Many Hands

 

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

It was a hot day, and a big climb, but we were promised glistening pools of water, fed by sparkling waterfalls that tumbled into fern lined canyons. It would be worth it, the guides said, the most beautiful place on the whole river, just make sure you take plenty of water to drink.

I took it slow, brining up the rear with the guide assigned to follow the stragglers (which was me, it was always me). She was nice though. Kira was her name, she couldn’t have been more than 25, tall and lanky like an elk, with feet like a mountain goat, it was as if she had been raised scaling these red rocks in the desert heat. And yet here she was, poking slowly up with me, pulling my ass up the trickier parts, and all the while making pleasant small talk. It was what made a good wilderness guide, I supposed.

I tried not to feel badly about slowing the group down as we summited yet another ledge. I stood there for a moment, hiding in a sliver of shade provided by the outcropping of the next rock shelf hanging above us.

“Only a few more left before we enter the slot canyon,” Kira said chirpily

I unscrewed the cap from my Nalgene and took a swig of my desert warmed water.

“Okay,” I replied, “let’s do this.”

Sure enough, after a few more scrambles up what felt like sheer rock faces, we turned the corner into a mercifully shaded canyon. The space was narrow, with just enough room for a trail  that was perched over a creek flowing down the slot far below. I walked slowly on, conscious of the consequences of a missed step, though I was also savoring the relative cool of the canyon.

“Hey Jenny!” Kira bubbled up behind me.

“Yeah?” I replied, turning carefully to face her.

“Check out the wall of the canyon on the other side of the creek.”

I looked over, to the sheer red wall of rock across the dizzying depths of the niche carved by the bubbling creek far below us. I studied the wall, but couldn’t figure out what I was missing. Was this another geology lesson? Did she want me to appreciate the difference in the layers of rock (that frankly all looked the same to me, but apparently were slowly built up over eons).

“The hands,” she said, apparently picking up on my confusion, “do you see them?”

And then I did, outlines of hands, hundreds of them, decorated the wall.

“But how?” I replied.

“The Anasazi Indians. We think it was some kind of ritual, or perhaps just showing off for their friends, they would leap over the slot, their hands covered in paint, and leave the prints before bouncing off the wall safely back to the trail.”

“Well fuck that shit,” I replied. And we both stood there in silence, marveling about the people who were here before us, and this canyon they called home.

 

Early to Bed

 

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

The wobble of the steering wheel and the distinctive thump thump coming from the passenger side rear wheel alerted me to the unfortunate fact that I had a flat tire. I urged the car over to the shoulder, in front of a weathered old manor house that was covered in a thicket of thorny bushes, and got out to surveil the damage. Sure enough, the tire was flat. At least I didn’t have to be in Paris until the morning, but I had been hoping to get in a few hours early to do a bit of the tourist thing.

I opened the trunk of the car and located the spare, thank goodness. With rentals you never could be too sure about these things. Lugged the tire out of the trunk, then went back for the jack, which was mostly there, except one key component, the little metal rod that both unscrewed the nuts and helped raise the jack. Crap.

Fifteen minutes had passed and still not another vehicle had passed. At least it was a beautiful spring day. The sky was a deep blue, the fields were green and the flowers were just starting to bloom. I was marveling at a couple of blue tits dancing in the sky when I was startled from my trance by a small voice. I turned to see a young girl in a blue dress standing next to me.

“Monsieur” she said again, holding out a small bouquet of wild flowers.

“Oh,” I replied, “I’m sorry, you startled me.”

“Monsieur” she said again, extending the bouquet even more insistently towards me.

“Oh, is this for me?”

“Oui Monsieur, it is May 1^st,” she said, bowing her head, “faire la grasse matinée”

“Oh, well thank you. Are you from around here?”

“Oui monsieur,” she replied, and then she turned and skipped off through the spring flowers.

As I watched her disappear in the woods at the edge of the field, a car approached, and pulled over beside me. Thankfully the driver had a jack with all the requisite parts. As we worked to change the tire, I asked the man if he knew the area well. He said he was from the little town just around the bend in the road, born and raised, and, except for a few years during the war, he had lived there all his life. Naturally I told him about the little girl I had met, and as I finished my tale, I noticed he had stopped removing the nuts, and was now staring at me, slack-jawed.

“What is it sir, have I offened?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, and then after a long pause he continued, “do you know the story of Sleeping Beauty?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Yes, well, what you probably don’t know is it’s based on a folk tale set right here, at this old manor house, and the child who lived here, who would awaken after a long sleep on May 1^st , roused by the blooming flowers of spring.”

“Huh”, I replied, “it seems I've seen a ghost.”

A Stitch In Time

 

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

“I can do this myself,” I whispered under my breath as I stood in the kitchen of my brand-new house, holding a sledgehammer in my right hand.

The truth was I had to do it myself. I had spent every last cent I had saved from the last 10 years, and even though the house was new to me, it was, in fact, very old, and it needed so much work. I surveyed the cracked linoleum, crumbling plaster, broken stove, and giant hole where the fridge would have been, and took a deep breath. I raised the sledgehammer high above my head and brought it down with a mighty crack against the dingy yellow tiled counter.

“There,” I said, “no turning back now.”

The counter demo took all morning. My arms ached and my back throbbed, but it was so satisfying to toss the last broken tile on the debris pile.

After lunch I found myself back in the kitchen, sledgehammer in hand, trying to decide where to land the first blow on the dingy grey plaster wall when a voice behind me caused me to jump. The sledgehammer fell from my hand with a thump.

“Sorry neighbor,” the voice said, “I didn’t mean to startle you.

I turned towards the back door to find an older man wearing a ratty fedora, chinos, and a half-full grin.

“Oh hi,” I replied, “I’m Frankie, I just…”

“Moved in here, yes, I figured. I’m Saul, your next-door neighbor. I heard you making a racket in hear all morning and thought I better welcome you to the neighborhood. Thought it might be the polite thing to do.”

“Oh, yes, sorry, I am so sorry about the noise. I should have come over and introduced myself and let you know I was starting to remodel. I hope it wasn’t too annoying.”

“Oh no, that’s fine, I can just turn the volume up on my tv. Though I say, if you get any louder, I’m gonna have to get surround sound or somethin’ cause the knob on my old set won’t turn any farther.

“No, no louder, I promise, I am just going to demo this plaster.”

“What, why would you do that?” the old man sneered. “That plaster just needs a little patching is all.”

“Hmm,” I replied, as I looked at the dingy crumbling wall again.

“Anyway,” the old man replied, “I’m going back to my shows now, you take care.”

The old man was creepy, that was probably why I didn’t take his advice. Well, that and I didn’t want to cut any corners. So I picked up my sledgehammer, and I swung it as hard as my sore arms could handle, and the wall crumbled away under the blow.

“Whew,” I said, wiping the sweaty dust from my brow, and then a saw it, sitting on the other side of the wall. A hand made ragdoll, holding a rusty knife.

“Oh hell no,” I shouted, as I dropped the sledgehammer and ran out of the house.

"I told you not to tear out the wall" Saul yelled over the fence.

 

 

A Bird In The Hand

 

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

“I can grant you one wish” the genie said with a wink.

“Perfect” I replied.

I had been experimenting with lucid dreaming, and here I was, finally aware I was in a dream. This was going to be fun.

“OK,” I said, “I want to go back in time to the day I graduated from college, so instead of starting on that shitty career path in that shitty town I can save up some money and actually travel the world like I always wanted.”

“Done” the genie said with a bow of the head, and in a flash of smoke he disappeared with a bang, and I woke up with a start.

“Damn,” I whispered into the darkness of my bedroom. With a sigh I rolled over to try and fall back asleep. Only something was wrong, it was the sheets, I didn’t recognize them.

I sprung out of the bed and felt around the wall for the lights witch, only it wasn’t where it was supposed to be. Finally, I found it, but when I flipped it on it became apparent that this was not my bedroom. The bed was too small, and the walls were the wrong color, and the pictures on the walls were not my pictures. I stood there in the corner of the room, trying to figure out where the fuck I was, when the door swung open and in walked Joel, my high school sweetheart. Joel who I hadn’t seen since I broke up with him ten years ago, just before college. Joel, who was now standing in front of me wearing nothing but boxer shorts.

“Are you okay?” he asked, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Joel, what’s going on? Where are we? What are you doing here?”

“What do you mean where are we? We’re in Paris… our honeymoon.”

“Our what?!” I replied as I edged around the bed and peered out the window. Sure enough, there was the Eifel Tower, all lit up in the distance. And then I realized what was going on, I was still dreaming!

“Ha ha, yeah, our honeymoon. You know how it is when you travel and sometimes wake up confused about where you are”, I giggled, “anyway, I am tired, lets go back to sleep.”

I climbed back in the bed, Joel flipped off the light, and I tried my hardest to fall back asleep.

I woke up with the sun streaming in my face.

“Good morning beautiful,” whispered a familiar voice in my ear, “you look just as beautiful as you did the day you came back into my life six years ago.”

I rolled over and locked eyes with Joel, and that was when I realized, this wasn’t a dream. As I lay there staring at the man I had broken up with ten years earlier, I tried not to cry thinking of the other man, the one I should have married and the life we should have had together, before I made that horrible wish.

 

 

 

If the Shoe Fits

Photo credit: Robsalot (that's me!)

 It's been a while since I had to do this, but also not nearly long enough. Do I still remember how to do this? Did I ever really know how to do this?

The first time it happened I was 10. It was a beautiful sunny Sunday morning; I was reading the comics section of the newspaper in my parents bed when the phone call came in. A dark cloud descended over the morning. My cousin’s wife, complications from childbirth. When my parents told me I felt the panic wash over me, what should I say, what should I do, what happens now? I had no idea how to be with this information.

The second time it happened I was 18, well, 19, well, it was my birthday. Another phone call. My grandfather. And those feelings descended again. Am I doing this right? What is my role in all of this? What do I do now?

The third time was my mother-in-law. A steady decline over two years, and yet when that phone call came at 6 in the morning. The grief set in immediately, and also that same old uncertainty. Was I doing this right? Is this what is expected of me? Am I letting everyone else down? Am I totally fucking this up?

Last week I was riding my bike along the shoreline of Alameda. Summer was well over and the sun was rising later and later, the sky was just starting to pink at the horizon, as I was rounding the little bend around the park on the Bayfarm shoreline, when my phone began to ring. It was my mom. I knew what it was immediately. My grandmother was 94 and had been dealing with lung cancer for the past couple of years, but in the last week she had started to decline.

I sat there for a moment, watching the oily reflection of the stars in the sky on the lapping waters of the brightening bay, and then I pressed accept on the phone call from my mother.

My grandmother had passed away at 3:43 am.

I don’t remember what I said to my mom.

And then I was riding away, all by myself again. Well, me and my thoughts and the misty morning air, and the shore birds just starting to wake in the breaking dawn. And I realized, it didn’t matter that I didn’t know what I should do or how I should feel or what I should be in this moment, because this was death. And as I started to feel my throat close from the emotions seeping in, I pulled my bike over and sat on a little wooden bench and watched the sun creep over the horizon, and I slipped into the grief like an old shoe that I was finally understanding how to wear.

Rose

Artist: Edna Cabcabin Moran
Link: ecm.myportfolio.com

All was darkness, thick and black. She pulled herself along the soft ground, her eyes straining against the void. But then, yes, just there, a pinpoint of light. She moved towards it, she was beckoned, and as she did she could see it dancing and bobbing, illuminating the thorns and the thickets. Still closer she crept, until in the light she saw it, velvet red, a flower, a rose, a bramble, a bush! The color called to her, so vibrant, so alive, and she reached out her hand, toward the light, toward the rose, but ouch!

Quickly she withdrew her hand and examined it in the prick of light. Her palm, pale in the moon glow, except where her blood pooled crimson red like the rose. It oozed into the cusp of her hand, a dam once solid, now broken, rivers of red, reclaiming their old dried beds, creeping along the folds, the valleys, the creases and crevasses of her palm. She drew her hand up to her face and pressed it hard against her mouth, the metallic taste flooding her senses.

She rolled onto her back and stared into the darkness. She let it envelop her until there was no distinction between the world outside herself, and the world inside herself. Until she was the blackness, and the silence, and the flavor of metal. And then it was over, there was a whisper of movement, and a sliver of light, and she was just herself again.

The light continued to creep across the darkness, a silver crack in the world, growing larger and larger, threatening to envelope all, until suddenly there it was, the mother moon, with its soft round face, smiling down at her. She started to smile back, but her smile was smothered by a sudden revelation, because there, creeping across that perfectly craggy moon face was a single tear. But how can that be? There is no water on the moon! And then she saw it, illuminated by that silver glow, the roses, there were more now. The moon was taunting her with roses!

She gasped at their beauty, and slowly reached a hand towards them, she knew if she could just touch them, if she could just feel their exquisite petals, their perfect pastoral leaves. But still, just beyond the flowers, the moon continued to smile, that sad smile, and she knew what the moon was waiting for. She knew what the moon wanted. But she also knew better than to smile back at the moon.

She withdrew her hand, pressing it between her back and the soft ground beneath her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. She could create her own darkness, where she could hide and wait for the moon to disappear, where she could wait for the sun to rise again.

Rose’s mother knew it was too late, she had again failed to connect with her daughter. She reached a hand out to caress her face, but then she thought better. She remembered what happened last time. Instead, she raised her hand to her own face, wiped away the tear that betrayed her, and retreated from the dark room to the too bright hall, and the doctor she knew would be waiting to console her.

 

 

Auburn

 

Image credit: Eric C Carter @dizzypixel. Photograph + illustration by hand; no filters.
Like his work? Let him know: https://www.buymeacoffee.com/Dizzypixel 

The first time Liza saw the woman was on the day her mother died. Liza had been playing under the willow tree in the front field when a lady with auburn hair that flowed down her back and danced in the wind wandered up the driveway from the dirt road that ran in front of the farm.

Liza sprung to her feet and ran to her house, making sure to stay in the shadows of the orange groves so the woman wouldn’t see her. She burst through the front door and raced up the stairs yelling “Mom!”, but when she entered the cool dark cave of her mother’s bedroom the look in her mother’s eyes caused Liza’s voice to catch in her throat.

“What is it honey?” her mother’s voice barely broke the silence of the room.

“What’s wrong mom?” Liza whispered.

“Nothing, it’s just a headache, don’t worry. Now, what did you need to tell me?”

“There’s a strange lady coming up the drive,” Liza replied as she walked to the curtain to peek outside, but then she thought better of letting any light in the room.

“Okay honey, please have the lady wait on the porch, let her know I will be down in a little while.”

Liza kissed her mother on her very warm cheek, and then went to sit at the kitchen table and wait for the woman. 

And she waited. 

And she waited. 

But the woman never came to the door, and her mother never came downstairs.

The next time Liza saw the woman was at her mother’s funeral. Liza stood at the side of the grave in an itchy black dress. The grass was damp after a week of rain, but the sun had just come out, its rays casting brilliant white spotlights through the trees. One of the rays shone on a figure hovering at the edge of the graveyard, her auburn hair dancing like fire in the sunbeam. But just as quickly she appeared, she was gone, vanished in the teardrops that blurred Liza’s vision. 

The third time she was the woman, Liza was a woman herself, all grown up with a child of her own. Her husband had just gotten a job on the other side of the state, and it just so happened the drive to the new house would take them past the little farm she had lived on as a young girl. Liza was excited about showing her daughter where she had run wild through the fields and orange groves of her childhood.

Liza almost didn’t recognize the place at first. The front field was overgrown with weeds so high she almost couldn’t see the house from the road. She didn’t know what had happened to it after her mother died, but it was obviously long abandoned. They parked the car at the edge of the old dirt road, and as Liza’s daughter ran across the overgrown field toward the weeping willow, Liza strolled up the driveway, watching the shadow of her hair on the driveway, dancing in the breeze.

She turned and waited for her husband to catch up, and when he did she grabbed his hand and said "honey, I'd like to visit my mother's grave."