tears for tears

attacked without warning it tears into the skull swelling the brain expanding the mind this searing pain repetitious.  the tears pour forth as thoughts of suicide do battle with the stronger will to thrive and make a difference.  this pain beating the man to submission rendering his strength and will a shaking shambles.  a shell of himself to build again.  day after day like clockwork it battles to empty this mind of the emotion and feeling learned.  hopes of love switched off scoured clean by a force intent on minding mind to simple reason.  feelings content a future desired purged from soul.  this mind fights for supremacy to overcome inertia for sake of connection, for sake of companionship, for sake of higher power.  forsake a path straight to an undulating road experienced to soul and souls connected.  these tears the price to combat the tears these wired connections struggle to hold… grow forth.

Coffee

This heart it soars when you are present, and is sore when you are not.  The remnants of your presence surround this existence.  Memory of your voice as it sings; songs of black birds and women artists loved and revered.  Stars fondly recalled their stories growth, reverence and the beautiful.  We stare share the lawn of leaves from heights and discovery.  Shared place, blankets warm of conversation of friends, potato salad, strawberry pie. 

And coffee.

Never emptied, held warm and close.  Strength in its brackish, mine clear yours sweetened with cream and cane.  Remnants left of memory we share.  Tears and heart, your aura I feel.  

Sad Eyes

We pull to the back of the truck. It's rear is different. In place of the usual double doors, to the right a solid wall, to the left a chain and drawbridge. As the wash begins to buffet we pull left and use the draft to begin our pass. The car slows when the benefit of moment succumbs to inertia of pressure. To the right, in slow motion, I gaze into the sad brown eyes with their Clairol lashes, each heading to their destiny in Brooks, on their journey to plate and palette.

Broken

A walk down the curved hill from door to road’s edge.  They are tiny people, and aged.  She leaning against her cane, he bow-legged walking with the deliberate care of sore joints.  They are slowly walking the downward slope, leading me to the road’s edge. 

She stops to punctuate a decision.  She will walk no further.  She speaks, her orders punctuated by jabs of the cane, her language not mine, snippets englais mixed in francais, her point understood.  He (two jabs directed to his chest) must go get the car (a swing jab over his head in the general direction of where they are parked) and he must bring the car here (a point of the cane from the road to the precise spot he is to stop) and he (more jabs to his chest) must be quick about it.  She leans upon her cane, tired and pained.  A look to her husband reveals her disdain.

He looks confused and frightened.  Momentary silence and then shy speech: where is the car parked?  Wife explodes in fury, a string of language I recall hearing on the schoolyards of my youth, her jabs to him pronounced and pointed: you stupid man, you forgetful uncaring man, you inconsiderate man, must I do and think of everything, man.  Her anger animated, her cane swinging about her, a menace of wood it lands across my shoulder.

Her profanities, no apologies, proffered upon myself for being so near.  Unapologetically she returns to her man to complete her eulogy in stupidity finally recalling to him the place where the car is parked. 

Wide berth I give her as I continue to the road.  He hobbles down, down to road’s edge.  At the light we look into each other’s eyes.  We share, he a broken man belittled impotent and useless, me a broken man bruised contained anger.  No words need pass we just know.  Light changes, permission made, we cross together, solace in companionship, strangers to pride.

On Angels Wings

Greta was tall, nearly six feet, and slender.  At 60 years she held herself with poise and grace.  A beautiful self assured woman who one could not help feel affinity with.  Herbert was equally tall, equally slender, with a twinkle in his eye, and love in his heart.  When these two looked at each other all you saw, all you could sense was contented happiness. 

Greta and Herbert, they loved each other.

Greta was dying.

And soon evidently, so she said.  These two had prepared for the inevitable and there was peace and grace in their hearts. 

Greta and Herbert had faith.  They had faith in the peace Greta was going to find in her release from the ravage of her disease.  They had faith Herbert had the strength to carry on in life, to continue to be the stalwart of their family.  They had faith that once again they would be joined together. 

Greta had no regrets in her life.  Greta had only one wish left.  Greta wished to sing one more time with her choir.  Hers is a large choir, forty voices.  Her hospice room small.  This evening she was going to sing with them, to be one in voice, to exalt her faith, the very fiber of her soul, one more time.  With her Herbert, with her friends.

This choir is punctual.  Complete with piano they assemble, crowded into the hall and her room.  Greta standing, dressed in her choir robes, at her place, harmonious and happy.

Hummmmmm, the sections they measured themselves.  And they sang!  The roof was lifted from the building.  The sick and dying, their families, all moving to the hall to join in the beauty of song and blessing.  Harmony layered upon harmony they sang with verve, they sang with purpose.  Glorious tunes to God and Jesus.  All that is fair and wonderful in church coming to that single point in time.

God joined this choir that evening and stood with Greta holding her, giving her strength.  Angels carried voice to the halls and the heavens.  A glow of harmony, of accord came over us all. 

The choir sang On Angels Wings.  Greta’s strength gave way after one verse.  Herbert lifted her and carried her to the bed.  He covered her to keep her warm.  And while her choir sang her Herbert held her hand, stroked her hair, told her of his love for her.

Greta, enveloped by the angelic voices of her friends, whispered back, “I love you Herbert”.  And Greta passed.

Singular Duality

fifty two years these two as one

            “I wash and cut, she cooks the potatoes”

love and passion, respect and compassion

Recycling... Dig-It

Archeologically speaking my recycling bin is a backward look to my recent past.  Layer upon layer of stuff no longer needed, a reflection of consuming, of habits, of health, of information.

I tend to hold onto this past until it is flowing out of my bin.  Then I precariously balance the bin down nine floors out the back door to consolidate my meager history with the meager histories of my flat mates, all which tells a story of our community.

My story is simple.  Three weeks of history.  Here lays three wine bottles, 2 red and one white.  The white was opened a while ago.  It is not my preferred drink and it was consumed slowly, occasionally relegated to add flavour and substance to dishes.  All the wine is memory of friends, time valued and shared, providing comfort and companionship, respect and love.  I touch these bottles fondly as they slip through the holes in the bin of histories consolidated.

A vitamin bottle, 400 tablets of Multi+ daily joy, plus a BONUS 100 tablets.  500 tablets of daily joy, how could a boy go wrong.  This bottle hearkens way back though.  To a period just prior the big relationship change when the stresses of life and concerns about my health led me to search for the “fix this” solution at the local health food store.  Misguided as it was I dutifully consumed a tablet a day… more or less, until this week this link to my past ended.

Grocery packaging: a KD box, jars from jams and sauces, soup tins, cardboard wrappers from a pie, preformed flash frozen ¼ lb Angus Beef burgers, an ice cream carton, a pie plate, a pop bottle, a pizza box, all evidence of poor diet and when presented en masse a stead fast reminder I must make change.  No change could result in the inevitable well earned, long overdue heart attack, an experience I do not wish to enjoy.  On the other hand this paunch has sure come in handy for propping up the recycling bin while fumbling with locks and reaching for elevator buttons.

And paper.  A layer of paper across the base of the box provides a softish landing spot for the evidence of consumables above.  Bills, shredded in an attempt to protect identity and information.  Flyers imploring me to exercise my duty to consume by offering me deals on bad groceries, deals I obviously fell for, to collect mileage points, to go to the temple of evil empire gods from Bentonville, to support the oldest retailer in North America long since wiped from Canadian culture to be owned and marketed by someone also south of us, buy electronics and computers.  All of it lacking, non of it with imagination, lifeless flotsam, a waste of trees.

Embedded in the paper layer a reminder: vote Conservative, vote Liberal, vote NDP.  How the nation has changed since those imploring documents came through my mail slot.  My vote it counted but wiped clean by another respected view.  Such is the wonder of politics in this country.  One tiny tick in a circle and I had a voice. 

And this voice is changing.  It has allowed me consume but sends me a message.  It allows me to grow old on my own terms.  It allows me to tell my country what matters to me.  My voice is added to all the many other voices recycled in the big bin.  Much of it to be changed back into consumables, to start a path again, to fit into lives.  A reflection of ourselves, an ever changing people, ever changing persons.