Strange, isn’t it?

When asked what I had for lunch,

or what you told me last night

after I asked about your day,

or what day that you told me

to keep open next week, I

struggle

to remember.

Just short-term?

No, the problem runs deeper.

I used to recall without hesitation

the endearing name you called me

long ago when I asked you to spend

your life with me, but now I

fumble

to remember.

But why is it

that I can recount with the speed

of a default setting on a computer

an insult or dirty deed that was

aimed at me long ago or yesterday?

No matter how blatant or how

subtle,

I remember.

Strange, isn’t it?

A friend called my checkered memory

the “old letter to the editor” syndrome:

The squeaky wheel gets the grease.

We do not download the attaboys

or kindnesses, but fixate on the

cudgel

to remember.

Frustrating, isn’t it?

Why can’t I just replace any of the

bad recollections with pleasant ones?

Why is the dark side barking at the

door of my mind, wanting to go out?

Why does my light side have to be so

humble

to remember?

When the conversation

turns ugly,

veers into

politics,

steers toward

my-way-or-

the-highway

rhetoric,

I often

become that

potted plant

and quietly

fade out of

a hostile conversation.

I choose my battles

carefully,

unwilling to

jeopardize

a friendship

or kinship

just to make

a fleeting,

meaningless

observation.

If only others

would opt for

a plant's life

when choosing battles.

Robert fumes in darkness.

Giggles erupt from the back seat.

Robert grips the steering wheel tighter.

His knuckles grow whiter.

When the laughs turn to arguing,

Robert shoots a glare at his wife

who is quiet in the passenger seat.

She remains buried in her crossword.

From the back seat comes a shout:

“Gimme that. It’s mine!”

Then a laugh, a cry, and a toy car

bounces off the dashboard

and knicks the driver’s wrist.

“That’s it!” Robert screams

“I’m turning this car around.

This place is as good as any!”

A brief silence ensues inside

the vehicle, while a downpour

and rumbling continue outside.

But back-seat laughter resumes

because the kids know Dad’s

threat is empty.

Besides, he can’t turn the car

around until after they leave

the car wash.

When I write “stop,”

all four letters are uniform,

a nondescript word on a page.

Nothing to tell the reader

to halt, much less pause

while perusing the sentence

that holds my verb.

But when she writes “stop,”

her letters jump off the page.

They pulsate and stretch

and scream at the reader

to put on the brakes

and ponder the context

of the surrounding words.

Her “stop” is laden with trauma:

perhaps from her own life,

or an empathy beyond words.

I only wish that my “stop”

had an ounce or two

of her vibrant writing

that makes words alive.

Perhaps Gandhi? Maybe Plato?

Possibly a Quaker founder?

I do not know who originated

the saying, “Speak only

if you can improve the

silence.”

But I know someone special

who embodies this expression.

My loved one’s furrowed brow

and outstretched hands speak

volumes amid her

silence.

Her empathy is a language

that manifests on her body

and needs no interpreter.

“I want to help you, but how?”

she tells me in her fervent

silence.

I wish I could reply to her

but I do not know the answer

much less the vocabulary

to approximate her fluency.

So I shrug and keep my

silence.

I tell five students to wait at the corner in the afternoon sun. They obey.

“But school is done,” a demanding third-grader says, “and I wanna cross the street now!”

I just look at the kid, and he hangs his head. We go to the same red-brick elementary school, but I am in fifth grade and I am a “safety boy.”

And the white cloth “safety patrol belt” that stretches over one shoulder and down and around my waist commands respect. It is the elementary school symbol of peace, justice, and crosswalk control. And attached to my safety belt is one extra bit of authority—a lieutenant’s badge. Which means I can boss some of my fellow safety boys around.

I cannot help that my position brings out the worst in me. Excessive pride produces the elementary school equivalent of being drunk with power. Not a good look for a lawman, I know, but…

“Hey!” an adult voice snaps me out of a braggadocious daydream.

It’s Mr. Coates, the school janitor/safety boy director, standing in the middle of the street with outstretched arms. I immediately tell the kids on my corner to cross the street.

Soon, Mr. Coates tells me that one of my charges went home sick, and I need to pull another safety boy off this street and put him on the school driveway.

I walk up the street and yell, “Tucker, take the driveway post.”

Tucker shakes his head.

I cannot allow a subordinate to question my absolute authority. I get nose-to-nose with Tucker and shout, “You are gonna go there, NOW!”

“Make me,” he says.

I reassess, the mark of a true leader. And I say, “Never mind, Tucker. I’ll take the driveway post, and tell Mr. Coates that you refused to go.”

Before I can take a step, Tucker stomps off to the driveway.

Later, when the last child has crossed the street, I turn and Tucker is standing in my way. He pushes me. I push back.

The next thing I know, the two of us are throwing punches, rolling around on the sidewalk outside a drug store. Several safety boys surround us, yelling. All of us are still wearing our safety belts.

“Disgraceful!” a woman’s voice quiets the lawboys and stops the fight. “I am reporting all of you to your principal.”

The next day at school I am called to the principal’s office. What did the passerby say? Am I about to be stripped of my lieutenant’s badge? Maybe even lose my safety patrol belt?

At the office, the principal says four words, “Don’t do it, again.”

That is all!

As I walk back to class, my fiendish pride returns and I plot ways to make Tucker feel my wrath.

Alexa warned me this morning.

“Mild rain turning to downpour

and scattered storms,” she observed

in her electronic monotone,

a drone that belied urgency

to an impending emergency:

the raging tempest that now

engulfs me.

An unrelenting volley from the skies

hammers my every step and soaks

through my coat, my clothing layers,

past my underwear, and drenches

me down to the bones and my soul.

Is this the price of ignoring Alexa?

Is she to blame for the hopelessness that

swamps me?

You call this storm “scattered,” Alexa?

This wall of water I’m in is constant,

seemingly never-ending, and evil.

OK, Alexa, how about a deal?

I vow with all my zeal to give you

my full attention if you will make

this storm run out of rain before it

drowns me.

Skies dazzle with purples and pinks

as the once-bright orange disc

and each ray

sink, etching my world with wonder

and my mind with vivid mem’ries

of this day.

By any kid’s measure of fun,

my day had reached the pinnacle

of perfection.

Playing with pals, finding two bucks,

extra innings, and no need for

a correction.

But when I see the apple tree,

in Mister J’s yard, I realize:

Day is not done.

So, I sneak into the yard to pluck

the forbidden fruit, when I hear:

“Hold it, son!”

Mister J grabs and squeezes my arm

with his hand, and yells for my folks

to get me.

While I wait for my punishment

I know my day went from marquee

to crappy.

Seems impossible

to persuade you to see me

when I don’t, either,

and you exude confidence

and style that I sorely lack

But then your book dropped,

and while some fawned over you

I was there to retrieve it,

return the volume, and feel

the warmth of your gaze on mine