Corrugated air plastered the gold-flecked scarf to my face. This would not be an easy day. She kept revisiting her conversation with her family from the day before. What did she say that had caused her to be so misunderstood? Recalling the anger in her mother's face and voice set her stomach falling again, and tears threatened.
She vowed to stay out of self-pity, and told herself that they were grownups who didn't need her to help make decisions.
"And neither do I," she said aloud, wiping the tears from her cheeks.
Her hands came away with tiny droplets of red that hardened into gems as they dried. She nodded. Precious indeed, these were.
The walk sign lighted and she crossed into the next part of her life.
Monday, January 20, 2014
Monday, November 12, 2012
Tuesday, February 01, 2011
Saturday, October 03, 2009
Missing Maui for Mom
Alas! For far too long have I left you unbothered! Oh Blog! So here is but a scratch: I was to have visited Maui with my mom, but two weeks prior, she tripped and broke her shoulder sufficiently that surgery was required. So I visited her in Texas instead.
Now, there are those who thing Texas is similar to Hawaii, but none of them live in Texas.
Still, it was good to be with her, to hold her hand as I moved her arm in our thrice daily physical therapy. To watch her face, see her flinch, then relax, even smile as the arm became more flexible. To keep so intimate a time with her: _that_ I doubt we would have shared in Maui. We'd have been buried in the busy of seeing it all, and never find a moment, much less 30 moments, to hold hands. Not in Maui, where all the things to see are.
So I do not chafe the cost of missing Maui. Instead, I feel richer, more filled to my edges, with the strength and love that is my mother.
Now, there are those who thing Texas is similar to Hawaii, but none of them live in Texas.
Still, it was good to be with her, to hold her hand as I moved her arm in our thrice daily physical therapy. To watch her face, see her flinch, then relax, even smile as the arm became more flexible. To keep so intimate a time with her: _that_ I doubt we would have shared in Maui. We'd have been buried in the busy of seeing it all, and never find a moment, much less 30 moments, to hold hands. Not in Maui, where all the things to see are.
So I do not chafe the cost of missing Maui. Instead, I feel richer, more filled to my edges, with the strength and love that is my mother.
Monday, March 12, 2007
Ballerino
This story circle started here.
It continued here.
Here's where it left off before this bit.
“Another glass of wine, please.”
I tried to take in a breath, but all air had been sucked out of everywhere except around her. Heat shivers rose from her hair. Or maybe that was stardust from the ceiling. Which broke the spell and let me lean for the wine.
I sipped in air, trying to keep my hand steady, but I double-tinked her glass anyway. A freight-train rush of desire flashed through me. When I pulled the bottle back, a drop of bloody velvet escaped, falling to pool, thick on the backward bend of her knee. She laughed, as if we had already made love, as if we were old lovers, as if we had history leading back to grey memory.
Leaning back, she moved her knee back to snug against the couch, and the drop quivered, escaping its tensile prison and marking a trail to somewhere lush and hidden. Insanely, I thought of how to remove winestains from brocade.
Another burst of stomping sent a dash of golden rain between us. Somehow, this became the thunder of my desire, the preamble to the lightening that gathered, one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thou-- I pushed my fingers into the bend of her knee, safe, perhaps, safe enough. Her intake of breath sounded thunder-strong, and my thunder breath answered hers, sound on sound.
She handed me her glass, and with another flash of red, she lifted from the couch, her skirt peeled back. I set both of our glasses on the table as she reached for my hand. The frenzied ballet above measured the closeness of the coming storm: three-one thousand, four-- I took her hand.
The air shimmered around us both, now, the heat of the wine, the gathering summer storm. I turn toward her, slipping my hand around her waist, moving against her, her scent -- lavender and ocean -- fills me, and suddenly we are together. The moist softness of her lips evokes the lightening flashes. The crazy sound storm above matches our wild movement, waves of breath in, sighs out. The moaning clutching paired with unbearably, heartbreakingly tender strokes. In that moment and the next, we inhabit the same magic space.
Then, that moment passed into the next, and the silent question passed in the newly formed distance between us. What was to be the progression of our tempest? A volley passed or in play? An invitation? Yes? Yes! Would she? Would I? Will we?
The silence of the world above mirrored our pause, a comma in the turmoil.
It continued here.
Here's where it left off before this bit.
“Another glass of wine, please.”
I tried to take in a breath, but all air had been sucked out of everywhere except around her. Heat shivers rose from her hair. Or maybe that was stardust from the ceiling. Which broke the spell and let me lean for the wine.
I sipped in air, trying to keep my hand steady, but I double-tinked her glass anyway. A freight-train rush of desire flashed through me. When I pulled the bottle back, a drop of bloody velvet escaped, falling to pool, thick on the backward bend of her knee. She laughed, as if we had already made love, as if we were old lovers, as if we had history leading back to grey memory.
Leaning back, she moved her knee back to snug against the couch, and the drop quivered, escaping its tensile prison and marking a trail to somewhere lush and hidden. Insanely, I thought of how to remove winestains from brocade.
Another burst of stomping sent a dash of golden rain between us. Somehow, this became the thunder of my desire, the preamble to the lightening that gathered, one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thou-- I pushed my fingers into the bend of her knee, safe, perhaps, safe enough. Her intake of breath sounded thunder-strong, and my thunder breath answered hers, sound on sound.
She handed me her glass, and with another flash of red, she lifted from the couch, her skirt peeled back. I set both of our glasses on the table as she reached for my hand. The frenzied ballet above measured the closeness of the coming storm: three-one thousand, four-- I took her hand.
The air shimmered around us both, now, the heat of the wine, the gathering summer storm. I turn toward her, slipping my hand around her waist, moving against her, her scent -- lavender and ocean -- fills me, and suddenly we are together. The moist softness of her lips evokes the lightening flashes. The crazy sound storm above matches our wild movement, waves of breath in, sighs out. The moaning clutching paired with unbearably, heartbreakingly tender strokes. In that moment and the next, we inhabit the same magic space.
Then, that moment passed into the next, and the silent question passed in the newly formed distance between us. What was to be the progression of our tempest? A volley passed or in play? An invitation? Yes? Yes! Would she? Would I? Will we?
The silence of the world above mirrored our pause, a comma in the turmoil.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Of father, fathers, and Father
Sometimes, perhaps I am just reading a poem by Mary Oliver "Now is my father / Walking the wind, / Sniffing the deep Pacific / That begins at the end of the world." and his face bursts into my mind's eye. And grief's knife twists in my soft underbelly. To know that I can never again cup the cheek of his nubby face or feel him pat my back -- how do you live through this?
How do you learn to be fatherless in the world, after carrying him with you for over half a century? Is it from the same strength that breaks open the spirit of a man when he learns that finally, finally, he will have a child? The same desire to stretch forward into the forever of life? The same joy of vicarious accomplishments? The same fierce protectiveness?
I cannot walk this world alone, so I am glad he showed me how he talked to his father. How, long after my grandfather was dead, my father would point to a flower in his yard, a tomato in his garden, a fish in his net, and say "Ahhh. What do you think of that, Cap?" pronouncing "think" as "tink," the way the Cajuns, his people, do. I am glad he talked with me about his journey with his Father, who walked with him through the dark times he knew we both shared, who showed him how to concentrate on that tiny speck of light at the other end of the tunnel, and keep moving, keep moving, just keep moving: this darkness, too, shall pass.
I will carry my father with me, as I will all fathers, and my Father, such that I have, asking Great Mother to make him room, make him room, for I need both as I go forward from this, and each day from here on, without his booming spirit on this earthly plane.
How do you learn to be fatherless in the world, after carrying him with you for over half a century? Is it from the same strength that breaks open the spirit of a man when he learns that finally, finally, he will have a child? The same desire to stretch forward into the forever of life? The same joy of vicarious accomplishments? The same fierce protectiveness?
I cannot walk this world alone, so I am glad he showed me how he talked to his father. How, long after my grandfather was dead, my father would point to a flower in his yard, a tomato in his garden, a fish in his net, and say "Ahhh. What do you think of that, Cap?" pronouncing "think" as "tink," the way the Cajuns, his people, do. I am glad he talked with me about his journey with his Father, who walked with him through the dark times he knew we both shared, who showed him how to concentrate on that tiny speck of light at the other end of the tunnel, and keep moving, keep moving, just keep moving: this darkness, too, shall pass.
I will carry my father with me, as I will all fathers, and my Father, such that I have, asking Great Mother to make him room, make him room, for I need both as I go forward from this, and each day from here on, without his booming spirit on this earthly plane.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Mz. Romanz' Guide to Valentine's Day
Please pass along this email to your husband or other significant other, at your discretion, of course.
(LyP completely acknowledges (and apologizes for) the teeth-gnashingly flagrant sexism (which apologies will undoubtedly be likened to the spluttering apologistrophe that followed the Snickers-incited-two-men-kissing and subsequent chest-hair-pulling commercial) not to mention (but she will) the unremitting gender bias, but she posts this for the same reason as the Mars company ran the commercial: even if you don't like/agree with it, most of you will probably chuckle at some point, even in spite of yourselves.
<tongue_in_cheek>
Husbands and Other Significant Others:
Make This a Great Valentines Day!
It’s I, Mz. Romanz, and I’m sending along this Guide to Husbands and Other Significant Others. To make this Valentine’s Day the best ever, Mz. Romanz recommends the following:
- Write her a poem consisting of at least three lines.
- Each line should consist of six to seven words of one to three syllables.
- If you exclude the words “babe” and “football” it’ll be a winner.
- If you mention something like “can’t imagine how I ever survived without you” or “you make my heart sing” you may even see welled tears.
- If you mention something you remember about her, you’ll see the tear trail, or as we call it in the biz: lovelines!
- It can be anything. Really. So this would work [feel free to use this as a template it you wish]:
/ From your darling <husband | lover | your_name> to my dearest <wife | lover | sweetheart’s name>:
/ I remember your <face | hands | feet | eyes | other body part> on our <first date | wedding day | other important anniversary>...[Note: Do NOT use “breasts” or “butt” or derivatives of same. At Valentine's Day, these are not considered “body parts” per se. Tip: Using “eyes” is almost always a good bet.]
/ You were <freezing | burning up | fainting | worried about your <drunk Uncle Ned | crazy ex>>
/ I couldn’t have imagined how <wonderful | fantastic | amazing> our life would be together.
/ With hopes for many more Valentine’s Days to come.
/ Your_name [written in the best script you can muster]
- If you can’t bring yourself to write a poem, draw a picture with crayons. Tell her you’re trying to recapture youth, yada yada. You’ll figure out something.
- Hold her hand and look into her eyes longingly.
- To create a longing look, think of how to spell “magnanimous.”
- Count to three or four.
- Really, that’s all there is to it!
- Do something for her that you don’t usually do.
- Rinse off the dishes.
- Take out the trash before she asks.
- Refill her tea when it’s half full.
- Take off your shoes and socks in the bedroom [I know this can be quite a stretch for some of you, but try it!].
- If you don’t think this will win you points, you’re wrong. It will. I mean it!
All of these things work best when accompanied by a sincere feeling of love, but (unfortunately or fortunately, depending on whether you’re the woman or the man) they work whether you mean it or not.
</tongue_in_cheek>
OK, that ought to do it.
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