20 years of dizzying changes gone by.

I miss our times together my brother.

The old wounds have faded and gone

soft in my heart.

I know they were never deeper than my

over sensitive skin anyway. To hear your

voice on the phone every few years is

nice, but I love to see your great big smile

dance across your face and hear that deep

so true laugh rise from your chest.

We parted ways on uncertain terms, but there

was not malice in me when you got

on that lonely Greyhound bound for the deep

South. I’ve missed you over the years as I left

our Northwestern home state and moved across

the world to my Far East destination.

I should have reached farther. I should have reached

out sooner. The bridge isn’t burned, but I can see tiny

tendrils of smoke rising in the distance and I worry.

#poetry #poem #loss #family #grief

‘What if?’

Your sleeping form lies still beside me

unawakened by my wakened thoughts

Curious ideas unexplored come alive

as the morning rays caress my face.

I turn to you.

‘What if...?’

What if everything were tossed around,

the roles switched from the way we began?

What if I were your woman, your wife?

And you - my loving husband, my man?

What kind of man, I wonder, would you be?

I smile at the images that come to me.

Would you actively

charm and woo, try to pursue

my heart to claim it to be yours?

A dapper gentleman with slick contours

that sweeps me of my feet?

Or would you perhaps

flex muscles,

throw smiles,

smolder and smize

with those beautiful bright breathtaking eyes?

Those breathtaking eyes...

I chuckle at the thought of you being 'the big man'

puffing up your petite form, impose yourself on me in any way you can.

I wonder then:

could I be anthing like you?

As if on cue

you sigh and turn on your side.

I study the woman I lay beside,

the person that stepped into my life unterrified,

And diversified

my mundane

boring

depressed life.

Your mesmerizing magnetism I could never emulate

Nor could I ever emanate

the charm

the grace

That easygoing beauty you unknowingly interlace

in every word, thought, thing you do.

You.

You’d remain the same.

How could anything change

the purest human being I know?

And all my clear thoughts go

as your gentle gaze meets mine.

That look of undeserved love.

That warm glaze glimmering in eyes

half-lidded with unrestrained trust.

The single glances that convince me again

of us.

'Close them dear', I whisper.

I lean to pull you in.

Nothing could change my woman, my love.

No...

Not a thing.

There are times when we cannot stop the tears of laughter; that is pure joy.

There are times we cry because we realize someone is "ok." that is pure joy.

There are times we burst out laughing because something very comical was said.

That is pure joy.

Unfortunately, pure joy is intermittent in our lives. Pure joy is always welcome.

So much of life seems to demand our focused attention keeping us away from

pure joy.

Can we understand that pure joy is at our fingertips? Can we not have it more

often than by chance? Yes we can.

I looked into the eyes of a schizophrenic homeless man yesterday. For years no

one had listened to his gibberish speech but I did. During direct eye

contact and true listening he rambled on about the time he used to box as a

sport. He rambled on about diet and broken thoughts followed but I listened

intently looking into his eyes, accepting his thoughts, feelings and everything

about what he had to say. I am certain at that time in his old age he felt pure

joy. He had not had a listener for many years. No one.

Give pure joy and you will get pure joy.

It rocks.

“I cannot believe what Jade has done. She has ruined my whole life. And all because years ago, I made up a name instead of actually telling her who I had a crush on.”

Leo, the therapist, nods his head and Alyssa continues, “Because of that ‘betrayal’ of her trust, she has smeared my name, excluded me out of our mutual friend group, mocked me about my diet, and made me sound like the worst person in the world. Everybody believes her and now I have no friends. In fact, Stacey, the sister of Jade’s best friend Carrie, who up until a few years ago was one of my best friends, actually sent me a message on Facebook telling me what a troll I was. Yes, I treated Carrie like shit and she deserved much better but I was uncomfortable with her because of her close relationship with Jade and was anxious about talking to her in the chance that she would bring up this years-long fight between us. So, I did the cowardly thing and ghosted Carrie, I admit that was wrong, and I wrote a blog post about things that have bothered me about her for years. But Stacey could have gotten my side of the story instead of threatening to sue me over the post and telling me to f-off. In the meantime, Jade drags my name through the mud every chance she gets.”

Leo sighs and shakes his head, “It would be so much simpler if you all were men. This drama could have all been avoided years ago because you would have probably duked it out with your fists.”

1992

Allen glances at his alarm clock before rolling out of bed. He sighs, 20 minutes before he has to get to his class. Reluctantly, he pulls back the covers, gets out of bed, and glances at his roommate Charlie, who is still snoring loudly. He knows that his other roommate in the smaller second bedroom, James, is also still sleeping as his first class isn’t until noon. At least he knows he will have the bathroom to himself.

Allen critically looks at his body in the mirror and flexes his muscles. He makes a face in disgust at the extra paunch. He’s been drinking too many beers and eating too much fast food in preparation for midterm exams. “I guess,” he thinks, “it’s time for protein shakes and extra hours at the gym.” He really hadn’t been working out since Gina and Don started officially dating. Allen was still bummed with that, even though he knew it was inevitable. Don always got the women he wanted. He had a swimmer’s body, threw a wicked curveball, and most importantly, knew exactly what the ladies wanted to hear.

One drunken night, Allen shared his tale of woe with Charlie and James. “I am so bummed. Women never go for me.” James raises his eyebrows, “Dude. What’s going on?” Allen knew he couldn’t use real names as James and Charlie hung out with Gina and Don, too. In fact James commented the day before, “Whoa! Look at the two of them together. I believe Gina is totally hung up on Don and I’ve never seen Donny boy so whipped before. But, seriously, I’m happy for them.” He did not want to seem like a total loser so he waved his hand dismissively, “There’s this woman Mary who I knew from back home. I thought I had a real shot with her as we hung out all summer long. But no, there’s this guy Dale, who swooped right in and hooked up with her. I can’t even be mad at the dude. He did ask me if I was cool with it. He had noticed me checking her out. Of course I had to say I was or I’d look like a total douche.” James shook is head sympathetically, “Dude, that blows.” Charlie nods in agreement, “This weekend we should go scope out women at the bar.” Maybe he’d go to the gym tonight instead of hanging out with Charlie, James, and Don for a beer. He didn’t need the beer anyway.

After his workout, Allen goes back to his apartment to find Charlie and James in front of the TV, watching a football game. James looks up, “Al, my man, you’ve been holding out on me.” Allen looks at him in confusion as he continues. “Dude, I actually felt bad for you when you told me about ‘Dale and Mary.’” He makes air quotes with his hands. “But there is no Dale and Mary is there? It all makes sense now. You’ve had a thing for Gina forever. Why didn’t you tell me the truth? I feel played.” Allen stammers, “What’s the big deal?” James glares at him, “The deal is you couldn’t trust one of your supposed best pals. What you did was so lame.” James glances around the room, “You know you live like a pig. All of your protein shake cans laying around the apartment. You should be lucky I put up with you as it is. And then you pull something like this.” Allen volleys back, “You’re no picnic to live with either. Who else would put up with you and your temper?” Anger between them builds, and Allen shoves James’s shoulder and he stumbles backwards. James is now shaking in his fury, raises his fist, and punches Allen in the jaw. Allen glares at James, “Dude!” He raises his fist and goes right for James’s gut. He doubles over, startled and then charges after Allen. Suddenly Charlie yells, “touchdown!” James and Allen pause and look at the screen where there is an instant replay. “Awesome,” Allen yells in excitement. “Yeah,” James cheers. The two men chest bump and high five each other. Allen looks at James, “Dude, I’m sorry.” James nods, “I’m getting a beer. Do you want one?”

Present Day

The phone rings. “Allen,” James crows, “What plans does the wife have for you this Sunday?”

Allen grunts, “Not much, just need to mow the lawn. I think Michelle is taking the kids to a movie or something.”

“Do you want to hang out?” James asks, “Julie and the girls are going to some kind of fashion show at the church or something. I already called Charlie and Don. They’re in. And I think Charlie’s brother Steve is going to tag along. I was going to turn on the game.”

After all these years, Allen still enjoyed the company of his friends. Allen, James, and Don had wives, children, and family obligation but always made it a point to stay in touch. Sure, the years hadn’t been too kind to Charlie, with his messy divorce, then a string of dead end jobs, perpetual unemployment, and living in the basement of his parents’ house. Still, Charlie, like James and Don, was his bro and bros lifted each other’s spirits and were there for each other no matter what.

Allen smiles, “Cool. See you all then.”

This morning I woke up inside my bed;

But something was wrong, on top of my head.

My long curly locks, had now disappeared;

In shock I touched my cheeks, and felt a beard.

I ran to the mirror, and looked in fear;

As I saw a tall man, begin to appear.

When I looked from side to side, so did he;

Until I realised, that man is me.

“What is going on?” I began to weep;

Instead of my voice, I heard something deep.

I began to think, how my life would change;

Of everything I’d need, to rearrange.

My daily routine, would turn upside down;

As my body is now, a different noun.

No more knots to take out, of my long hair;

No more waxing, shaving and no more Nair.

No more money spent, on skirts, heels, a dress;

No more make-up needed, to impress.

No more fear of walking, outside alone,

No more fear of being, the gender that’s prone,

To horrific violence, in every form;

A world where women dying, is the norm.

Every four hours, a woman is killed;

That’s just in my country, where blood is spilled.

So when I look in the mirror, again;

Suddenly it becomes simple, and plain.

If all women feel safer to be man;

The whole world needs to come up, with a plan.

So that women can feel safe all the time;

And being women, wouldn’t be a crime.

#uyinenemrwetyana #southafrica #women #safety #safetyforwomen

Must still be dreaming. I see her look up at me with those almond brown eyes, long celestial nose, high cheek bones, brown porcelain skin, long, luxuriant wavy chestnut hair; her broad smiling lips just begging to be kissed. I wonder who this beautiful woman is.

“What’s your name?” I ask. The woman mouths back the same words to me. I am being mocked! Then I bring my hands up to my face and she does the same thing. I realize I am looking in the mirror I am finally awake and remember what has happened to me during the last 24 hours.

In our morning detective meeting, Police Chief Davis had told us about an attempted murder. A man had taken two shots out his car window at a transgender woman standing outside a bar. He would have kept shooting, but he saw the lights of a police car approaching behind him and sped away. A bystander to the incident took a video, which we all watched in silence. A white van stops at a stoplight. The red-faced man with a crew cut pulls out a hand gun, points and shoots.

“We need to nail this guy. He might be the culprit in one of the three unsolved murders of transgender women on my desk right now,” the chief said, while turning up the lights in the room.

I want to stake out Chevy’s Bar where a lot of transgender people hang out. We already have a place for two sharp shooters to hide. All we need now is someone to lure the guy back to the spot. Someone willing to dress in drag.

Davis looked at me straight in the eyes. Me, out of twenty detectives in the room.

“Why are you looking at me?” I protested.

“The target of the shooter is tall, slender and Puerto Rican, just like you, Sánchez. You are the only detective that could pass as her body double. I will tell you ahead of time that if you accept this special assignment, there could be a month’s vacation time and a bonus for you.”

So that’s how I ended up getting made up by a police beautician every afternoon for the past four days, hanging out every night until two in the morning at Chevy’s, and sleeping in the transgender woman’s apartment who had been the target of the shooting. Her name was Syllvia with an accent on the i. She was told to stay in her apartment and not leave; I was made up to look like her and used her name in public. I bore a pretty good likeness to her, although she had a few more curves in the right places.

Every night I went through the same routine. The employees and regulars and Chevy’s obviously knew I wasn’t Syllvia but they played along with the charade. On the first night I was there, I spent most of the evening pacing up and down the sidewalk outside, keeping a constant eye out for the man in the white van and hoping the police sharp shooters had not fallen asleep. I was propositioned six times and each time one of the sex workers intervened and diverted the “customer” to someone else. A drunk man who called me a faggot and took a swing at me was dragged off by the bouncer. The next three nights were like reruns of the first.

At two in the morning every day I would return to the apartment and the real Syllvia would be waiting up for me. We had some late night talks and she told me how she had always known she was a girl even though she was born with male genitalia. She endured surgeries and hormone injections to gain her true identity.

After the surgeries, everything was going well. She got a receptionist job at a real estate firm and gave the company a good image with her professional dress and attitude. Then the boss found out she was trans and decided it would make customers uncomfortable if they found out She was fired.

With the rent due, Syllvia made cash giving hand jobs to guys in the alley behind Chevy’s. One guy had wanted more. He reached up inside her dress and tried to pull her panties down. Syllvia was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and knew how to handle herself. The guy ended up getting tossed head first into a dumpster. He had suffered the ultimate humiliation of being beaten up by a trans woman and she was pretty sure this was the same guy who had taken a shot at her.

It was Thursday and the fifth day of the stakeout. The chief told us the operation was costing too much and this would be the last night. I was relieved in a way, because I was tired of the constant verbal abuse and the groping. It was a slow night and I was standing on the sidewalk alone, wrapping and unwrapping my purse strap around my fingers. Then I saw him. Instead of driving by, the unshaven, red-faced man with the crew cut came charging out of the alley, pointing his gun at me.

“Get your skinny ass into the alley. Don’t scream or I’ll shoot you right here.” His hands were trembling and I was afraid he might pull the trigger by accident.

He pushed me into the dark alley. Where in the hell were my sharpshooters? They were probably so focused on looking for a white van on the street that they didn’t notice us disappear into the darkness.

“Get on your knees and I’m going to show you what nine inches feels like. Try anything cute this time and you’re dead. My mind was racing. I decided to play along and wait for my chance to knock the gun away. He held the gun to my face and told me to undo his belt. I was on my knees when it happened. I discerned a figure in motion behind him. He sensed it too and instinctively turned to see what it was. What it was was a baseball bat hitting a home run on his face. As he staggered backwards, I knocked the gun from his hand and it fell harmlessly onto the ground. Better late than never, the two sharpshooters ran into the alley, handcuffed the guy and took him away. I looked around to find the person who had saved my life. It was Syllvia, my body double. I asked her why she had come. She said she was sitting around thinking about this creep and how he always followed the same pattern when she realized he always came to Chevy’s on Thursday nights. When she realized it was Thursday, she decided this might be the night and I might need some backup. Indeed I did.

I got my bonus as promised and Syllvia and I took a month-long vacation on the beach.

Quinn groaned as she was forced to roll onto her side, chest aching.

Sleeping on their stomach was never a problem as a boy, but they didn't expect this Shift on a Friday.

Everyone knows that girl is a Tuesday and Thursday gender! She thought. Today supposed to be a boy day, for crying out loud! I even planned out the suit I was going to wear!!

The phone on Quinn's nightstand buzzed, the fanfare of a ringtone that sounded from it forcing her to pick it up. This was a work phone calling.

"Metamorph, we need you in Sector 12, ASAP. Mantis is sending in his Hench-Mutants on the streets again!"

"Coming," she muttered, scrambling to find her Female suit.

Infa-Red, the Telepathic Hero on the other side of the phone, immediately picked up what was going on. "Are you going to be okay fighting today? We can move you to Sector 6 guard if--"

"I'm fine!" Metamorph aggressively zipped up her bodysuit. "In fact, you know that this is better than usual, since most animals have larger females than males."

"Well, yes, I just--"

"Was underestimating me? Was being slightly sexist?" Quinn had only half of her anger on Red, as she remembered that, for a reason everyone knew but didn't say aloud, the women's bodysuit only zipped up so far in the front.

She was going to have to fix that later. The Shapeshifter knew that she had bigger problems to deal with at the moment.

"Metamorph, out onto the field." While the suit was also illogically revealing in the back, she admitted that it was perfect for wings.

Quinn was an Animalia-Shapeshifter, but one of those odd quirks that came with the ability was the occasional gender-swapping, that was found to have a weekly pattern. While they could, theoretically turn into any known animal, it had to be of that certain sex. Metamorph learned a long time ago that, if they attempted to break this unwritten rule, the consequences would be them Shifting from a healthy person into a person in agonizing pain.

Once, even a dead person. Necro-Dancer, the Reanimator of the team, had been a literal lifesaver on that one.

Quinn shook her head of the memory, trying to focus on the threat of the day. Mantis was Poly-Powered, with abilities ranging from Invisibility to Super-Strength and Speed to Enhanced Vision. Technically speaking, all of the capabilities that come with being part mantis shrimp. (Don't be fooled, he's more overpowered than many would think.)

That being said, he was able to pick out a flying Hero from a mile away.

Metamorph was met with one of the Hench-Mutants: Pilot, the Avian-Shifting, Fire Elemental. His partner, the Levitating, Alien-Shifter known as the Bandit, joined him.

"Nope, not today." As quickly as she had taken to the skies, Quinn retracted her wings and dropped down to the streets below.

At the last second, she Shifted into a dull-colored butterfly, floating safely the rest of the way to the ground. Right to where Mantis was throwing his usual hissy-fit.

Pilot crashed to the ground with his Area 51 boyfriend. "There's a hero somewhere around here, trying to stop us!"

Mantis looked around, only noting his henchmen and a bug landing on his suit. Just as he was about to fire his two most distracting cronies, he felt a weight that definitely wasn't as light as a butterfly on his shoulder.

"What's up, Shrimp?" He met the gaze of a grinning boy in a women's bodysuit.

Naturally, yelling from both sides commenced, Mantis realizing he was in the presence of a Hero and Quinn realizing that he was in the wrong body (and in the presence of the city's most notorious Villain).

Morph was promptly pushed to the ground. It then occurred to the Hench-Mutants that their enemy was already writhing in pain, so they simply stood back and let their boss have the last hit.

"Wait... time-out," Quinn croaked, attempting to switch back into his morning self.

In the process of Shifting into a human, they had imagined themselves as their Friday self (ie. male), and in response, every cell in his body wanted to pack up and quit for the year.

Mantis scowled. "I have no time for a Hero who can't control themselves."

Just as he turned his back on the young Shifter, the Villain heard Pilot and Bandit let out a strangled yelp. Sighing, he swiveled back around, meeting the gaze of a murderous, female Metamorph. Her hands had extended into the tentacles of a giant squid(?), simultaneously ruining those two perfectly-good, throwaway servants of his.

"Come on!" Mantis shook his claws in frustration. "Fifth time this week!"

"Make that the sixth," Metamorph said. "Only, this time it will be you... I guess that would be the, what, seventeenth then... for that case?"

Infa-Red found Sector 12 lined with tentacles, Quinn in the center of it all. Some of Mantis's accomplices were being constricted or thrown around, but him and couple of other ones had managed to run off.

"Finally," she said. "I was running out of tentacles! Go get the ones that got away and Shrimp, then help me with these ones."

"Good work, Morph," Quinn knew that Red was hiding his shock by using his authority-voice. "you really outdid yourself today."

She smiled, going into her own scientist-mode. "See, I told you the females are generally larger than males. And they are also less colorful, making better disguises."

Shrimp didn't even see me coming! She added mentally. Friday should be a girl day more often. My body better be taking notes on this.

My brush titters against paper, and colors run. I let them have their freedom to churn and explore each other. No better way to learn to depict a wave than to experience being one. Yet, bristles against the page, I divert them from a sketched line of a hoof. Even free, the colors must stay where they belong.

As I edge the horse’s curved foreleg, my family’s criticisms echo in my head. My subjects are always running; I should paint something different.

They are not running, not really. They are frozen in a running pose, but they never go anywhere.

I am not a real artist, my sister says, because I do not use real paint. This imitation is odorless, quality sacrificed to make it safe, but I want to believe it can be just as good as normal paint. If it is strong enough to hold my dreams, what makes it inferior?

For now, I swish out my brush, dry it, and lay it aside. The colors will have to set before I can move on. Art is patience, and patience is an art.

My world has one easel, four white walls, a bed sheathed in plastic, and a matching chair. As I sit, the cover crackles, wrinkles pressing into my thighs, but laughter outside rings louder. It pulls me back to my feet, a heavy fire flickering in my chest.

I want to laugh like that.

Standing at the door, I see them through the sliver where the frosting doesn’t quite reach the frame. They look like me, two legs, two arms, two eyes, a mouth, a nose.

“I’m glad you guys came,” one says, smile so wide, it seems to expand beyond either side of his face. A crutch angles under his arm, and no foot peeks beneath his right pant leg, only a curved piece of metal. “They say I’ll be able to leave soon.”

My hand curls around the latch, swivels, and pushes. As the bolt releases the frame, it squeaks, and the door cracks open. I can step out there, introduce myself, hear their stories, laugh with them.

My eyes run over their t-shirts and shorts, their smooth tanned skin, and my fingers rise to my sleeve. Through it, I cannot see the bumps, but they are there. I know better than to open the door any further. Even if it did not exist, I would not step over the threshold.

I cannot leave this room. I do not belong in this world.

“You should come with me to the sunset concert on the roof,” the patient soon to leave tells his friends. “There’s supposed to be a meteor shower, too.”

The words are a lasso swooping around my heart. It tightens. Tugs. For once, I want to hear a musician play, not a speaker’s rendition. I want to see the sky with my own eyes, not through a screen.

It is a horrible idea, a stupid wish, but I cannot stop thinking about it.

***

The clock displays 7:30pm, and I again stand at the door, knuckles brushing the glass, hand on the lever. I am courage. I can do this.

I slow and deepen my breaths, savoring this last safe air, bitter as it is, turn the handle, and run.

“Raquel, you can’t be out here!” the nurse at the station calls, a blur of white and brown as I tear past her, eyes set on the door at the end of the hall. Stairs wait beyond it, ready to take me into the sky.

Arms encircle me and tow me back. I squirm, legs still pumping, and the embrace tightens. My nose presses against a shoulder, and cologne seeps into my brain with every breath, chemicals translating into thoughts.

I bat them away with practiced phrases. Be strong. I can do this. I am not broken. I am human.

The intruders grow shriller. They drown me, repeating, overlapping. I do not belong here. I am worthless. I am inconvenient. I should die. Who am I to think myself worthy of looking at the sky? To breathe the air? It was never meant for me.

Tears run down my face, hot and sticky. Throat closed, I cannot breathe anymore, but still the fragrance fills me, trapped within, louder than a thousand explosions. All because this nurse wanted to smell like cloves. Who am I to ask that he not wear it? If I did not exist, my presence would not inconvenience him, and he could wear whatever he wanted.

A mask slips over my mouth and nose. It smells bitter, but the air is safe. The swelling recedes; my panting evens into soft snuffles. Gradually, the voices in my head quiet, but I remember what they said. Their echoes continue to bounce back at me, and I cover my ears. Bruises blossom on my hands.

I sit but am moving. Wheels clack against the tiles’ seams, and in their rhythm, I hear the laughter of those who had stood outside my door. Why can’t I be like them? Stong. Normal.

I can do it. I just have to get over it, suck it up, go for it.

One deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three.

Cheeks puffed with one final inhale, I rip the mask away and run. I ignore the shouts, twist and leap and dive, skin stinging where they touch me, but I ignore that, too. The door flies aside.

As I race up the stairs, I no longer feel my legs. Good, that is less pain I have to ignore. The fire in my lungs is hot enough, too hungry. By the time I reach the top, I cannot contain it. Fingers of flame crawl through my throat and nose, drawing in this unsafe air.

It is not too bad, faintly sweet, somewhat stale. It is okay. I can handle it.

At the door that leads outside, I stop, hands on the push bar. What will the air be like out there? Can I trust it?

I want to. In my room, I am safe, but it is not where I want to be.

The heavy door does not budge easily, as if it demands proof of how badly I want to leave its safety. With all my strength, I push, and the remnants of the day greet me, warmth that smells of tea steeped too long and colors giving way to night’s dark blanket.

On a small stage on the corner of the roof, a fiddle plays, bongos thumping behind him. They are separate here in person, one slightly further than the other, and I can hear that difference. A flute laces between the violin’s running arpeggios, gentler, lighter, but no less full, and I feel the sounds playing with one another like my colors running on the page.

Tears dribble down my cheeks as I stumble forward, hands finding the back of a chair, but this time it is not a bad thing. White streaks shoot across the heavens. How does the fiddle manage to punctuate the brightest of them?

I am not an artist at all. I could never create something this beautiful, art that wraps one’s entire being so that sound is felt and color is tasted. I have never eaten a cherry; it would kill me, but if it tastes anything like the sky’s red—tepid, sweet, and deep—then it might be worth it.

Another taste creeps in, musty, burnt, and sour. Smoke fills my nose, and a javelin spears through my skull. A whooshing throb overwhelms the music as my gaze falls to the crowd. A gray cloud streams from the mouth of someone in the audience as blankness replaces my entire view of the world and I fall.

***

Colors run again, red swirling into orange, purple consuming black as I try to capture the image before it leaves my head.

I wish I could have seen more, but I shouldn’t be greedy. I should be grateful for the moments I was given, the precious few seconds where I could pretend I was normal. Who am I to expect others to hold back from what they want to do just because it will ruin something for me?

I had my moment. Is that not enough? I have my painting of it, now finished. I can keep it forever. So why does the scene blur? Why do tears spill over my lashes? Why does my brush still sweep the colors as if I never want them to stop running?

-fin-

The man was sitting in the old yellow armchair in the corner. That was the first thing she noticed when she awoke. Actually, that wasn’t quite right. First she noticed the aching in her joints, the lethargy in her limbs, the cloudiness of her thoughts, all of which told her she was getting too old for this, whatever ‘this’ might be. Certainly too old to be seeing strange young men in her bedroom.

“Who are you?” she asked calmly, not wishing to startle him into any violent action. Still, he jolted upright in his seat. He had been sleeping, she realized.

Then he stood and approached her bed slowly. Not menacingly, but warily, as if he were the one who needed protection from her. She almost chuckled at the thought.

Instead, she repeated firmly, “Who are you?” This close up, her failing eyes could see that her initial perception had been wrong. He wasn’t young. He had wrinkles and creases and gray hairs. His face was weathered, tired. Middle-aged then, she decided.

“Joe, ma’am.”

“Well, Joe, didn’t your mother raise you better than to enter the rooms of sleeping women?”

His face now took on a strange look. Of discomfort, perhaps, at being scolded? “Ma’am, I’m afraid I’m here to give you some bad news.”

“Don’t tell me you’re Death, here to take me away.” She eyed him suspiciously.

“No ma’am, but . . . Death did take someone yesterday.”

Fear suddenly shot through her. “Who? Not my husband, not my Joseph?” It registered belatedly that she had not woken beside him, that she could not even remember him coming to bed last night.

“Jenny. There was a car crash.” Her confusion must have shown. “Jenny, your daughter.”

She looked at his expression, pinched and appropriately pained, and couldn’t help but smile. It was out of relief, and a bit of amusement—she would not deny that his face looked silly crumpled in that manner. “You must have the wrong room. I don’t have a daughter.”

A nurse chose that moment to enter. “Mrs. Park, I have your breakfast.”

“Yes, yes.” She waved the nurse over.

The man stepped back, towards the door. “Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. I see now that I was mistaken.” He paused, and for a moment, she thought he would say something else. Then he turned and walked out. For the best, she thought. There was no use in extending their odd, mismatched conversation.

The nurse joined him soon after.

The woman sat up in her bed and diligently ate her pudding. It was chocolate, her favorite.

Outside, the nurse turned to the man. “One of the bad days?”

He nodded.

“Doesn’t your sister usually visit on Wednesdays?”

“She - uh - an accident,” He closed his eyes briefly. “She won’t be coming anymore.”

The nurse reached out and touched his shoulder. “I’m really sorry to hear that. I don’t know why bad things happen to good people.”

He glanced toward his mother, visible through the window in the door, smiling down at her pudding cup. “Neither do I.”

You stupid or what?

What are you? Retarded

What? You can’t even think for yourself?

You dumb or what?

Oh God, where’s your common sense?

You’re dumb ’cause you can’t even hear

That’s what I grew up with

For the longest time, I believed;

To my very being core

For the longest time, I’ve hated myself

Because of you, you and your opinions

No more, I whispered to myself

Stop, stop telling me those lies

Lies about me, myself and I

I’m sorry,

If you think I’m stupid

But I’m not sorry,

For your ignorance

You weren’t educated yet,

You snooze, you lose

I’m sorry,

If you think I’m retarded

But I’m not sorry,

For being born deaf

You didn’t learn my language,

You snooze, you lose

I’m sorry,

If you think I’m dumb

But I’m not sorry,

For choosing not to speak

You don’t know me at all,

You snooze, you lose

Im sorry,

You missed out on so much

But I’m not sorry,

For being who I am

You are you, I am me,

You snooze, you lose

I’m sorry,

If I don’t hear

But I’m not sorry,

Because I am a good listener

Sacrifice your ignorance,

And you won’t lose

I’m sorry, but not sorry...

.....I love being me