I've always been

oasis

to somebody

I believe.

it's why Fate

created us.

But I hear the

tossing of a penny

asking so very

plainly in

its internal

rotation:

Has the well spring

lost its source...?

...listening for

the drop not

forthcoming...

Has the fountainhead

crumbled down

to lesser stature?

while we've gotten

somehow smaller.

alas no, I am sure.

We have only

gained ground,

to cover.

06.22.2023

Oasis fountain stream challenge @idunowhodude

I can't let go.

If I say no,

I'm free to go.

But I'm still here.

Left me alone

With all the ghosts

In beauty cloaked.

I'm one myself.

Inside, we're waiting

For someone to appear.

To stop our fading

Before we disappear.

But they go right through me,

Cause they're just photographs.

But they seem so free

From all I struggle with.

One thing, another,

I'm gliding on the surface.

Their perfect summer,

Or this life that has no purpose?

I think I'll pass.

Just take my time

To pay for this world of perfect glass.

And if it shatters, I'll fall, can't climb,

And they will keep my time.

Could I let go?

I set it down.

I'm free to go.

I look around.

This world of ghosts

Searching for highs,

Erase the lows,

Keep their disguise.

Inside, they're waiting

For someone to appear

To stop their fading

Before they disappear.

They see the skies

Through a perfect filtered lens

That closes their eyes

As the glass starts to descend.

And when it shatters,

Will they feel regret,

That all that matters,

They let themselves forget.

They can let go.

Look up, see grey,

But colors grow.

There's still today.

This world of ghosts,

They come alive.

Take off their cloaks,

Start to revive.

We moved again when I was nine. I was excited by the “adventure,” but – not surprisingly - I wasn’t prepared for the “adventure.”

The movers in the yellow truck, with a giant green boat on the side, arrived, and I imagined we were sailing away on the Mayflower to our new country. To be fair, the side of the truck said Mayflower Moving, but I was alight with the thought of a grand journey at nine. The Mayflower connection created crazy ideas that rolled around my unfinished brain like the waves I imagined in the expansive sea that stretched to the foreign land of West Virginia.

Would I wear a long dark dress with some kind of man boots?

Would I wear the hat with the buckle, or the “Handmaid’s Tale” styled white bonnet?

None of them were attractive options, but as a stalwart new citizen, I would do as they did on the Mayflower or the shores where we would land.

This concept of a “West” Virginia baffled me.

Why did Virginia have a sibling?

“West” Texas was as big as 2 West Virginias.

Did the two halves of Virginia get into an argument that couldn’t be settled with a coin toss? So, it was time to go splitzies?

Who knew, but I wondered these things. These silly little nine-year-old things.

Our journey to “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” sounded promising because it was, after all, wild and wonderful. Would we be in the wild, wild west? Would we ride horses? I was leaving Texas, and we never had a single Laura Ingles Wilder moment. All we had to ride was our cute, tiny, red VW Beetle.

I cannot fathom now why my family of seven had a beetle. That little lady made the distinctive beetle bug sound. It was akin to a herd of guinea pigs squeaking. As they all were back then, ours was a standard without A/C. The loveliness of that and Texas resulted in the perfect storm to combine sweat from inside and dirt from open windows to leaving the seats slippery and lined with muddy tracks underneath damp thighs. Oh, and yes, don’t take a corner too quickly, or all of us would slip and slide up against one another and smack into the doors.

Welcome to the amusement park ride – no seatbelts required. This was 1969.

Waiting in the street in front of our castle, the jovial movers tolerated us kids. This “ship” or truck thing was the most enormous contraption I’d ever seen. We were encouraged by the pirates of the highways to creep up the metal ramp and explore the cavernous, dark, and musty tank. I imagined it to be like a cave that would have echoed my calls.

I didn’t have a way to understand the size and scale of life. That trailer felt big enough to move the treasures of kings and queens.

Could a kingdom be relocated?

Could our small, white brick, mid-century, four bedrooms, two-bath home in Clear Lake City possibly need these excessive accommodations?

My brow was tight with concern about how our little red bug would make the trip. I wanted the sailors of that clipper to keep her safe. Not knowing how far away “Wild Wonderful West Virginia” was further captivated my curiosity. Then they did something brave and shocking. They drove our beetle up the ramp into the cavern.

Their next move was otherworldly to me. Those four mates reached down with the ease of giants, picked up the car, and turned it sideways. Now, all the belongings from the small white brick castle had a sentinel. My brow relaxed because all was well.

The house we moved into from our small castle was a monstrous castle on a hill. It was three stories because it had a basement. There were 4+ bedrooms. Mine was large and glamorous. I envisioned multiple seating areas. (Yes, at 9.). Immediately though, my parents swiped the corner under the eave for my sister’s crib.

This move blindsided me because my parents (Kathy and Ron) had a suite of rooms downstairs with one perfect for a nursery, so I stood in stunned silent defiance. Maybe it’d be fun to play mom…and maybe not.

There were immediate lessons. Even though I was the oldest of five and had been forced into active service as a pseudo-parent, I couldn’t fathom the ensuing responsibilities.

Things that weren’t fun:

Putting a baby to bed and waking up with her when she cries.

The only access to my room after 8 pm if I was silent.

I was more than a big sister.

In the inky darkness one quiet night, Maureen started crying with determination. I hoisted her from her crib and put her in my bed. She promptly puked her dinner of corned beef hash. I bolted to get Kathy. She cleaned her up while I remade my bed. Believe it or not, she put her back in my bed. She slunk back to her quiet room downstairs. Maureen puked again. This time after I retrieved the “real parent,” she took all my bedding, put it in the tub, and took my sister downstairs. I found a measly sleeping bag and tried to sleep on the floor before I had to get ready for school. The other three staring at me startled and irritated me.

“What?” was all I could muster.

“Are you sick, Juri?” Karen asked.

“No, let me sleep.” With that, they skulked away.

How did I get rooked into the big sister job? I wanted the king and queen of the red brick castle to do their damn jobs. I wanted to be relegated to princess again, not a lady in waiting nor the nurse, teacher, enforcer, or disciplinarian. However, this role was rapidly blossoming and getting out of hand for me.

Suddenly, Kathy decided it was an excellent idea for her and Ron to join the local theater group. Guess who was running things during rehearsals and performances, and cast parties? Yes, yours truly.

Reminder: I was between 9 and 12 when we lived there.

On one such occasion, we were home alone during a violent thunderstorm.

-Baby, asleep – check.

-Others with me downstairs now because they were scared – check.

-No one missing – check. Two were crying, and one was clinging to me.

Then the best of all scenarios – the power went out. Unprepared, I had a lightbulb moment (no pun intended) - I lit the gas stove top. Well, that only helped right there.

In the flashes of light, Karen (younger by 18 months) and I took halting steps toward our parents’ room. The two middle ones sat on the stairs with blankets over their heads, like a scene from The Sixth Sense. In the brightness of each flash, we rummaged through the top drawer of Ron’s dresser. Isn’t the dresser where one keeps a flashlight?

Nope.

Finally, I abandoned all attempts to fix that shit myself. Karen and I ran to the neighbor’s next door. I had the good sense to put a raincoat on both of us. We climbed the 17,000 steps to their house and knocked on the door. Those poor people stared at us as if we were lost children of Appalachia. Aghast, we were left “home alone” with a 10-year-old in charge; the husband came over to the house with a flashlight and, I think, an extra one. He was kind and patient. Just after we got there, the lights came back on. He ensured we were ok and left with an eye roll toward my parents. I believe there was a follow-up “talk” with my dad, which was relatively unpleasant.

In an attempt at passing the torch of authority, when he was absent, good ole Ron gave me a camouflage shirt with the sleeves cut out and some military patches on it. The kids thought it was ridiculous. He made me wear it as his deputy’s badge. It made their behavior worse.

My parents played in a little theater, and I parented the hoard.

What I learned:

I loved snow.

I loved the forest and the creeks I got to explore and wander (always with a sibling). I loved the freedom of those hours lost and then found again.

I loved plucking and tasting honeysuckle on the twisting and climbing trail, making our way to swim practice.

Squinting my eyes didn’t improve my vision; contacts did.

Heating Campbell’s consummé when Kathy and Ron weren’t home and the kids were hungry was a mistake. How was I to know that word was French for broth?

Letting the kids try to make a pie was a bad idea when I was in charge. As it turns out, pouring all ingredients for the crust and filling in the same bowl doesn’t, in fact, work. They don’t separate to create the elements of a pie miraculously—and this enraged Kathy.

I didn’t want to be a pre-adolescent parent.

I didn’t know how to make and keep everyone happy.

I didn’t know my dad was an alcoholic.

I didn’t know what the DTs were, but they convinced my dad there was a band in his hospital room.

I didn’t like Mom taking me to pick Dad up from the hospital. She shit-talked him all the way there. Experiencing him vomiting out the window left me horrified. My grandparents were home with the other kids, and that was where I wanted to be. They let me be a child.

I stopped being a child in that castle.

No matter how hard I tried, it wasn’t good enough.

I wanted the highway pirates to come and take us back to the little white castle with the pool, the golf course, and the pond behind it.

There is never a way to know the future.

There is never a way to know the possibilities of a lifetime.

There is only the living, and it must be done.

Worked out

Showered

Having my tea

Waiting for an email

That doesn’t come

My workweek begins

A lot like

The last one ended

i was wet

though dry as a bone

the water was clear

but it stung

my eyes as if it were toxic--

maybe they were

maybe we all were..

i could swim

but what was the point?

i was a flounder

in a bathtub of gin

Lately, I forgot I cared

That I wasn't loved by you

And then saw you smile

And it took me back to the days we used to laugh

Our energy together allowing us to run for miles

And I wonder what about me didn't make the cut

What about me didn't appeal to your senses

What about me wasn't enough for you

Lately, I remembered what it was like

To want to be wanted by you

And then I saw

The array of nothingness in your eyes

Something I’ve never noticed

And I wonder how long they’ve been empty

What about the world that made them die

What about the world affected your sight

Lately, I have lived in a world

Worried about you

Releasing it wasn't I who did not satisfy

Because you were lost

And I wondered what you really longed for

What about your life is not appealing to your senses

What about your life is not enough for you

Man, I picked the wrong spot to dig the grave.

I was prepared to cut through roots, but it wasn’t till I tried digging with the spade that I realized nothing could grow in this clay-filled rocky earth. I sighed, grabbed the pick, and began swinging. There was still standing water in spots, and it took several hours to make the hole big enough to hold the body.

My plan had been to add a flowering shrub after I filled in the hole, and I had decided to use a hardy variety of azalea with heady fruit scented blossoms. I realized now though, that the best I could do was throw some scrub pine seeds in on top of her body, hoe the replaced soil into something that appeared natural, and hope that it remained undiscovered for a couple years.

Hopefully a tree would finish hiding what she’d made me do.

-----------------------

© 2023 dustygrein

Hold it in like medicine.

And let it take you to a place you've never been.

As your soul floats from your skin.

You should know this is as close to heaven as you'll ever get.

Watch your problems transform into a cloud of mist.

I know the world is mix-and-match.

And your life is tick-for-tac.

But you finally found a fix.

After tonight you won't remember that

Or think of this.

Just twist the pipe with light hits.

And look into Crystal's eyes.

When they ask why your lips are so chapped.

Just say your livin' life.

And when you lose your job.

Just say you're allergic to mice.

And when you run out of cash.

I'll spot you a bag.

And if you can't pay.

Well, that's okay.

You can sell some ass.

And years from now when you want to change.

Everyone will still smell your past.

And I'll exploit your pain.

Until you see me as your dad.

Then we'll refill the pipe and take endless drags.

Oh! How good it feels to be livin' bad.

Hold it in like medicine.

You were twenty-seven then...

It was winter when I ran away. The jonquils in Mrs Black’s garden next door were beginning to go brown at the tips and her daffodils were coming out like fresh yellow trumpets, ready to herald the springtime. I reckon it was the first Monday in August I left, when there was frost on the ground and I could see my breath in misty clouds before my face.

Our house was old, and ugly most of the time, except on rare occasions like Christmas time or when anyone came to visit; then Dora would scrub away the black dust in the corners and wash the carpets and tidy all the rooms, even the ones she knew no one would go in, and the whole place would smell of cleaning spray and lavender for a week. She was never very good with the cleaning. The doors were too high and draughts came in under them, and my bedroom was the coldest place because the window was jammed and would never quite shut. Just before I left Dora sewed clumsy little curtains and hung them up there for me.

Our backyard was just a pile of old junk that Dad had collected and never gotten rid of. He said he had too much on his mind to bother much about it. Once, Dora planted pansies in a little open patch in an attempt to make something pretty, less dreary, but Dad forgot they were there and crushed them somehow, by accident. I remember that time because I found Dora crying in the kitchen afterwards, and I watched her from the doorway until she looked up and saw me, and pretended that nothing was wrong. Funny, the things Dora cried about. She didn’t flinch when Dad shouted at her, didn’t even get teary eyed when her precious kitten ran away and disappeared or when the grandfather clock fell over in the hallway and broke her china cups, and got that awful scratch down the front; she just kind of pursed her lips and swallowed all the tears and words before they had a chance to come out, I suppose. But then, she cried when I fell off my bicycle and scraped my knee, or sometimes when dinner didn’t turn out right, or when she dropped a stitch in her knitting - just a soft, gentle sort of crying that made me stop whatever I was doing and go and wrap my arms around her and say, “Please, Dora! Don’t cry, Dora! Don’t cry!” even when I was too old for it, and she would stop at once, and smile, and wipe the tears away with her apron.

I never called her anything but Dora, because that was what Dad called her. I only knew that she was a sort of aunt, Dad’s younger sister - at least, half one, anyway. Two years after Mum died, when I was still too small to reach the water tap and tie my shoelaces, Dora came to live with us. I don’t know why. She should never have come. I suppose she didn’t have anywhere else to go, no other family or work. Dad never wanted her, but he needed someone at home to look after me every day when he went away, to cook the meals and wash the clothes … maybe he even needed someone to shout at, someone grownup and not a little boy. Maybe he hoped she would shout back, but she never did. Not Dora.

i.

Heat, press against you. Exit body, exit body. Emergency-exit fucking room. Steamed-breath, press sticky against windows. Swallow his request. Swallow his pushing. Exit body. Ignore his pushing. Ignore your softness. Ignore your heat. Ignore his softness. Remember the ache. Remember the matched heartbeats. Remember the hands pressed to hands. Remember when you wanted this. Remember when he wanted you. Remember it as wanting. Imagine it as wanting.

ii.

He took too much. But once he smelled like summer. Once he was the beach. Once he was warm breath colliding against warm breath. And he took too much. But once he was soft eyes. Once he was whispered secrets against neck. And I’m sorry that I always let him take too much. And I’m sorry I make him take too much. But imagine it as wanting.

iii.

And I’m never enough. He’s holding me-transparent, and looking right through. But remember it as wanting. Remember it as wanting. Imagine it as wanting.