disclaimer or something

A mummy-hand holding, (former) biker gang affiliating, hippie influenced semi crunchy granola mom's ramblings and reminisings on an off-kilter life

Tuesday, March 24, 2015

going home

I remember her curls, unusually tight and a strange melange of copper and silver, clinging to her lifeless head as they wheeled her into the bedroom. Sure, she was alive and somewhat breathing, but she was a ghost in a shell of sorts, in limbo between this world and the next, her appearance even different as if part of another reality. No longer did I see Grandma Val circa 2015 but some strange scarecrow version of her, crafted by a stranger. She was just a vessel.

My dear "Nanny", my Grandma Val, resided on this earth for almost 94 years. Multiple falls and infections tried to pull her away, pneumonia and a heart attack rendered her to the unrecognizable vessel I saw but a glimpse of. Hospice took over, and she stayed here in body for two more days. But she was already on her way somewhere else.

The wedding was when I glimpsed this shell of a grandmother, holding on to one last precious memory. Hours later, her oxygen stopped and so did her heart, but she was revived. She clung to life long enough to talk to her son she hadn't spoken to in a year or seen in dozens, my father. Mere hours later, she made the transition.


She went home.

My cousins and uncle said she was cognizant until the moment of death; she knew she went to a wedding and recognized attendees in the photos, knew she spoke to her son. But no one could convince her, as she lay in a makeshift hospital bed at home under hospice, that she was home. No familiar object or person could quiet her request: "I want to go home".

At 11:30pm March 17, my dear Nanny got her wish. She went home. Rest in peace my dear. You are missed but not forgotten.

Wednesday, March 11, 2015

microstory: whose side are you on?

On the edge of the precipice
darkness stewing
the light quietly whispers against the smothering black which cloaks itself in familiarity
 a weapon of comfort
the shackles are but life, it says
while the light shines from afar
 of which I yearn

Monday, March 2, 2015

microstory - succubus

The rum's all gone
Conversation's over
I told you no
How you hurt
How you suck the life out from me
You used caveats and excuses
And distorted it all
Twisted my mind
The bottle's dry
I yearn to heal you

Saturday, February 28, 2015

Surprise, I brought you flowers

The eighty-degree February sun glistened on the wet grass as we slowly drove around the cemetary and approached the masoleum. That's when i realized she was in there. Somehow, walking atop the dead is fine but a whole building full of them is nightmarish to me. I could not turn around now.

"Isn't this a bit morbid honey? Sure you want to do this? It is kinda....dark...all these ancient graves, with the kids, on a sunny day...."my husband's voice trailed off as me saw me stifle a grimace at the sight of the masoleum. I slowly opened the car door and slowly mumbled, "ok then I will be right back gimme the camera."

"What? You? Go in alone? By yourself?!?! The kids and I are coming. You can'tvgo in alone, you morose girl you" exclaimed my husband. So we all slowly ascended the stairs and walked into a silent, hot and stuffy, marble and brass sarcophagus. It's a sarcophagus, right? A giant stone tomb. Names of people long gone, some forgotten, were written on plaques in every direction. My children, young and innocent, ran around and enjoyed their voices echoing off the walls, reverberating and brwaking the austere mood of the place. I squinted and scanned the walls and couldn't find her. Little brass vases held dust and cobweb covered fake plastic flowers on some plaques, a place time had forgotten. About to give up, I found her tucked in a corner. The light filtered in the windows, light and shadow playing, my son chasing the reflections. "This is kinda weird uh....I will take the kids, do your thing but hurry" my husband whispered, as he rokunded the corner and made his way down the hall.

How do you do this? Why must so much of my life be so unscripted? There's no "situation x y z for dummies" book on most topics I encounter in life.

"Hi, Selma. You are my morsmormormor, my great great grandma. You were born in Sweden. Your daughter, Selma, had a baby. No one knew. She is my grandma. so I am  your relative too. Hello. Sorry for the surprise. Uhh....bye." And with that, I turned to leave, hoping I didn't upset her. I mean, what if she never even knew this huge family secret? Or what if she spent her life hiding it and here I come all, hey, your daughter did some naughty things and the secret's out, here I am! Or what if she knew and had always wondered? Man. I should have brought a photo of her grand-daughter. Or should I....

My thoughts were interrupted, and I stopped in my tracks (so much for a hasty escape) when my husband asked, "smell that?" I sniffed and smelled a floral scent, Easter Lilies to be exact. "Yeah, so? It's a cemetary. People bring flowers" I retorted. "Yeah, but do you see any flowers? Any real flowers? And did you smell them before? " I nodded no and looked back towards Selma's corner, and grabbed my son's hand. "Let's go home" I proclaimed, leaving Selma and friends behind. Who knows. Perhaps she (or someone else) tried to make a visit, it is often said certain strong scents can be a sign of the supernatural.
<a href="http://yeahwrite.me/moonshine/"><img src="http://yeahwrite.me/wp-content/uploads/2014/02/moonshine.png"></a>

Friday, February 6, 2015

laughing at your past

I do not mention it much but almost 15 years ago, I dated an asshole. He had a charming side, and then, a bipolar alcoholic emotionally abusive side. I got trapped in his web for two years, hopelessly in love and yet in misery and fear. Thank God (and my husband) for saving me. Except, see, my past haunts my dreams...but luckily it is the past and it stays in my dreams. Until...today. I decided to check my linkedin account and wow six people looked at my profile?!?! Future employers maybe? (Four years of under employment and under employment mean I get giddy in the hopes I will be "discovered" online). I then saw a familiar name. Shit. There is a reason (him) that my "name" on social media is not my own, from his prior virtual stalkings of me and his freaky threats . I suddenly thought, I have to block him. So to block people, you have to visit their profile. Except I could not find the right button to click to block him. Fuck. Now it looks like I stalked him back because he will log in and be all, "ooh she looked at my profile". And then begets my fear I wilk run into him in public or he will find where I live, as he is the type to be that kind of crazy. So then I decide screw it. I need to know something. I put up with his emotional prison

Friday, January 30, 2015

there are no coincidences...and...fyi I am not a creepy stalker.

My half brother whom I have never met (we are FB friends) is expecting a baby! Well his girlfriend is but same difference right? So I had to google her name, make sure she is a good person for my brother and neice/nephew. All I could find was an address. But holy moly omfg can it be? THERE ARE NO COINCIDENCES. She lives or lived....wait let me back up. In the early 90's my brother and his aunt, uncle, cousins on my side whom he hasnt a clue about lived a half mile away from him. They probably saw one another often and never knew. So fast forward to now. His girlfriend lived or lives in the SAME HOUSE as his & my aunt, uncle, cousins lived in. THE SAME EXACT HOUSE. I am floored.

Wednesday, January 14, 2015

Fear and Loathing in las escuelas

The scent of multipurpose cleaner and soggy canned corn wafted through the halls, riding the chilly draft from the locked metal doors. Tiny windows, security protocols, screams echoing down empty halls made me feel like a prisoner; tiny paper snowflakes bedazzled in glitter meant I was instead inside an elementary school.

I felt deja vu upon deja vu, a multilayered memory carried by that corn and cleaner stench, that filled me with fear and self-loathing. An elementary school should not cause such anxiety; perhaps the fact that my four-year-old was locked away in a small florescent-lit room with a district psychologist and some number two pencils added to my anxiety.

I was flooded with memories of my dozen-plus experiences teaching in a handful of schools. I somehow always fell prey to the hoardes of students, my classroom went wild and my career was at stake. I rarely stayed at a school site for more than a year, a prominent mentor and role model in the lives of thirty to two hundred students one day, gone the next. Every day when I walked in the school doors, that corn and cleaner stench mocked me as I told myself, today would be a better day. I would take control of my class. And every day, that corn and cleaner scent clung to my heels as I locked the classroom door, full of self loathing at my failure as a teacher. But I kept coming back; a love of learning and teaching and helping others, a strange instinctual need to help children find wonder drove me back each time. Every year, a different school, with the same self loathing and fear.

So as I paced the halls, waiting for my son to finish an evaluation, I did my best to keep my chin up, while having an epiphany. Somehow, my emotions take me hostage and I feel like a prisoner in the school system. I feel bullied, alone, a failure. Exactly what I hope my son never ever experiences. 

I pray that when he opens the school doors, the scent of corn and cleaner whispers to him, "explore....wonder...succeed...smile....". And that he whispers back, "I will."