Cackle!
I have a rather funny laugh
some say it’s quite the cackle
occasionally there is a snort
(which raises hubby’s hackles)
my laugh is loud
my smile is too
I could frown
and sometimes do
I could cry
I do that, too
but I’d much rather
not be blue
I prefer to laugh
till tears do fall
life’s much more fun
when I recall
the laughter, the fun
the days in the sun
the rain or the snow
it’s all great, you know
so I cackle and chuckle
and chortle and titter
and giggle too much
and avoid being bitter
I hope to spread a little joy
to those I meet each day
helping them (and me as well)
keep thunder clouds at bay.
False cognate
Some years ago, I had the opportunity to spend a summer studying Spanish at La Universidad Católica in Quito, Ecuador as part of my undergraduate program. Although I had studied French all through high school and my first year of college, I switched to Spanish after passing a foreign language proficiency graduation requirement in French. I studied Spanish for two semesters and then I was off to Quito to squeeze a year of Intermediate Spanish into two months. I had the good fortune to live with a warm and welcoming Ecuadorian family in a comfortable home a short bus ride away from the university. They made my roommate and I feel very welcome.
My twentieth birthday happened to fall during the first week I was there. My host mother was kind enough to have a special treat at lunch that day, and her three adult children along with their spouses, her husband, the maid and my roommate all sang to me. When they finished, I said, "Mil gracias. Estoy embarazada." The smiles were wiped from all the heretofore friendly faces and you could have heard a pin drop.
Fortunately, one of her children spoke enough English to know that I had a near-perfect accent but seriously imperfect vocabulary: "embarazada" did not mean "embarrassed" as I thought, but rather "pregnant." She clarified what I said (to me) versus what I meant to say (to them), and all was well...although after that my host mother insisted I go to church with her every Sunday and seemed to watch my waistline rather closely for the rest of my stay.
I thought it went away
I thought it went away,
they said it would,
the heart that squeezes
bleeding tears
as memories
of joys and sorrows
little hurts
and big dreams
flood the mind
shared moments
when you were
still
and I could call
or visit
or write
and know
you would be there
with smiles
and hugs
and laughter
and love;
I thought it went away,
and I could face each day
with you tucked safely
deeply
in a corner of my mind
ache softened
dulled
by the passing years
growing older
than you ever were
and away
from when
our lives
entwined;
I thought it went away.
But then yesterday,
--was it an old song?
the huge full moon
as I drove home from work?
nature dressed in fall colors
under the clear, blue sky?
a joke that would have made you laugh?--
I picked up the phone
~I picked up the phone~
to share a silly nothing,
but there's no number to dial
that you will answer
and I can no longer hear
the echo of your voice
and your only smiles
are in fading pictures
and our only hugs
are the ones I give myself
wearing your sweater
full of holes
falling to pieces
like me
after all this time
I thought it went away,
grief;
I was mistaken.
The end or the beginning
As the future folds in upon itself, I find myself drinking in the sky in all its glory - be it brilliant, clear blue; dotted with puffy, cotton clouds; steel gray or midnight black with pinpoints of light twinkling from a distant past.
I can't help but feel insignificant: a speck of meaningless, purposeless life in a vast universe that remains incomprehensible to my small mind, has no end in space or time, indeed, is infinite, sitting above me in shades of blues, grays and blacks that may only exist in my mind.
This is not the first time
I have pages of notes delineating dreams I've had. Vivid, feels-real-how-is-this-a-dream-thank-God-this-is-a-dream-type dreams. Some of these dreams have led to feelings of déjà vu in daily life and cold fear as my subconscious reacts to a memory of something that did not happen.
As I write this, the water is spilling into the tunnel around me. People are running, screaming.
Stay, or run?
The first body just floated by.
I hear the sounds of steel bending, cement blocks exploding.
Now, it is dark. It won't be long.
If you read this, find my notes.
This is not the first time I've---
Two people can keep a secret of one of them is dead (Russian saying)
It is an ongoing joke between my husband and son that I am probably in the CIA, living undercover in the suburbs of New Jersey with my Russian immigrant husband and son as cover. I’ve never understood what they imagine my assignment to be; nor what about me encourages their thinking. I am an African-American educator with a PhD in Hispanic literature. I am a devoted wife. An adoring mother. Indeed, it is so unlikely as to be far-fetched albeit quite amusing.
Until it wasn’t. I mean, if I tell you, I have to kill you is not merely a line of fiction.
It’s my life.
And so, the day they made the joke in front of my husband’s worthless half brother, Aleksandr, (“former” KGB, ha, unbeknownst to his family), and his gaze sharpened on me, and I knew he knew that I knew that he knew. And he had to die.
And it had to be quick, fatal and undetectable.
My specialty.
“I’ll be right back, guys,” I said, getting up from the dining room table. The cookies should be done.”
“Chocolate chip?” my son asked. I nodded. “I hope you made at least three dozen. I could eat them all. Although Anna’s cookies are great, too,” he added about his girlfriend of the moment.
“I can always bake more, sweetheart,” I replied over my shoulder as I went to the kitchen.
After removing the cookie sheets from the oven, I placed several cookies on three dessert plates: one for my husband, one for my son, and one for Aleksandr. Grabbing a small brown jar from the back of the spice cabinet, I added a drop of the contents to the top cookie on Aleksandr’s plate. I replaced the jar before I picked up the plates and re-entered the dining room.
“Here you go guys! Let me know if you want more” I said, placing an identical plate in front of each of them. “Milk?”
Mouths full, I got a nod of yes from my son, no from Aleksandr and my husband. I could feel Aleksandr’s eyes following me as I left the room.
Back in the kitchen, I took a glass from the cabinet and milk from the refrigerator. As I poured, I heard a chair scrape the wood floor and fall in the dining room.
“What are you three doing now?”
“It’s Aleksandr!” my husband said. “Something’s wrong!”
I ran in the room. Aleksandr was on the floor, clutching his chest. He looked at me in pain and bewilderment. “Oh my God,” I screamed, kneeling next to my husband. “Call 911!” I said to my son.
The EMTs arrived within five minutes.
He was dead within three.
The medical examiner’s report ruled it a heart attack.
My secret is safe.
Even Steven
"And then he kissed the ground.," Billy said, grinning like an 8 year old instead of the 28-year-old husband and father that he was.
I rolled my eyes. "I can't believe you are smiling about having a fight on the basketball court. You could have been hurt!"
"Nah, they didn't know what hit'em. I was like a windmill, fists flying. It was so cool!"
I shook my head, exasperated. "How's your brother?"
"He's fine. Everyone's fine. The other guys ran off when they heard sirens."
"Sirens?!"
"Yeah. No biggie. They just warned us that we might want to play in another neighborhood. Not safe for foreigners on the courts around here."
"See! Jeez, Billy."
"It's stupid. This is my neighborhood, too. The courts are public. Some of the guys are cool. They call me Vlade for that Serbian guy on the Lakers."
"Isn't he like seven feet tall?"
"Not because I'm tall, because I sink three pointers like nobody's business."
I sighed. "I guess the guy who kissed the ground wasn't hurt too bad if they all ran away."
Looking anywhere but at me, Billy said, "well, funny thing, I was so crazy punching left and right, it was actually Alex that kissed the ground."
"Your friend, Alex?"
"It was an accident."
"An accident."
"And then he got up and punched me back, so we're even."
Looks can be deceiving
“There appears to have been a struggle.”
The captain and I were standing just inside the door to the apartment.
“I don't know, Cap. Don't you think it's a little over the top? I mean, look at that,” I said pointing to a shattered mirror.
“What about it?”
“Looks more like someone took a hammer to it than that it got knocked off a wall during a struggle.”
Cap walked over to the mirror and squatted down for a closer look. “You may be right, Les. But why make it look like a struggle?”
“To divert suspicion, of course.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, a struggle lends itself to thinking the victim fought off a stranger.”
“But you don't think so.”
“No.”
“You think the victim knew her killer.”
“You know she did, Cap.”
He slowly stood and faced me, his face a mask.
“The building security cameras were non-functional, but the neighbor across the hall has a door camera activated by movement.”
Cap paled.
“We have a clear video of the killer entering and leaving.”
Uniformed officers filed in.
“You don't understand. It was an accident…”
“Captain Maynard Brunson, you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say…”
Gray
I find myself
stuck all day
the sun may shine
but i see gray;
there are no colors
there's barely light
darkness surrounds
although it's not night;
heavy and slow
i drag around
air so heavy
i feel i may drown,
in tears like rain
that blurs and clouds
grayscale watercolor
that cloaks and shrouds,
hides yellows, greens and blues,
holds reds and oranges at bay
no purples, no pinks, no joyful hues,
forever and always, only gray.