Frost Bite

Cold, crisp, crackling leaves crunch under the light foot that treads.

Frigid, harsh, violating air is penetrated by a puff of breath.

So soft, one cannot tell a breath had been breathed at all.

The Veil of Frost slightly disturbed by the fragile limbs of Nature’s forlorn dormitory of silence.

Wicked winds whip the maple leaves while cold rain drops lick the sweetness of their death.

As a devil who feasts upon sin.

An Old Truck

It’s 6:30 in the morning and I am driving back home after taking my husband to the transit station where he catches the bus for work. 

Have you ever really looked at the colors around you that time of day? (A completely different post for those thoughts)

I have three very happy children in the car and their 6 year old conversation with endless possibilities flows smoothly as we drive along.

Senses relaxed, happy, content.

I am driving behind a ratty tatty shell of an old truck and the smell of gasoline, oil, and exhaust all come barreling into the air that I breathe and I immediately think of a man.

A man who has been, for the most part, a man who has taught me how to survive simply by surviving life himself and figuring it out one step at a time.

As a child, dysfunctional family, he had it rough.

As a teenager, in and out of foster homes, he had it rough.

As a young adult, going to Vietnam, he had it rough.

As a young man in his early 20’s, first divorce, tragic car accident, new wife and two kids, he had it rough.

As a man in his late 20’s, attempted college with a learning disability (he was sneaky, no one knew he couldn’t read!) and decided it wasn’t for him, he had it rough.

As a man in his 30’s, finally able to get back to work after his accident and trying to find a decent job to support his wife and now three kids, he had it rough.

By the time he hit his 40’s, he was still unsettled but making the best out of his life, he had it rough.

Over the past 20 years, I have come to develop my own opinion of who this man is. He still  has it rough.

There have been times when we have not agreed, have been through the ring together ourselves, and yet I still find through those rough times, there were valuable lessons taught that I really had no idea were molding part of who I am.  

Sometimes, I just have to suck it up and you know what? It isn’t so bad. That smell... is sometimes like the sweetest scent in life reminding me of how easy it is when it gets rough.

And I am reminded of my father, cranky old man who I adore more than words can ever explain.

Dedication to the Ugly Duckling (first two pages)

I am 14.

I am pregnant.

I am sitting in a bright yellow Penske truck loaded full of the furniture my parents own that used to be in our house. I mean our OLD house. I am looking in the side view mirror at our family dog of 13 years standing all alone in the middle of the street watching us go. She is a good dog. My heart is breaking into several shattered shards. I still cannot cry. I look over at my little sister sitting between me and my father. She doesn’t seem to have a clue what just happened with our dog. I am jealous of that. I look at my dad. He stares forward. I do not question what he is doing. I asked why we were not taking her when we were getting into the truck. She wouldn’t fit. I didn’t fit either. That’s why I am sitting in this ugly duckling yellow truck.

I didn’t say one word for two whole days while we drove. I just stared out the side window with a dull aching pain lodged in my throat. On the second day of my silence I noticed the tickle of my sister’s hair on my arm. I looked down at the tangled mass, knowing it hadn’t been brushed in days and watched her head bob from side to side as she slept. Sometimes her head would tilt to the back and her mouth would hang slightly open, she would make weird snorting noises. I watched, amused. I loved her at this moment. Sometimes I could not stand to look at her. But at this moment, she made me feel love. I was so angry. I felt sorry for her too. I pulled her head down onto my shoulder to secure a more sound sleep for her. She settled into my boney shoulder and slept on. I return my eyes to the side of the road.

A baby. I feel nothing in my heart when I think about this. There is a place void of emotion. I have heard slips of conversation between my mom and dad. Adoption, abortion, but nothing of keeping it. I am not included in any of these conversations. I am not in control of my own life. I am reckless and dubbed the “problem child.” Ha, little do they know that this baby has one of two possible fathers. My high school sweetheart. Did I mention he is one of the most popular boys in school! I have so much fun when I am with him and his friends. We go to all the basketball games. Oh, and he is the basketball king at my school. I mean my old school. I do not know where I am going to go to school now. Some different state where I do not know anyone. My friends and I would sit in the stands and scream at the top of our lungs cheering him on. Of course there were other boys on the team we cheered for too, but I cheered for him the loudest. He says we are still boyfriend and girlfriend. What does that mean? I am so confused. I do not know how that is even possible. But I told him ok. What else was I supposed to say? Still looking out the window I shrug. My sister’s head plops forward a little. I glimpse down at her. She still sleeps.

What no one knows is that this growing thing inside of me could have another father. Not who I would ever want, but had no choice in the matter. For four years I have fallen victim to a nasty dark figure who lurks behind closed doors when no one is looking. No matter how hard I force him off of me, I give up the struggle. Out of breath, out of fight. No matter how hard I try to stay away, he finds me. Will he still find me, in another state? A shiver runs up my spine and I try not to gag.

A warm wet stream of saliva starts to run down my arm and I am startled by this feeling. I jerk slightly and look down at the head still resting on my arm. Instinctively I lift my arm and my sister bounces her head over to the other side of the cab and rests it on my father’s arm. He looks at me for a minute and asks what is wrong. I stare at him and wonder what I am going to say to him. If nails are going to spew from my mouth because this bubbling sensation of anger is piercing my insides. I think I am in some kind of pain.

“She drooled on me” I say flatly.

This causes two reactions from him. I see his mouth pucker in mild disgust but for a brief second I see the humor in his eye. I try to ignore it. I hate it. I hate everything.

“Well gross, I don’t want her on me if she is going to drool all over” he says back.

What surprises me, or maybe it doesn’t, is that he lifts his arm and pushes her back over to me. I look at my sister like she is a foreign creature. I don’t want her drooling on me, gross! But her little head just dangles there. Every time we hit any kind of bump, it jolts and bobs to and fro. The tangles in her hair hang over her face. I watch her for a while longer and she slowly starts to lean towards me. Once she touches my arm I move her back over to my dad. This becomes a game. We end up waking her with it. All because of drool.

My dad asks me if I know that babies drool. I act like I don’t hear him and rest my head on the window. It was not cooling to the touch. Rather warm and I think to myself that this is hell. This stupid yellow Penske truck, with this stupid little cab that couldn’t fit our dog, with this stupid window, with this stupid life, and a baby inside of me. A baby. No, I didn’t know they drooled.

Out of the window I see miles of sand. There are buttes here and there. Red, isolated masses that stand out without any embarrassment of where they protrude from the ground. I toy with the idea of long ago, when Indians roamed these lands, forming a short line on wild mustang horses, their hair blowing madly in the wind on top of one of those buttes. Their bow and arrows strapped around their chests, pouches on their backs. Ready, prepared to take on anything. I feel as if I fit there. Anywhere but here. 

The Lenses of Life

Introduction Snap Shot:

When I blink there is running running running in my mind a thousand pictures of what I just experienced in the brief moment of the second hand on the tick tock clock flashing passing before my eyes.
Webbed tangles entwine racing racing racing to reach the spot where I will flick click that picture to spin the imaginatively detailed twisting fisting motions that just may happen upon me during the day.
Nothing organized, may be random, click, I pick the moment I choose to share.
Somehow, some way, snap shot to your brain, you get the picture.