I am at the bar with my friend Bob who is talking about his wife and how annoying she is and how he wishes he could find someone like you.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re eating dinner.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re laughing. You take a sip of wine and tell me to stop.

And I blink.

I blink, and it’s snowing outside, and we’re making soup.

And I blink.

And it's dark. I hear you sleeping beside me, on your side, facing the wall. I stare up at the ceiling with the small crack in it as a car alarm goes off in the distance.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re in the waiting room at the doctor’s office. Your hand clenches mine tightly. I had forgotten how strong you were.

You're hoping for a girl. I'm hoping for a boy. The doctor is explaining the risks associated with your pregnancy.

He starts to give us odds and you squeeze harder. I don't want to see what comes next.

And I blink.

I blink, and we’re driving, and our song comes on the radio, and you sigh and dab a tissue to your cheek and look out the window. Your nails are green.

We lost the baby a year ago. I remember thinking I wasn't sure if we would make it, and when we did, I was relieved. But that happiness did not last long.

“I want this to stop,” I say. “I know what’s coming up, and I don’t want to live it again.”

You look at me, puzzled. Not really angry, just sad.

And I blink.

I blink, and it's three years ago. You are sick. Frail, already. I skipped past the tests and the treatment and the remission and the hope that slowly turned to the worst fucking part of it all.

We're at our home. We're at the dining room table we bought at the thrift store, the one with the bum leg that I tried to fix but just made worse.

"It will be OK," you say, catching my eyes. "This will work." But it won't.

I smile, emotions overwhelming me. I'm helpless. Useless. We're broke. You closed your bakery the year before. We've already lost all of our savings. My insurance will not cover what is coming, and we will not be able to afford it.

I know how this will end. I know the path we're on, and I can't be strong. Not now. Not this moment.

I was never a great husband. I was a good husband. I tried to be great. But it was beyond my reach. I worked too much. I did not say I love you enough. I was selfish. I took you for granted. I missed too many moments thinking there would be more.

I look in your eyes, and I think of how much you will need me and how little I will be able to do to stop your pain, and I cry. I weep. I wail. I cannot stop. I've never cried like this in front of you before.

"Don't," you say, weakly, your hand cold on my back. "Please ..."

You were always stronger than me. I bury my head in my hands as you wrap your arms around me. I sob, my breath coming in shallow bursts. You pull me tight, and I sink into your arms. I close my eyes tight. Please ...

And I blink.

I blink, and you are in bed, sleeping. I dab a cool cloth on your head. Your eyes open, gingerly. They are glassy because of the drugs, but you manage a smile. “Hi,” you say.

I don't want to see this again.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I wish …”

And I blink.

I blink, and it's two weeks ago. You're gone. I'm alone, sitting in a tiny, cold apartment.

You fought hard. No surprise. You always did. The doctors gave you two months, but you turned it into a year. Every day was difficult, but I hope they were all worth it.

I am at the table. The table with the bad leg. There's a glass of warm whiskey in front of me, brushing against my finger tips, and an uneaten can of tuna.

Lucy is gone, too. She has been for several years. We did not get another dog because it was all too much.

I'm holding a photo of you, framed. Our wedding photo. I'm in a dark place. My head throbs. My eyes are blurry. Not from tears. I haven't been crying.

A stack of condolence cards are to my left. A stack of bills are to my right. Ahead of me is a lonely life full of pain and longing. I have not lived it yet, but it's just as clear to me as the past.

I think about what I have to look forward to and what I lost, and I feel the emptiness of despair. A void is slowly closing over me that numbs my soul and senses. I would cry, if I could, but I am too lost for tears.

"I hate this," I say.

And I blink.

I blink, and I'm in a diner. I'm drinking a cup of coffee.

I recognize this place. It was the 24-hour grease pit near campus, the one I went to almost every night, to study, because my roommate liked to have loud sex with his girlfriend.

My biology text book is open. A half-eaten donut sits on a small saucer beside me. I am a senior in college.

This was where I met you for the first time. This is the night. Five minutes from now you will come in the door with a few friends. You will sit down behind me as I read this book and eat this donut. You will say hi and ask me for some sugar and notice my biology book and ask which class I am taking. I will tell you, and you will ask me if it is hard, because you are looking to take it next semester, and I will say it is, and you will introduce yourself, and pretty soon you have left your friends and are sitting with me, and we're talking about horror films and global warming.

I ask you out. You accept. We date. We fall in love. We marry. We get a dog. You get sick. You leave me. It takes 20 years, but it feels like a blink of the eye.

I know what lies ahead. I know how much I love you but how much pain comes with it. It all starts in less than a minute.

And I blink.

And I'm still here. Waiting for the door to open. My foot twitches as I close my book, ready to get up and leave.

I can walk out the door. I've been given a chance to do it all over again. Take another path. Try another life.

I want to. I need to. I don't think I can do this again.

And I blink.

And the door opens. And you walk in.

You're 22. Your nails are painted yellow. Your hair is in a ponytail.

The woman I loved. The woman I love. You glance at me and smile. I smile back. My heart jumps into my throat, strangling me. My breathing comes in short, shallow bursts. You sit down behind me.

I can smell your perfume. You're inches away.

I know the future. I know what lies ahead. I could leave right now.

You say hi, and that's all it takes. I do not move. I cannot move.

My eyes are wide open. And I do not blink.

She was mine for the taking

January 28, 2025

Tuesday.

Quite an unusual day for a wedding. Clark’s fiance wanted this day because both her mother and grandmother were married on a Tuesday. Their marriages lasted in excess of 40 years. She did not want to break tradition.

I arrived three hours before the ceremony. I always wear a black wool suit with a starched white shirt, and a burgundy tie. Whether it is a funeral or a wedding, I wear this suit. I go for the classic style.

She arrived soon after me. She was the bride’s maid and the bride introduced her to me as Mina. When I had the chance, I looked up the origin of the name. It meant “azure” or ’crystal like”. Her eyes matched her name perfectly. Points for her parents.

Mina was wearing a t-shirt and jeans upon arrival. Within an hour, she was in a formal gown with impeccable hair and makeup. She reintroduced herself, saying that most people could not recognize her once she cleaned up. With those eyes, I could not forget her if I tried.

She turned to walk back to the bride knowing I could not, or would not take my eyes off of her as she moved. The bride chastised Nina for flirting so obviously on her special day. The groom told me Mina was single. My eyes remained on Nina as he dropped this information. He could not blame me for my lack of attention.

Once the ceremony concluded, the bride threw the bouquet, and it was Mina who caught it. Being the only single woman in attendance does have its advantages. I gave a polite round of applause. Mina gave me a more than polite call for action. She walked over to me and asked me to dance. It was not an open invitation. It was more like an order.

And who am I to refuse such an order?

We danced together. We sat and talked for hours. We had a few drinks, a few more dances, and listened to the newly wedded couple make a few double entendres about our budding relationship. Whispers abound when our next dance began slowly and then proceeded to evolve into something far more risque. Mina began to bump and grind, often pulling me toward some poorly lit area to advance her narrative. When she leaned in to whisper in my ear, she probed it (instead) with her tongue. I heard her message clearly. While her lips never said, “No”, her eyes screamed, “Yes.” Mina was a tiger and I was to be her prey.

I gave a few goodbyes and departed for my hotel room with Mina in tow. In the lobby, she told me that she forgot to say goodbye to the bride. I told her I would wait for her return.

I am still waiting as the police take my statement.

It seems, Mina is as well adept at being a bridesmaid as she is at being a pickpocket. By the time I figured out her deception, she was long gone. My Porsche was long gone. My credit cards suffered the same fate. In all, I lost nearly a quarter million dollars that night.

The bride lost a friend and a coworker.

Those still in attendance checked their accounts only to find each intact.

Mina was mine for the taking, but I was the only one who was taken.

My Retirement Plan

January 13, 2025

Playing chess at dusk

Losing every single game

Still writing all night

I never thought I’d cry on a park bench. Not me. Not the one who always seemed to have it together, always knew the right thing to say. But here I am, staring at cracked pavement and rusted swings, and the tears just won’t stop.

The United States is not united. Were we ever? Maybe. Maybe there was a time we were fooled into thinking we were. Or maybe we just ignored the cracks, hoping they wouldn’t spread. But now it’s impossible not to see lines drawn so deep they’ve become trenches. Everyone on one side or the other, yelling across the divide like they’ve forgotten we’re standing on the same ground.

It’s exhausting, isn’t it? This endless noise. Everyone shouting their truths, everyone convinced they’re right, and no one really listening.

I can’t help but wonder when we got so lost, when we started looking at each other and seeing enemies instead of neighbors. When we stopped believing that love not anger, not fear, but love was the greatest thing we had to give.

I look around at the world, and it feels darker than it ever has. Like an eclipse is swallowing everything good and bright, leaving us in shadows we don’t know how to escape.

But maybe that’s the point of the dark. Maybe it forces us to see what we’ve been too scared to face. Forces us to stop pretending everything’s fine when it’s not. Forces us to look in the mirror.

I think about those mirrors. About the face staring back at me every morning, tired and worn, and how easy it is to avoid the questions I don’t want to answer. Have I done enough? Have I stood up for what’s right? Have I loved the way I should?

The answer is always no.

Because it’s hard to love, isn’t it? Real love. Not the kind in movies, but the messy kind. The kind that makes you forgive someone who hurt you. The kind that makes you see the worth in someone who doesn’t see it in themselves. The kind that makes you take a good, hard look at yourself and decide to be better.

“If you want to make the world a better place, take a look at yourself and make a change.” Those words hit differently now. It’s easy to talk about change. It’s easy to say the world needs to be better. But doing something about it? That’s the part we’re all afraid of.

Because change isn’t comfortable. It’s painful. It’s messy. It’s looking at the people who scream at you across that divide and realizing they’re just as scared as you are. It’s realizing that the only way we climb out of this darkness is together, even when we don’t agree.

And it’s realizing that love...fragile, fleeting, precious love isn’t just a gift. It’s a responsibility. To see someone else’s soul and remind them of their worth. To let someone else see yours, even when you’re afraid they won’t like what they find.

I think about the little things: my neighbor who brings food to the single mom next door, even though they argue politics like it’s a sport; the librarian who stays late so every kid has a warm place to study; the man I saw on the news who carried strangers to safety during a flood. Heroes, all of them. And not a single one wears a cape.

The rain starts to fall, soft at first, then harder, until I’m soaked. I don’t move. I just let it fall, washing over me, carrying away all the fear, the frustration, the anger.

We’re falling apart. I know it. You can see it in the headlines, in the way people look away from each other on the street. But what if falling apart is the only way we can come together?

Maybe things have to break before we can see the pieces that still matter. Maybe we have to lose the light before we remember how to find it. Maybe the soul has to feel its worth, not in the easy times, but in the hard ones.

I stand, dripping, my hair clinging to my face, my breath sharp in the cold air. I don’t have answers. I don’t know how to fix this broken world.

But I know this: Love will always be the answer. Not hate. Not fear. Love. Even when it’s hard. Especially when it’s hard.

Because the darkest nights? They’re the ones where the stars shine brightest. And maybe, just maybe, we’re not falling apart. Maybe we’re falling into place.

i found gold in my brothers pregnancy

his tummy sniffed gold and liquor

i swimmed in liquor and sold gold

me the untimely goldsmith

i purchased paradise and dated angels

i created a sky of my own

devil pushed me back to this world

i traded fire and stocks

chisled fortunes and summersalted in riga

my summersalts remanded me back to paradise

having seem both here and there

i chose to sacrifice here for my dobermans afterlife

i live through that litter of his guiding blind soldiers

you may enter my once fortress to kill the already killed me

it is open for all and none

but noone will be caricatured to nothing there

for nothing is an illusion and so is everything

my life's too easy

to feel so listless

i'm always asking the page to tell me something new:

the next words,

the next step,

the next thing to believe

is that what i am, just empty-headed?

a monster of society's making, pinched into

shape by the people standing nearby to me?

glass towers never looked so empty,

even when they shimmer like crystal

take my words, spin them like silk into scarves

lay them at eye-level and tell me something

i don't know

bare my chest

my neck, my shoulders, my thighs

touch this skin

but you're incapable of seeing

what's just inside

i'm afraid of being seen but you

don't see it

you may force these words

from my lips or from the page

and still

they drop meaninglessly into your palms,

my lifeblood, my pain and love and sorrow -

my entire reality, in pieces, at your

fingertips and it all means nothing to you

you, who have not the keys to unlock them

you, who has not the courage to ask what it is

you, who has taken what i do not give

you, who still does not understand the power words hold

the power that i wield

and forget

for it and many other things have been used against me

and you are too blind

and i am too cowardly

and words rise and fall between us like the beating heart

dec 2 24

Do You Know Who I Am?

December 02, 2024

Who am I?

Between the eyeliner, eye shadow, and mascara,

I am not who you think I am.

Add the concealer, the foundation, and the lipstick

And you are not even close.

I am wearing a pushup bra, compression tights, and heels.

I have perfume, hairspray, and hair dye.

My lashes are false.

My tan is also.

My breasts are not real either.

So who am I?

I ask you not if you know,

But only if you could tell me since I no longer do.

Sport

mirror

light

sand

bag