I put my head to his chest

and relish in every single heartbeat,

each sound an unending delight,

the warmth of his heart melting the ice in my veins

and setting mine into motion,

his skin feels like satin against my cheek

I feel his blood rush in his body

in endless loops

like an infinity of not yet broken dreams,

I let my fingertips brush against his arm

and curl by his side

like a scared animal too wild to ever feel safe,

scars too deep

to share his peaceful slumber,

he rests under my love,

his slow breaths bringing relief to my strained muscles

and I wonder silently,

how long before they take him away from me,

before I am ripped away

from his arms,

before my nails drag across the floor,

leaving lines

like ragged wounds

in a blazing flesh

how long before once again

I am denied this moment

...

Pearly drops of water were falling from gunmetal gray clouds on the day I found the old farmhouse. I was going to pass it by but its windows drew me in. Drops of water rolled down the glass to form a tiny pool on the pane. It looked as though the windows were weeping. For who or what I did not know. I only know how their sadness spoke to me. The siding on the roof was weathered. The middle porch step was broken. The torn cover of a “Play The Trumpet, Book 1” was caught in the lattice beneath the porch floor. A few shingles blown off the roof lay scattered on the ground. Whatever was left of a hand-painted sign was propped against the porch rail. The words, “Welcome”, “Music” and “Family” were legible. The rest were gone. The windows in the house wore no curtains, adding to the signs of abandonment. However, in spite of its state of unkemptness, the house retained an air of grace and gallantry.

How long had it been there, stuffed full of silence? It was void of voices and laughter. No longer did it contain echoes of quarrels and apologies, scuffles and scoldings. Nor could be heard the snoring of a farmer after a long day in a hayfield under a hot summer sun. The house was more empty than the vacated bird nest that rested in the branch of a nearby sapling maple tree.

The farmhouse stood alone. Still. Stoic. Waiting. For something. Maybe for its family to come back? One suspects it had known happier days. That it had once thrilled to the sound of a child practicing a trumpet. It’s possible the house had even welcomed the sour notes, for it knew that by struggling with strange off-key sounds, the child would learn how to coax sweet haunting music from the shiny instrument. Could it be that the house wanted once again to hear the family sing together? Or that it was listening for the mother’s soprano blend with the farmer’s bass and the children’s alto that had once filled its space with harmony? Maybe it was remembering how in the early evening, after chores were done, the voices of the family’s music drifted across the lawn. Perhaps it wanted to hear the clop of shoes and boots coming up the porch steps as people dropped in to listen or join in the singing.

And, oh yes, the children! Perhaps the house was waiting to hear them as they scrambled up the stairs. And the squeak of the fifth step from the landing, when on Christmas Eve, they crept down at midnight, hoping to see Santa Claus. Could it be anticipating the aroma of coffee perking on the wood stove? Maybe it was waiting to hear the scrape of the farmer’s chair on the linoleum when he pushed away from the breakfast table. It might be hoping he would hurry to the barn and call the cows in from the pasture to be milked.

Or perhap the house was just tired. Much like Mr. Sanders, the gentleman whose 99thh birthday I had helped celebrate last week. He was a resident of the nursing home that could be seen from the porch of the house. When I entered his room, he was gazing out the window. He wore his farmer’s striped bib overalls. The straps were loose around his thin shoulders. On his head was a worn billed hat, with the words, “Old farmers never die. They just go to seed.” I stood beside his wheelchair and strained to look through his window. I wanted to see what he saw. But the only thing that stood across the half-mile stretch of green grass was the old farmhouse.

I looked closely at him. Gone from his face were the lines of determination and strength that marks those who spent their lives wrestling with the wind, the sun and rain. One who understood, as only a farmer can, that sometimes you win and sometimes you lose. The weather might cooperate or it might not. The harvest would be plentiful or the cupboards would be bare. From the half-smile and soft chuckle that had punctuated our conversations in days past, I knew this farmer once carried optimism on his shoulders as easily as he could hoist his young son high above his head. It wasn’t always visible, but it was always there. For, without it, no farmer could survive.

On that day, however, as he gazed at the old house, I saw his face change from stubborn determination to resignation. It was as though he and the house were completing a pact they had made with each other. They were connected by a shared realization. Restoration for the two of them was no longer an option. They both knew it. They were too far gone. Their usefulness in this world had expired. The old man began to weep. Silently. He closed his eyes and whispered, “It is time.”

I left the nursing home and returned to the farmhouse. At the end of the driveway a beat-up metal mailbox on a weather-worn wooden post leaned slightly to the left. On it I saw faded letters. “S-A-N-D-E-R-S”. I looked again at the windows. Beads of water still stood on the glass. Something about them reminded me of what I had seen on the old man’s face. They too, were waiting. They too were weeping. Because it was time.

And in that moment I realized the old man and old house were waiting and weeping for each other.

We were lying on the bed. It was dark. I looked up at the ceiling and it was covered in glow-in-the-dark stars. If I had known this, I don’t think I would have kissed him the way I did at the club. I was drinking, the music was pounding, the crowd was exciting and exotic. Voices chattering foreign languages ebbed and flowed with the thumping music.

It was my first time to a dance club in Europe. My date was Italian. He had been watching me, I had noticed. Whenever I got together with Marco, there he was, eying me intently. He obviously liked me. And I liked the way he would say, “Dai!” in that whiny way, when he laughed with his Italian friends. I figured out it means, “Come on!”, or “Stop!”, as in stop teasing. I didn’t know for sure, but I supposed.

He had a pouty lower lip, thick, dark, curly hair, and a tall, slim frame. He looked a bit like my father in the pictures I had seen of him as a young man. I noted this almost subconsciously.

When he buzzed my door, I didn’t hear at first. I had been blow-drying my hair, planning to stay in for the night. I was feeling a little like I might be coming down with something. It would turn out to be the flu, but I didn’t know that yet.

And now here I was, on his bed. In the dark, looking at fake stars. Waiting while he put the music, a drifting melancholy tune, a clarinet maybe? A flute? I wasn’t sure. But I was quite sure I about to be one of many in a long line of girls to bed this gentleman.

He put his arm around me and pulled me close to him, “If you could be any animal, what would you be?,” he asked.

“Ummm, a polar bear, maybe?”, I replied, having never pondered this idea before.

“No,” he said, “You would be a dolphin.”

“Fair enough,” I laughed.

“What animal would you be, then?,” I countered, snuggling up to him.

“I would be a donkey.” He stated, proudly.

“Ahhh. Confirmation,” I thought to myself.

I guess I better make sure I’m memorable, at least.

Imagine.

A scarf sitting in midair

As if wrapped cozily around someone's neck.

A little shirt rests under it,

Seemingly hugging a set of arms and torso.

Now you see the pants

Hanging idly onto an invisible pair of legs.

Don't forget the shoes,

Diligently tying the outfit together.

It's silly, isn't it?

Yet in the case of rape,

That's the primary question.

What were you wearing?

As if the victim truly is invisible, after all.

She was terrified when it happened.

It happened all at once. There she was, sitting in front of her best friend as she repeatedly did on Sunday mornings. They would meet for coffee and mimosas and to vent about the unfair demands at work or husbands who didn’t seem to grasp the basic human concept of cleaning up after themselves. The cafe down the street, two blocks away from her small studio apartment, sold the finest pancakes on the east side of the river. The candied scent of blueberries paired with the savory flavor of goat cheese was only cleansed by the sharp, tangy citrus of lemon zest sprinkled on top. It made her mouth water in anticipation as it carried through her open window, riding on the back of the morning breeze. And just like every other Sunday, she would scramble out of bed, throwing on an already prepared outfit, and sprint through the two blocks separating her from enjoyable company and satisfying delicacies.

But this morning was different.

As she sat enraptured by her friend’s animated storytelling, a low humming pulsated in her ear. The sound felt buried, she could practically feel it in her throat, but began to amplify, growing and growing until her world was enveloped by a cacophony of high-pitched whines and ear-shattering vibrations. She stood suddenly and stumbled. Her equilibrium felt off. Her head was swimming and stomach churching. She felt as though she was underwater, engulfed by a suffocating pressure and trying desperately to claw her way out. Everything became muffled. Everything became stifled.

And within a few hours, everything became silent.

The doctors said it was an infection, something she had contracted when she was just a baby; undiagnosed, untreated, and unchanging. Even through the silence she could heed the heavy words echoing through the room.

"There's nothing we can do."

She thought it was something that was only said in movies, tv shows, fantasies concocted to give birth to despairing, overemotional situations. It was something so far-fetched, so theatrical, so unbelievably cliche that she couldn't believe it.

And she also couldn't conceive it.

And she also couldn't hear.

Friends and family considered everything within their power to help. Her fathers invested hundreds of dollars on every advanced hearing aid science could develop but to no avail. Her friends prodded her towards sign language classes, but the rapid gestures and miniscule movements were overwhelming. She couldn't hear the sharp strike of hands as the teacher taught them the phrase for losing your temper. She couldn't hear the soft scratching of graphite as the person next to her took notes. She couldn't hear the rhythmic clacking of drumming nails; the cushioned thumping of a tapping foot;  the abrupt roughness of a wheezing cough; the sticky smacking of chewing gum; the repetitive humming of a breathy murmur.

It was all too much, the sound of nothing at all.

She spent most her days lying in bed with the curtains drawn, enfolded in comforters, and ignoring the absence of rustling as she tossed and turned for hours. Messages went unanswered. Visitors were ignored. Her apartment was littered with unopened boxes of whiteboards, notepads, and multicolored pens, scattered with personal notes of sorrow and sympathy. She was wasting away in a winter of disquieted depression and still, staggering silence.

She was terrified when it happened.

It hadn't happened for a while. Her time began bleeding together. Minutes turned into days, days turned into months, and once again it was a Sunday Morning. Her window was shut, her curtains still drawn, and yet the scent nevertheless infiltrated the modest studio apartment. The affectionate, fragrant smell of blueberries caressed her like a lifelong friend. The flavorful savor of cheese greeted her with open arms. The zesty tang of citrus washed over her with a striking clarity. It was frightening but it was compelling, invigorating, and she felt as if she was being pulled by an invisible string as she detangled herself from her refuge. It wasn't long before she was up, dressed, and languidly ambling her way through the two blocks that separated her from the finest pancakes on the east side of the river.

Her best friend was there waiting for her when she arrived. They had been every Sunday morning since the incident. When she was spotted, she couldn't help but grin at the exuberant flails and the eager smile that greeted her. There were already two cups of coffee and mimosas waiting on the table. She lifted her own hand weakly and sat in the usual chair that almost seemed foreign to her. Her friend offered nothing as she adjusted to her surroundings. No talk of customers or unruly, troublesome children. No mention of the days she spent wallowing in her darkness and self-pity. No notation of the hours waiting at this very table every week, wondering if it would be the day she walked around the corner. Just one hand that grabbed onto hers softly, and with the other, signaled the waitress over and pointed to what they wanted on the menu. They sat for a while in silence, one forced, one chosen.

And that's when she felt it.

The onslaught of emotions. The bombardment of awareness. There was no sound of cars on the street right next to them but she felt the fleeting whip of the air as they sped by. The was no conversations of the cafe's brunch rush but she witnessed the animated hands that expressed their passions, the bouncing of their shoulders as they contained their laughter. When their waitress finally returned, placing a large stack of Lemon Blueberry Goat Cheese pancakes in front of them, she couldn't hear knocking of porcelain hitting glass, the "Is there anything else you need?" she knew they were required to ask, or the click click click of shoes as the waitress briskly sauntered away. But she drank in the sweet, savory, zesty aromas that carried into her window in the morning breeze. She observed the muted blues, vibrant yellows, and milky whites that molded harmoniously with the rich golden browns. She felt the fluffy textures give way to the fork as she carved into it, the stickiness of the syrup as it dripped onto her hand. And when she ultimately took a bite, the explosion of flavors overcame her and she couldn't help but cry. The hand that never left hers squeezed tighter as tears rolled down her face. She was still frightened. She was still devastated. But there was an acceptance in her that she hadn't been capable of finding until then. 

From now on she was experiencing a different life, and she was going to make the best of it.

In some ways, pain is a universal language. What causes pain can vary, but pain is that which we all understand. Devon had a way of identifying people’s pain. Possibly because he himself was in a constant (yet hidden) state of despair. He knew the signals. Could recognize the small facial changes and energy shifts. And he would often take it upon himself to bring smiles wherever possible. It never seemed enough to satiate the growing void in his own heart and he had come to accept that his void would always be there. But the idea of eradicating such a feeling for others became a source of livelihood for him. He had a light-hearted nature that he maintained even after two tours in Iraq and Afghanistan. In fact, this boyish disposition helped keep the nightmares at bay. He would play theme songs from the movies and shows of his childhood to aid him in getting through each night. In many ways, he had remained unchanged as the chipper and starry-eyed 17 year-old who fantasized about saving the world as a patriot. In many other ways, he was ruined. Stuck with the memories. The taste of a baby’s blood after being blown up in a stroller bomb; The dying words of his comrades, some he believed to be men much more deserving of life than he. Devon was someone who became complicated by way of experience. His core self (if one would like to argue that such a thing exists) was not intricate or heavy. It showed no signs of neurosis or anxiety----just depression. Brought on by the juxtaposition of his inner exuberance and the outer realities of his childhood and each numbing experience after. Perhaps this innocent simplicity lent to his reckoning. He had always dared to hope. Tasked himself with ending the suffering of others, even though he would never know such a feeling in his own heart.

This urge combined with a charming flirtatiousness is what led him to stop Lima on the street. She was, by any standard, a fat woman. Devon thought it looked good on her though, and he found that bigger women often let their guard down pretty fast if they felt desired. He caught a glimpse of exhaustion and sadness in her face--which he took as an opportunity to offer some dashing comfort. He found out her demeanor was due to a long day’s work, so he offered a consoling hug-- an excuse for touching-- which he thoroughly enjoyed. Lima had both a coltish and serious disposition: warm, intense, and grounded. Like hot Lava cooling on water as it turned to earth. She didn’t seem particularly giddy or impressed, but rather offered a genuine and curious interest in Devon. He had an affinity for genuine women. It helped him make up for his own deficit. What began as a transitory chance to put a smile on a pretty girl’s face, led to Devon considering an entire courting process. He had, in spite of himself, felt something. Hope reared its beautifully ugly head again. And in a fit of hopeful doubt, he took the bait.

Days later, Devon had arranged a date with Lima. He picked her up from her job and they set off for pizza and conversation by the lake. It was an evening in early November, so it was rather cold to be by the lake, but Devon had to bring her here---this particular beach offered many nostalgic memories for him and he needed to relive them. The pizza they had was also from a place he had frequented in his childhood--only befitting. Lima recognized this pattern of relived memories when Devon then drove them to a mall nearby that he used to visit as well (though she wouldn't analyze how pathetic and sinister this contrived list of destinations was until much later). If Lima had known any better at the time, she would have--for personal enjoyment--counted the number of times Devon said the word "SEAL." He would find ways to slip it in to parts of their conversations "when I was a SEAL..." or "As a SEAL..." or "SEALS are trained to..."

In spite of his incessant need to relive the past and his sadly obvious peacocking, Lima found Devon to be quite charming. In actuality, she subconsciously saw a project...a challenge to help the bruised veteran become whole again. For Devon, she would do. Lima was comforting and inviting--she could scratch his itch.They both unknowingly provided sufficient artillery for the other's complex.

They entered a whirlwind romance. Devon had professed strong feelings very early on. Lima, swayed by the persistence and consistency and his seemingly open and vulnerable communication, followed suit. They spent time together mostly at night after Devon got off of work. The first time they had made love, Devon proclaimed to be able to feel Lima's heartbeat and said their night was perfect. Lima had felt quite unsure and was numbed from nervousness and uncertainty. She didn't quite understand how the night was perfect for him. But he seemed so sure and his affections felt so nice that she assumed it to be so. Devon had a tendency to be quite confrontational with other men. On three different occasions, she had to diffuse situations where Devon almost got into fights....a passing car didn't slow down enough, a passerby didn't get out of the way fast enough...Devon had to be sure these other men respected him. Lima was pained at these useless displays of macho behavior and often wondered if this would be their future.

She never quite understood how the male ego worked…all she knew was that there was one, and that it was quite flimsy. He talked a lot. Mostly about himself--old memories and ever present feelings of despair. She listened. She gathered that most men do not have friends that they can vent to in this way. And wanting to feel needed, she readily accepted the opportunity to "be there." One day, as they were driving back from a day-long road trip out of town, Lima pushed herself to discuss her own turmoil. She had started to talk about her weight and struggles with wanting to feel admired. "You're beautiful" and some blanketed advice were all Devon could offer in that moment. A consoling compliment that would lighten the mood was often how he approached Lima's attempts at vulnerability. He figured women were easily appeased in this way. Validation was key. The conversation lasted 5 minutes. While she appreciated the affirming statement, she didn't feel quite comfortable enough pushing the subject or any of the deeper implications. She hushed. And Devon used the opening to reminisce about the day he completed his training "as a SEAL" and of a lover he used to know and how she broke his heart. For the next hour, he told story after story and when he stopped, Lima looked over to see that he had started crying. She felt many things--annoyance, curiosity about his past, a weight from the somber nature of his words, and a genuine appreciation for his story telling. She could not focus too long on any of these feelings for she felt a bigger need to help eradicate whatever sadness was sweeping over him and leading him to tears. As Devon let the tears fall down his face, he stated: "I'm finally ready to die." Panicked, Lima tried all of the flowery words she could, but Devon had seemed content with the hopelessness and preferred to turn on the proper song that he usually listened to in those moments. A song he discovered when he first fell in love with this girl and when he first joined the military. Lima stifled her own disturbed feelings as Devon parked in front of her apartment. They ascended the stairs and as they laid down in her room, he began removing her pants and expressed gratitude for her presence and support. All was well. She felt loved through feeling needed.

Devon came home pretty late that night. As he left Lima’s apartment, he drank an elixir of whiskey and NyQuil on his drive home. He rustled through the refrigerator to find something to eat…something to help cool the heart burn, the stomach ache, and the voices. He noticed a plate of leftovers wrapped in foil. He ripped off the foil and devoured the food. He washed it down with some old wine. He popped three Tylenol then went to his room. "Hi Steven" he heard from his bed, as he undressed, not bothering to wipe the juices of sex and sweat off of his body. He nestled under the covers, then leaned over and made love to his wife.

There are moments in life; snapshots. Small, insignificant moments that somehow feel as if they hold some overwhelming significance. Tiny pieces of time that will forever be branded in your mind with astounding clarity. This is one of those moments.

It was night time and his room was enveloped in darkness. There is something immensely palpable about the dark which creates an entirely different atmosphere; evoking completely different experiences, provoking thought and encouraging reflection.

He wasn’t exactly sober but he hadn’t touched a drink all night. Pressing, but not uncomfortable, silences stretched between the two of us. The thick, silent atmosphere of the night dissuading either of us from breaking its peace. He sits behind his desk in his favourite chair, swivelled just slightly in order to better see out of the solitary window. His silhouette was darker than the cloudy sky outside but I could still make out the tight ringlet curls atop his head that I loved and he hated. I could distinctly feel the cold emanating from the window from my seat atop his desk. I had my legs crossed, right over left, and a ghost of a smile on my face; recognizing this moment as something special.

He was not a smoker but he held a cigarette loosely between his two fingers and lips. Its red embers appearing startlingly bright in the dark room, unwittingly and inevitably drawing our attention to it. My eyes watched the glow of the cigarette unerringly, waiting for the bright flare as he casually raised it between his lips and took a drag. Watching the smoke curl from his mouth as he exhaled was satisfying in a way that few things are. Unique, perhaps, only to fire. The blue-grey smoke curled towards the ceiling, moving hypnotically and unpredictably, moved by an invisible force before dissipating and vanishing from my scrutiny.

He had his eyes closed, completely immersed in the blissful experience. I hated that he made smoking look so appealing. The clouds were lined with silver as a watery moon emerged slightly from behind them, bathing the room in an eerie silver light. Another drag of his cigarette, another flare, more hazy blue smoke slowly unfurling upwards. I watched as the cigarette was slowly consumed by the orange glow. A casual movement of his hand and a lazy flick of his thumb transfixed me. The silence continued to drag on. It was still a comfortable silence; all of our silences were. I was glad neither of us felt the need to fill the space between us with words. In a moment like this it would only have tainted the atmosphere.

We were content to remain immersed in our own thoughts. I do not know what he was thinking but I marvelled, yet again, about the intense awareness I had of this moment. It was a small snapshot in time; barely a glimpse, shared between two. It was a moment that could not and would not be forgotten. I did not want to forget this. Us. At that place, at that time.

I couldn’t forget his dorm room, enveloped in darkness or his relaxed figure lounging in a chair and lost in thought. I would always remember sitting on his desk with my legs crossed; refraining myself from tugging at that stray curl over his forehead. I wanted to memorise the lazy enjoyment he got smoking the cigarette, the smouldering red glow of the ember, its vivid flare, the blue-grey smoke curling slowly, unfurling towards the ceiling. It was a moment I truly wished would last forever and so I relished in the atmosphere, savouring every second and cherishing these special moments, just for me.

I want to show you what’s inside of me, something that’s deeper than my heart.

I want to let you in but I don’t know where to start.

I want you to understand me.

The way I think, the way I move.

Understand why I make the decisions that I do.

I want you to know my deepest fears.

Understand what brings forth my tears.

And never second guess my motives because of wounds that never healed.

Just let me show you something deeper, it’s much deeper than us.

The deepest thing I have to offer, let me show you trust.

#WritingToStaySane #FeltLikeSharing #Introvert

When you reach 65, I guess the depression question becomes routine during a standard medical checkup.

“Do you often feel down, depressed, hopeless or worthless?”

“Yes”

“Do you have thoughts of suicide?”

“Yes.”

Alright thank you. The doctor will see you soon.

And then, of course, the doctor doesn’t bring it up again and I certainly don’t either, because I’m embarrassed to admit to being depressed and especially to contemplating suicide.

“So what can I do for you today?” he asks.

And I tell him I am concerned about my blood pressure and a bruise on my leg and acid reflux and plantar fasciitis and he doesn’t inquire about depression and I don’t bring it up… don’t ask don’t tell…and so on the way home I am thinking why do I bother to go to the doctor if I don’t tell him what’s wrong and then I realize he would just refer me to a counselor and I hate counselors so I will just endure the pain.

Depression catches me in a weak moment when I’m thinking of how much I miss my children and grandchildren, regrets from the past and not much hope for the future. It’s cold steely fist grabs a piece of my gut and I have to quickly find a place to cry and get over it. But a few times I have been caught, so I have to explain it’s clinical depression and yes I know how to deal with it and no I don’t need help. I know what to do. And of course that takes a great burden away from anyone thinking they might have to do something and it is real pathetic for an old man to cry. Who wants to see anyone cry or hear their sad stories? It is beyond pathetic and weak. So please just forget about it. It will go away. It always does.

I know it’s coming from inside my brain, but it feels like an outside surprise attack.

Of course, there is no one to talk to and if there were, I wouldn’t. Complaining is such a seriously pathetic stupid thing to do and it can really ruin a friendship. Not that I have a friend, but if I did…

But I’m better now and so please don’t bring it up any more. I am seriously better, no longer feeling sorry for myself. Let’s talk about sports.

We stand among the ocean’s sweat

A hair’s breadth from the cigarettes

The music swings and dips again

An endless song begins within.

Who could you be, if you really tried?

If breathless dreams bequeathed a sigh?

In solemn, steady lyrics lie

Coded quietude amplified.

Nevermore will sweet winds blow

Strangers and teardrops scream below

A fantastic neon stretch above

The sagging, sobbing death of love.

Sharpened strings go with the grain

Pulling toward the depths of pain

Silver ring and patterned rose

To the world’s embrace, he drunkened goes.