Each day you awaken

you can make the choice:

to live

passionately,

lovingly,

cheerfully,

gratefully;

to work to be who you

want to be,

dream to be,

are meant to be;

to spread joy

by simply being joyful -

despite pain,

disappointment,

challenges,

anxiety,

cruelty;

each day

that death does not close your eyes

you can make the choice

to rejoice in what is

because you are.

The kids at school called him “Lurch.” The worst part was, she saw it. He was a tall kid, all arms and legs, who walked on his toes with a forward lean, as though there was a forever wind against his sail. He was growing so fast. She couldn’t afford to keep buying clothes at the rate he was growing, so his sleeves and cuffs were going to have to ride up for awhile, but what was she to do? Her clothes were not nearly new either.

They weren’t beating him up yet, but that would probably come. He was one of those gentle kids who was so easy for the others to pick on. All he had going for him was that his height was somewhat imposing. What would she do if they did start beating him up? Again? A single mother in a strange town? God knows she would do or give anything to make the child happy, but he seldom was, following her lead. And he was still such a good boy despite all that! He did all that she asked, which was quite a bit, while asking for nothing in return. He wore the shirts with the too short sleeves, and the high-water pants without complaint. His grades were good. He helped around the house. There was only the one thing she had ever seen him want, and he never even asked her for that.

But she saw him looking at that one thing. She saw him at the store, reaching out a gentle hand to touch it. He had touched it lovingly, as a woman touches her baby. That was how she’d known. Seeing it had brought a tear to her eye. She vowed then and there that he would have it. She knew a way.

~

The man behind the counter at the second hand store would only give her $200 for her $2,000 engagement ring. Benjamin had given her that ring directly after her pregnancy, and directly before his accident. The ring was all she had left of him, but Benjamin wouldn’t mind it; back then he wouldn't have minded, and certainly not now.

She took the money for the ring from the clerk and immediately set it back on the countertop. There would be missed meals in his future, but she would give her boy this. The rest of the money she had gotten from Adam. She didn’t love Adam, and he did not love her, but there were times when Adam needed a woman, even a pear shaped woman like her, so she gave herself to him during those times. In return he helped her with bills, and such. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement that wasn’t so terrible. Adam hopped on her quickly and hopped off as fast, like a rabbit, as though he was afraid someone might see him on top of her. She had stopped dressing up for Adam, stopped trying to be pretty for him, but he did not seem to notice either way. It was not prostitution, she told herself. They were just friends helping each other, only they weren’t friends in any of the other ways that people were friends. Still, it was not prostitution. She was not a prostitute. She would marry Adam if he were to ask, but he wouldn’t ask.

It was a bright red Gibson Firebird. It's fret board was worn. The paint was scratched up pretty badly, and the neck had been repaired. There was a name scratched on the back that she couldn’t make out; the name of another boy with another dream, no doubt. She knew from her research that the Firebird was a really good guitar, even if it was old. The man behind the counter threw the amp and pickups in “cheap.” Even so, it had not been easy to take the money out of her purse, knowing what she'd had to do to get it.

~

But all of that was only memories these many years later. She had not been with Adam in ages, and no one called her boy “Lurch” anymore. He was rich now, that son of hers was. He wore only the most stylish clothes as he climbed from the backs of the limosines, or down the steps of the jet planes, and those stylish clothes always with a tailor-made fit. The way the quiet, defenseless boy had turned out was a miracle, is what it was!

And he still played the old Firebird that had cost her so much, the one whose sounds she knew so well. That old guitar never failed to break her down to prayer whenever it's soulful wail sang from out her radio.

“Yes.”

Three letters, and yet one of the most powerful, life-changing, single most meaningful words that exists in the English language. I mean, think about it, I asked my now wife to marry me and…well, actually, the first time she didn’t say “yes,” but she didn’t devastate me with “no” either. “Not yet,” she said. Which, to be honest, as much nerve as it took me to ask, was rather devastating, but not life changing. Nothing changed. We kept dating and next time I asked, she said “yes.” Woah. Now that was powerful. You go from single, self-centered “I” to what-God-has-brought-together-let-no-man-turn-asunder-till-death-do-us-part, “we.” Life-changing.

And then we had the ‘let’s have a baby’ “yes.” Well, actually, the first time I proposed it, she didn’t say yes, but she didn’t say “no” either. Just, well, at the risk of repeating myself, “not yet.” But I won that battle of wills. Our son was born 2 years after I asked and 3 years before she planned. We went from happy-go-lucky-bicycle-built-for-two, to, why is he crying why won’t he stop crying why am I crying parents of the cutest, smartest baby ever who never slept until he was three. Life-changing.

The years pass, and I ask a lot of questions that receive resounding no’s but it’s no big deal. Life continues.

Then one day, when we’d been married 18 years, I explained to my wife that I was unhappy and I really wanted to start my own business. I had been working for a carpet company for 15 years and their future looked bleak so I wanted to start my own.

Now, to be honest, I expected a resounding “no.” I had asked various job-related questions over the years - to relocate to Georgia or Texas to take on a new position – same field, more money. The answer was always “no” for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was “our son needs stability” but also included we would find it really difficult to fit in in the south with our very modern family of mixed races, religions and cultures.

But this time, when I asked if it was okay to start my own business, she smiled at me and said, “Yes.”

I may have shit my pants.

Part of me asked assuming she would say “no” so I didn’t have to worry really about trying and failing.

But, she said, “Yes.”

So, I resigned, I cashed in my meager 401K for $50,000, I spoke to one of my esteemed colleagues to see if she wanted to join me, she did, and her husband invested $50,000 in us, we bought a truck, I designed a line of carpets, my manufacturer consigned us our first line, within six months, I was on the road for a six-week trek around the continental United States visiting possible retailers for my carpets.

Life changing.

My partner called ahead each day to a potential customer to confirm the appointment and time. I would go and show my wares while also deciding if the location was a place where I wanted my rugs to be shown. We wanted only high-end stores. Some wouldn’t even deign to see me. Some I drove by, holding my nose.

Have you ever traveled across the country in a box truck for six weeks by yourself? I know every Comfort Inn from Virginia across the south to California and back across the north to New Jersey with some spattered across the middle. Longest six weeks of my life.

I saw three seasons in 24 hours one day. I have never seen such beautiful and varied nature in one country as I have while traveling across the states in my truck. And I met some really nice people. So many waitresses gave me extra food in my doggie bags for the road. Some offered me their beds but I just showed them pictures of my wife and son. (To be honest, that did not always put them off, but I just smiled and went on my way.)

In Mississippi, I had a seafood platter at a little out of the way place with no empty seats. It was unlike any seafood platter I had ever encountered: frog legs, alligator, crawfish, oysters, blue crab, gulf shrimp. One of the many great meals I had while traveling. The waitress sent me on my way with my leftovers, an extra can of Coke, a smile, and I think her number scrawled on the side of the bag.

While driving along the border with Mexico, a police officer stopped me and asked what I had in the truck.

“Rugs,” I replied.

“What?” he screeched.

“Rugs,” I said again, confused and more than a little concerned.

“Get out of the truck! Now!” He screamed. “Open the back!”

I did as he demanded. When he saw the rugs, he started laughing hysterically. “I thought you said ‘drugs’,” he said, still laughing. (I’m not certain that anyone actually carrying drugs would admit that, but, whatever.)

You should know, I have a fairly strong accent. I was born in Turkey, and although I have lived more of my life speaking English than Turkish, I’m clearly not a native speaker of English. Hence, the “drugs” “rugs” fiasco.

We laughed and I continued down the road. A few miles later I was stopped by another border cop. I had learned my lesson. When he asked me what was in the truck, I said “carpets.”

In California, my wife and I had a one-night stand in Monterey. She was on a business trip and I was visiting a potential client in the area. We had a nice dinner, stayed in a much nicer hotel than I had been accustomed to in my travels, and I was off in my truck early in the morning while she flew home.

Towards the middle of the return trip, I was in a restaurant in Montana one day and people were looking at me (perhaps slightly worried). Finally, a guy at the next table said, “You talking to me?”

Oops. Yes, you got it. I was talking to myself. Out loud. I hadn’t even noticed.

Getting gas for my truck the next day, I accidently gave it diesel fuel. I still don’t know how the truck didn’t die on me right then and there.

It was definitely time to get home.

I did two more six-week trips over the following years: one causing me to miss my son’s high school graduation, the other with a friend who thought I was his travel agent rather than his being there to help me with my business. Disaster. I knew I was done with road trips after that. (By the way, I did NOT miss my son’s college graduation.)

Now, 10 years later, I don’t have to drive anywhere except to my showroom. I fly to visit clients and some come visit me. My rugs are in about 23 states and some 10 foreign countries. I have won multiple awards for my designs at international competitions. I have taught workshops for a new generation of designers and have been honored as Carpet Man of the Year.

All because she said, “Yes.”

Life-changing, indeed.

She sat in the window of the café, reading and writing as she had nearly every day for the last 20 years.

“Good morning, Mrs. Marshall. Regular?”

“Yes, my dear. And maybe a cherry pastry. I’m feeling a little sweet today.”

“Oh, you’re always that, Mrs. Marshall.”

“Must be all that sugar I put in my tea,” she laughed. They always had the same joke.

When he returned with her tea and pastry, she said, “Today’s my birthday.”

“Really? Happy Birthday! So, if you don’t mind my asking, how old?”

“90.”

“90? I thought maybe 75.”

“That old? I’m losing my touch,” she responded with a smile.

“Never that. You look great. My grandma doesn’t look nearly so great and she is 75.”

“Well, thank you, young man, and I promise not to tell your grandmother,” she winked.

He laughed as he walked away, but felt sorry for the old lady, alone on her birthday as she was every other day of the year. He’d never seen her with anyone in all the time he’d worked there. But she always seemed so cheerful. He turned to watch her from the counter. She had fallen asleep. He laughed. Just like his grandma. He went back to work.

After an hour, he went over to check if she needed anything and noticed that she hadn’t touched anything. His heart stopped. He touched her hand. Cold.

“Ricky! Call 911! We have a problem here!” he yelled across the quiet café.

I woke up every day at 4:23 am for years from the same dream. I can still see the red light of the LED clock on my night table: 4:23 am. That fact scared me almost as much as the dream. Why 4:23 am? Every. Single. Morning.

It was the only recurring dream I had (and I had many) where I did not find myself completely alone and lost, falling, drowning, or trying to escape a fire. None of those terrified me as much as my 4:23 am dream. In the dream, it was night and the full moon cast a shimmering light through the curtained windows. I was in my living room kneeling on the floor. Sitting in a chair that did not exist in reality, was a vampire with black hair; a black cape that was evident only by how it tied at his neck and flared behind him in the chair; a long pale face with eyes that shone like a moonless, starry night; and, thin red lips. The skin of his face and hands was translucent, like powdery white porcelain. I was at his feet which were sheathed in shiny black shoes. His hands were relaxed, curving at the end of the plush arms of the chair, showing long, sharp black nails that could have easily reached out and touched my cheek.

Having some knowledge of how to fight them off – what ten-year-old doesn’t? – I would cross my fingers like a crucifix to ward off the evil that emanated from him.

And every night, he would laugh without moving his lips, the deep, humorless laughter resounding in my head, echoing in the room, and say: Do you really think that will stop me?

And then I would wake up.

Some 13 years later, unaware of my childhood nightly terror, my fiancé (who is now my husband) thought he would tease me one night in order to make me laugh. As we sat in his tiny room lit by the street lamp outside the single window above our heads, he told me in all seriousness while grinning fiendishly that he was a vampire. My eyes grew wide; cold fear tickled my spine as I leapt away from him convinced that his perfectly normal incisors looked extra sharp and that his eyes seemed to shine black like onyx in the dim light.

It took him hours to persuade me that he was only kidding.

I’m saving up my wishes

in a dandelion jar

Blowing out the candles,

summer fireflies and stars

Pinning all my dreams

on a broken wing and hope

Tying knots in rainbows,

mending promises I broke

I’m throwing pieces to the wind

and picking up the caution

Bending back the grains of time

til sands bring revolution

Crushing crooked ceilings

and breaking glass beneath

Filling up my pockets

lucky clovers, lost of leaves

I’m writing future history

with ash on paper fear

Painting my new destiny

in wax poetic tears

I’m crossing heart and fingers

hope to die, none left to give

A life will love that lingers

spent, of all I have to live

Look, I don’t begrudge anyone his or her morning injection of choice, sugar or caffeine, in whatever form they desire. I, too, love my morning hot chocolate regardless of the time of year. (Air conditioning is my friend.) But, I have to say, I am dumbfounded by what people put into their bodies these days on a daily basis. I feel certain diabetes is going to leapfrog heart disease and cancer as the number one source of death someday soon…

Anyway, like I said, I say, to each his own when it comes to morning beverages, but customers at Starbucks have taken have it your wayto a whole new level. And sometimes, it is a wee bit challenging when one is waiting in line.

The other morning, when I walked into Starbucks, I was excited to see the line was short. There were only three people ahead of me. Lucky, I thought. I was running late for work, but starting the day without my hot chocolate was not an option.

The first person in line said, “I’ll have a venti red-eye with two pumps of sugar, three pumps of caramel, an extra shot of espresso and whipped cream.”

Oh my god! I thought. I can hear her arteries clogging.

“Anything else, ma’am?” Chris, my favorite barista asked.

“Yes, a caramel macchiato with…”

“What size, ma’am?”

“A grande caramel macchiato with six pumps of caramel, three pumps of sugar with whipped cream and some cinnamon sprinkled on top.”

Seriously? The idea of so much sweetness at 6:30 am – or any time – was nauseating.

“Anything else?

“Yes, a cappuccino.”

“What size?”

“Oh, yeah, sorry. A grande cappuccino, extra foam, an extra shot of espresso and two packs of Sweet and Low.”

“Is that all, ma’am?”

“No, I also need a venti cappuccino, dry, with five shots and six pumps of sugar.”

At this point, I began wondering if I should just leave and suffer the commute without my morning comfort drink. But sweet tooth was handing over a small fortune for her drinks and there were only two people left…I checked my watch and figured I could wait five more minutes. The next guy stepped up to place his order.

“Good morning, sir. What can I get for you today?”

“I’m buying for my car pool this morning.”

I think I groaned out loud because the guy in front of me glanced back. I smiled.

“I’ll take three Pine Roast and three Dark Roasts, please, with room for milk in all six.”

I do a little happy dance in side.

“All small, please.”

“Tall?”

“Whatever.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“Yes,” he says. I sigh. “Two bowls of oatmeal with all the trimmings, one of those egg white things,” (he points, I gag. They look like gooey, tasteless plastic), “one lemon loaf, one bacon egg and gouda. Does that come on ciabatta bread?”

“No sir, it’s whole grain.”

“Okay, that’s fine. I also need a crumb cake.”

Of course you do.

“Would you like it heated, sir?”

“That would be great. Also, one of the steak sandwiches. Are they any good?”

No, they are disgusting. That’s why they sell them.

“People seem to like them.”

“Okay, I’ll take one. That’s all.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. Although my five minutes have passed, I tell myself that they have two people making food and another two making drinks. I am wondering, however, why I never use the mobile app to order my hot chocolate before I arrive.

Carpool guy pays. It’s almost my turn.

“How may I help you, sir?”

“Just a grande iced coffee, please. I don’t need room for milk.”

I almost hug him.

“That will be $3.54, sir.”

He pays, I’m next and ecstatic.

“Morning, sunshine,” Chris says to me. “Your regular?”

“Yes, please, Chris.”

As he’s typing my order, the manager, Krista, shouts from the back room, “No chocolate drinks this morning, Chris.” She comes into the front. “We finished the chocolate last night and it didn’t come with this morning’s delivery. We’ll have to call the Ramsey store and see if we can pick up some from them.” She pauses and looks at me. “Oh, hey, Dan. So sorry about that. Can I offer you a free coffee instead?”

Dear Rich People,

I wonder how you sleep at night, I hope it is because you are naive and not heartless. I hope it is because you do not know what is going on in the middle and lower classes, on the streets, in the police headquarter, prisons, hospitals and rehabilitation clinics. I hope it is not ignorance but clear stupidity.

I wonder how you spend $100 on a pair of underwear when I struggle to come up with a spare $100 for groceries for the children. I want to know how someone can have more money in this lifetime than they can spend - yet not make a difference in this world aside from spending said money.

It is not the corporations, companies, or entertainment industries that are suffering, it is your fellow humans. Children that go without parents because they are addicted to the dope that the local police are handing out to their informants to sell. Children that don't eat, have a television, let alone an ipad, children that will grow up and do as society told them they would - get more poor with each generation.

I wonder how a person can memorize a few lines and get paid more than the woman or man sitting at home with someone's grandmother, sister, brother, father, and help them live before they pass from this world.

I wonder when humans stopped caring, stopped helping, stopped the government from walking all over them.

I am sure that this will never cross your mind, your eyes or change a thought in your mind this lifetime, but I want you to know that if I had billions, I wouldn't spend it on shoes, handbags and make up to cover up my empty soul, I would give it to each and everyone to just get by. I would sponsor families, I would sponsor communities, I would sponsor states.

I wonder if anyone else would do the same...

Sincerely,

Poor White Girl

JP was normally the one to wake me. He knew how much I hated alarms, even the gentle ones, and would whisper in low tones, “Morning; time to rise,” next to my left ear. Only this way could I pull myself from dreaming. His voice rippled, rose and fell; the best voice by far to wake me up. JP was on time every morning, 7:15am. Once awake, I heard the others going about their morning business; joking with each other; calling out to see if I was awake yet. Happy shrieks and gurgles came from baby Maddie in the kitchen.

JP guided me through my bathroom routine. He would tell me to brush my teeth, comb my hair, and take my prescriptions. I dressed in what JP suggested, and always tucked in my shirt. As we worked, I could discern more voices and breakfast sounds; forks on plates, the coffeemaker belching coffee steam. Footsteps tumbled down the stairs; doors slammed; keys clicked in the front door lock.

Miranda liked to be up before JP, singing while washing the dishes from the night before. Her songs bled into my dreams, and often, when JP woke me, I was already humming along with her. She kept track of what everyone else was up to and would report back to me when they didn’t feel like talking. When I appeared in the kitchen, she would remind me to sit at the head of the table, put my napkin on my lap, and to use the silverware set next to my left hand. Miranda never judged or treated me like I was unusual.

Today my feet hit the floor after 10am. I never heard JP. There was no song from Miranda already playing in my head. I had no idea when to wake, and had overslept for hours. The air should have been alive with voices by late morning, but I could make out nothing. The house groaned and sighed in the gale blowing outside, but there was no coffee-maker belching, no one singing with the running water. There wasn’t even breakfast waiting on the table. I strained to hear JP’s singular laugh. Nothing.

I stood in the hallway, looking over my one shoulder, then the other. Where the hell did everybody go?

Even Carol Anne, whose voice punctured my eardrums like a hot syringe, would have been welcome at this point. The one who wouldn’t help me; who called me a burden; who told the rest to leave me. Carol Anne tried to sabotage anything that would bring me joy.

For the past few weeks, I had been wondering where many of my roommates had been disappearing to, and if Carol Anne had anything to do with it. Little by little, I was able to overhear less, and what I did hear seemed faint or muffled. Miranda hadn’t been informing me as often as before. Once the epicenter of life in our house, I had been relegated to an afterthought.

What I appreciated about everyone at home was that they kept as strict a schedule as I did. Although I felt defenseless against their casual arguments, baby Maddie’s fussing, and endless daily commotion, it all had a predictability. I knew when the house would be noisy, and the times of day it would be more serene. My roommates’ daily rhythms stabilized my own by helping me tell the time of day, and whether it was a weekday or weekend.

I certainly did not appreciate this deviation.

Stumbling back to my bedroom, I called, “Hello?” into every room I passed. My veins burned from adrenaline and I felt my muscles quiver. I looked down and noted that my tattered pajama cuff caressed the floor. My throat tightened and I sobbed hard and silent against the mirrored bathroom door. JP would have never allowed for this; but there was no one to be found anywhere.

A sudden thought froze me in a silent panic after minutes of weeping into my hands. I’m supposed to take my prescriptions. All I could remember was that the pills were important, but not which ones to take or when. I guessed it was the blue one in the mornings. My hands grazed the bottles on my nightstand, the kinds with the hard-to-open lids. Those bottles scared me right then more than ever. I was almost sure that I had to take the blue one in the mornings, before I ate my breakfast. JP would always have my pills ready before I had to ask.

My sobbing punctured the dust and still inside, as the weather ravaged anyone unlucky enough to be caught outside. That one thing I could clearly hear, my own ugly weeping, echoed back to my ears amplified. I was deafening myself. It was then that baby Maddie chose to cry as well, and we howled for a while in unison. The gale outside roared with us.

At a certain point, the baby girl found a voice, a clear and true voice. She ceased crying and spoke for the first time, sweet but assertive, sounding so much like her mother Miranda.

“You already know why we’re all leaving,” declared baby Maddie. “And why we all got so distant.”

“You talk?”

“When you want me to.”

I was stunned.

“Look at the bottle you’re holding, “ she instructed. “The one with the blue pills you take in the morning.”

“Pills chased everyone out of here?”

The infant girl stayed silent for a moment, as if waiting for me to come to a certain conclusion. I began to doubt that we had been talking at all.

“Read the label, William.”

“‘ Olanzapine, 10mg tablet. Take one tablet by mouth every morning with or without food. Dr. Claus.’ It’s one of my prescriptions. What about it?”

“William, you already know that Dr. Claus gave you the blue pills to help your brain quiet voices that aren’t real.”

“For auditory hallucinations,” I whispered.

Baby Maddie paused again. “And you know that I’m not real either. None of us exist outside of you.”

“And yet you all left me, one after the other.”

“We are all part of you, which means it’s impossible for any of us to ever truly leave you. But you’ll only hear from us rarely, if ever, from now on.”

“But I need JP for my morning routine, and Miranda makes breakfast.” Hot panic intensified the fear in my words.

“Is that really how it works?” Baby Maddie sighed. “Or do you complete every task yourself? You know all of this William.”

Heat flushing my chest and neck, I got to my feet and turned on the bathroom light. After much struggle, I opened the bottle of blue Olanzapine. Brain poison. I poured the month’s supply into the toilet bowl and held down the handle with a trembling hand. No more, Doctor. I want them all back, even that hateful Carol Anne. I slid down to the cold tile floor and held my knees to my chest. Not then nor ever again was I willing to ask, “Where did everybody go?” Leaning my head back, I dared to close my eyes.

Hours after I originally sunk to the floor did the faintest sound hit my ears. Miranda was in the kitchen, running water for tea, humming with the Beach Boys playing in the background. I heard JP there too, his voice rich and low.

“William’s been in a panic trying to find you,” Miranda mentioned between songs.

“Who knows why,” he replied. “I’ve been right here all morning.”

It was a beautiful summer day. I used my lunch hour to go walking in the woods. I planned to hike to the waterfall to mediate and write. And just be. I needed a break from all the stresses in my life. I needed time to withdraw into myself without needing to explain why.

As I walked, I could feel the surroundings soothing my soul. There was a soft breeze amongst the trees that was cooling despite the summer heat. There was a symphony of sound all around me: rustling leaves, singing birds calling to one another, the flap of bird’s wings, the gurgling of the brook next to which I walked. As I got closer to the falls, I could hear the swish of the water falling, splashing, pounding against the rocks.

I was thrilled to note that I was alone when I arrived at my favorite rock beneath the waterfall. I closed my eyes and lay back to enjoy the moment of peace.

As I lay there, I slowly began to notice a change in the air. It had become very still. And cold. The leaves, the birds, even the water, had become silent. The world had gone quiet. Too quiet. I opened my eyes to find a world that should not have been. Everything was motionless, ice crystals glistening from withered green leaves hanging low in trees bent under the sudden weight. The waterfall was a beautiful sculpture of cascading ice, unmoving.

I swiftly pulled out my journal and began to write. I felt the numbness in my feet moving up my legs and knew time was short. I, too, would soon be a part of this frozen landscape, a mere memory. If that. I had gone seeking time, a moment of peace, and found, instead, eternity.