My parents divorced when I was five, and as an only child, my childhood was almost always entire days with just my mom and me. These days included movies followed by lunch or ice-cream at Rompelmeyer; birthday dinners at Benihanas or Il Boschetto; trips to Disney World, Bermuda, Trinidad, Europe, Canada; Broadway plays; ballet at Lincoln Center or City Center; rainy days, snow days or Saturdays of Monopoly, 221B Baker Street, chess, 500 rummy; Sunday church then Sunday afternoon tv movies... It was a very full childhood for which I am forever grateful. Despite being the only child of a single parent in a neighborhood where that was distinctly frowned upon, I was beyond fortunate.

I have a single memory of one whole day spent with my dad. I was fourteen. I spent the night at his apartment and we were up at 4 am to catch a boat. We had a cooler full of Colt 45 for him. I had a ham sandwich and a ginger ale in my backpack. Near the dock we bought some minnows for bait then boarded a fishing boat. We were on the water for hours. My dad made friends immediately and introduced me around with more than a little pride. This is my baby girl, Danny. Watch out for her. He fished a little, drank a lot, and spent some time playing cards below deck. I learned to put the hook through the eye of the minnow and almost won the pot by catching the biggest fish. It ended up being the second biggest. I remember how happy he was, bragging about the fish his baby girl caught. Or maybe he was just happy I was there doing something he loved with him. It was a good day. I wish we'd managed more of them before memories and pictures were all I had left of him.

The days seem long, the years go fast

ephemeral, it cannot last

life, love, the memories you share

dream of forever if you dare;

blink and the present becomes past

the days seem long, the years go fast

the path behind a vivid guide

death lies ahead, you cannot hide;

you gave your life for this moment

was it worth it? Do you own it?

the days seem long, the years go fast

the echos of yesteryear are vast;

do you rejoice in existence?

Meet time's passage with resistence?

Enjoy it all! The die is cast!

the days seem long, the years go fast.

It was Monday. The machines that marked his breaths, his heart beats, slowed. An unrelieved hum filled the room when his lungs emptied, and his body deflated, motionless. He was no longer. His wife held his lifeless hand, her head upon her bent arm by his side. Nurses who had become friends during his final weeks stood vigil with her. Some cried; some hugged. One put a comforting hand on his wife’s shoulder.

Clearly, it was not with eyes that he saw this. He was dead. And yet, he was there, in the room, hovering, everywhere.

Where was his daughter?

Then, he knew, and in the moment that he knew, he was no longer in the room, but rather, where she was, heavy with child, happy, still ignorant of his passing.

He wondered that he was not elsewhere but gave thanks he could see his baby. If only he could see hers.

Then they were in the hospital and her husband was pale and sickly as he awaited the birth holding her hand and staring at the machine monitoring the baby’s heart, while she sang, loudly, with each contraction.

He watched, waited, till suddenly he felt another presence as incorporeal as his own. And he knew. His grandson.

And as he ceased to be himself and became one with all that is and ever shall be, his grandson took his first breath.

sadness ever

enveloped your heart

though drown it

you verily tried

regardless

you were

good, kind

caring, loving -

an instinct

the latter

for you

experienced it

never

before

giving your

heart

to be

broken

over

and

over

till gaining

the unconditional love

of a daughter;

when you passed

and your wife gave me

the album

of pictures

you'd lovingly saved,

tucked inside -

how i cried -

were

myriad birthday

and

Father's Day cards

I'd sent

that you

kept them

meant,

I hope,

you knew

you were loved

even if

it wasn't

enough

to keep you

from drowning

your sorrows

till neither

love

nor sadness

mattered.

Now 30 years

gone,

I wish

I'd had

more years

to know you

better

to love you

longer.

I

miss

you.

The day after they moved in next door, I baked cookies, my husband picked a few heirloom tomatoes from our garden, and we went to welcome them to the neighborhood. We knocked and the door was opened only enough for the woman who answered to block the view inside with her body.

“Hi! We’re your neighbors,” I said pointing to our little red house. “I’m Darla, this is my husband, Jay. We just wanted to drop these off to say welcome.”

“Who is it?” a man said from in the house.

“Neighbors,” she yelled back.

Plastering a very fake smile on her face, she accepted the cookies and tomatoes, saying, “Thanks so much. That was very thoughtful of you. I’m Angel.” A man’s head appeared above her shoulder. “This is my husband, Garrett. We’re still getting settled so I can’t invite you in for a tour…” Is that a thing? A tour?

My husband and I glanced at each other and away. “We didn’t come to visit, just to say welcome.”

Her husband gave me what one might call an intimate smile and said, “Very neighborly of you.”

Wifey must have heard the look because the sickly smile added dagger eyes when she snapped,“You’re in great shape. Do you work out?”

“Um, yes?” Rather random, but whatever.

“Figures,” she mumbled then continued with the brilliant albeit fake smile, “Well, we have to get back to it. I’m sure we’ll be great neighbors. We’re very quiet.”

“We are as well. Except I do like to play music and sing. Hopefully, we’re far enough away. Lilly and Matt never said anything anyway.” Lilly and Matt were the previous owners.

“I love music. Don’t I love music, Garrett?” He looked as confused as Jay and I felt. “As soon as we are settled in, we’ll have you over for a tour.” Again with the tour.

“Good luck,” I said as they closed the door and we headed across the lawn to our own home.

“We’re not going over there again,” my husband said.

“A little weird,” I replied. “But not as weird as Jill’s new neighbors."

“Emma and Jake?”

“I swear, Jake never blinks when he talks to you. And his eyes are such an icy blue I get chills every time he talks to me.”

“They seem like a nice family.”

“Hmph. And where did they come from? I mean, there was never a for sale sign, an open house or moving vans. One day the Davidsons lived in the big yellow house and the next, Emma, Jake, Alec and Lily Jones did.”

“I think your imagination is itching to write a new story,” Jay said kissing my forehead before opening the door for me.

“Maybe,” I replied, not convinced.

A few months later, Christmastime, Angel knocked on our door while I was at work.

“Hi, Jay. I just wanted to drop these off,” she handed him a box of chocolates. “We love these. They’re very expensive. So good. They’re Garrett and my favorites. Really expensive.”

“Thanks, Angel.”

“Jay, do you think you could give me, Darla’s cell phone number? I’d like to ask her a question.”

“Sure.”

A few minutes after Jay called to warn me, she called.

“Darla? This is Angel. Your neighbor.”

“Hi, Darla.”

“Sorry to bother you at work, but Jay said it would be okay to call you.”

“No problem. What’s up?”

“I just wanted to ask, have there ever been any robberies on the block? I don’t really know anyone on the street yet besides you to ask, but we think someone has been trying to break into our home.”

“Really? That’s scary. But no, there has never been a problem. I mean, we do live behind the police station…I would imagine most criminals would look for easier pickings…Plus, it’s not exactly millionaire’s row.”

“Well, someone tried to come in the garage.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that. The block has been a wonderful community for the nearly 30 years we’ve lived here. Have you contacted the police?”

“We don’t need the police! We know people.”

“Okay…”

“I got cameras installed all over the property. We’re close to catching them. We have some suspects.”

“Okay…” Her voice sounded like we were suspects.

“Well, we don’t know anyone so maybe you could let people know something’s going on.”

“Will do. Good luck. Bye.”

That night when I got home, they had “No trespassing signs” around the house. And I guess hidden cameras. And spotlights.

“Don’t be too friendly, Darla,” my husband said when I told him her story. “I don’t trust those people. Something’s off.”

“Yeah, well, I hadn’t planned on any double dates, don’t worry.”

Things were quiet for a few weeks – as they often are in winter. Then over a period of days in March, alternately Angel or Garrett were screaming at people who parked in front of their house to get away from there – regardless of the hour. We have a neighbor who trains people in his garage starting at 6 am and his first client of the day was parked across the street from Angel’s house at 5:45. She went out in her nightgown and screamed at him, “Who are you? What are you doing here? Get away from here!”

Another day it was some members of a Christian woman’s group meeting at the home of a long-time resident, Martha. “You can’t park there! Get away from my house!”

Then it was men from the town doing work on my curb. “I’m going to call the police!”

“Lady, the police are right over there,” the man said pointing to the cop on duty. She huffed and went inside.

The strangest was when Garett went banging on the door of the elderly couple across the street: Martha, 82 and John 84. “Stop following my wife! She saw you following her car! You better cut it out!”

John was taken aback (you think?). “I’m 84 years old, I can barely drive to the supermarket.”

“Huh. Well, you just stay away from my wife.”

At this point, we all figured they were probably some kind of certifiable paranoid and we decided together and separately to keep our distance.

The last incident involved Emma. She said, “Hi, Angel,” one day while walking by with her dog and Angel started screaming, “Who are you? I don’t know you! Don’t talk to me.”

Emma tried to remind her that they were neighbors, they’d met when they first moved in. But Angel wouldn’t stop screaming and flailing her arms, so Emma kept walking.

Maybe two days later, I got home from work and the street was full of police cars and neighbors. I parked and walked down the street to the crowd and saw that the police were leading Jake Jones out of his house, in hand cuffs.

Feeling vindicated in my earlier wariness, I asked my neighbor Jill what happened.

“Apparently, he got angry that Angel screamed at Emma. Snuck in their house last night and stabbed both her and Garrett multiple times in their bed. He must have thought the signs about cameras were a lie. The alarm company has a patch into their camera system and caught him entering and leaving on tape.

“They put the photo on the neighborhood blog and statewide police wire, and someone recognized Jake. Not only from here in town, but also from several other towns.

“From what I hear, he is wanted all over the state. Maybe the country.”

“Oh my god!”

“There’s more. Look.”

“I turned as they carried out four body bags.”

“What -?”

“The Davidsons.”

“I knew it!”

I'd fly to Brussels to give my friend a moment

to breathe

to walk alone

to finish the screenplay

she is writing

away from living out of a suitcase

a long term guest in the home

of a friend

her life on hold

while caring for her octgenerian mom

a refugee of the Ukraine war

homeless now

semi paralyzed

possible Alzheimer's

definite dementia

PTSD

paranoia;

Or to DC

to give my friend a moment

to breathe

to walk alone

to finish the book she is writing

away from the daughter

she cannot leave alone

lest she succeed

in ending the life

she finds unbearable

in her skin

she was born Christy

but knows herself to be

Mark

and my friend does all she can

to support

to get Mark help

as they try

to find their way

to where they're meant

to be;

Or to the Mediterranean

to relax on a boat

with my husband

so he can breathe...

though he may

vacillate between

the joy of being

where he most loves

and the sorrow

of so many yesterdays

so few tomorrows

so few pleasures

left for him

now...

Maybe I'd just stay home

as planned

water the garden

-it's allowed on Wednesdays-

run on the treadmill

work on my lines

for my acting class

read a few stories

on Prose

a chapter in my book

write a line or two

or ten

alone in my house

where I can breathe.

He was my dearest friend amongst our theater crowd. He was the one to tell me the boy I adored spoke disparagingly of me, so that I might learn to be more careful in my affections. He crazy-danced with me because it felt good, it was fun, and who cared what people thought. My mom adored him and apparently she also knew I was "safe" with him because I fell asleep on our couch with him more than once when he stayed over

AIDS was new then. Taking lives before some knew there was danger.

Such a one was Stevie.

His breathing was even now, his arm thrown heavily over my hips. I waited for the tell-tale drunken snore. It came. Finally, he'd passed out.

I slipped from under his arm and got up slowly. I didn't want to wake him, but I also had no choice. It felt like I had a broken rib to go along with all the brusies this time. Then there was the broken glass.

He never hit me in the face. Only where no one would see the evidence of his kind of love. He never meant to hurt me; just teach me a lesson he thought I could only learn at the end of his fist. Today, I didn't show sufficient appreciation for the flowers he bought for me with his hard earned money.

Flowers. Not for my birthday or Valentine's Day. Just because he loves me. And I had the nerve to be less than happy because it was 2 in the morning, and he woke me up. Pushed the flowers in my face and said

"Smell'em, Annie."

Startled, I gasped and swatted at whatever was in my face. The flowers flew out of his hand and knocked over the glass of water I had on the bedside table. It crashed to the floor.

"You scared me to death, Tommy."

"I bought you flowers."

"What time is it?"

"Who cares? I bought you flowers. Say thank you."

I heard the tone, smelled the liquor. "Thank you, Billy. Why don't I clean up this glass while you get ready for bed."

Did I mention they sell them at the local bar so all the guys can bring them home to the women waiting for their drunken partners to return home?

Ingenius, really. I suspect they sell out every night.

I didn't see the punch coming. I should have known better.

He cried afterwards. Apologized. Somehow made it my fault as he asked for forgiveness.

I went to the guest bathroom down the hall. I filled the tub with hot water and lowered myself gently. I sat there a long time not crying. Just thinking. By the time the water was cold I knew I was leaving. For good this time. I didn't need this kind of love. No one did.

I packed a duffle bag quietly. I didnt take much: two pairs of jeans, all my underwear and bras and some t-shirts. And three dresses and a pair of low heeled pumps for job interviews.

I wrote him a note and left it next to his car keys.

I can buy myself flowers

Write my name in the sand

Talk to myself for hours

Say things you don't understand

I can take myself dancing

And I can hold my own hand

Yeah, I can love me better than you can

I'm sorry. I know I am dropping the ball, as it were, disrupting your life by trying to live mine, if only for a year, to write that novel that's been simmering near the surface for so long under the busy-ness of daily life. I'm burying myself in the cabin I mentioned more than once (though it's possible no one was listening), before life has passed me by and all I've done is be there for everyone but me. You have told me often that you all need me so much and what would we do without you and you'd better take care of yourself, we need you. I know you need me, so I've left a book on my desk with all the things you need to do to get through the next year without me. The book is divided into sections: you each have one. You can do this. I must do this lest I grow resentful and bitter. I love you all dearly. Do not worry and please do not contact me. I will return when my lease is up.