Love...In Honor of Valentine's Day

"Love asks us that we be a little braver than is comfortable for us, a little more generous, a little more flexible. It means living on the edge more than we care to.” Norman Mailer

This morning a little after 4:00 I was awakened by the sound of my husband checking to see if he still had laryngitis. “I DO sound normal. My voice DOES sound normal.” Part affirmation, part sound check. From behind the bathroom door he (loudly) tried out his voice. The dogs sat up and cocked their heads as if to say, “Has he totally lost his mind?” A few minutes later he returned to bed. Seeing that I was awake he asked, “How does my voice sound?” I just groaned and turned my back to him. So did the dogs. It isn’t like he is a singer or a yodeler or a broadcaster or an auctioneer…but he is a hypochondriac. Unable to get back to sleep, after 30 minutes of tossing about in the bed I was sharing with a Samoyed and Dalmatian and a now soundly sleeping husband, at 4:30 I got up and wandered about doing chores. I actually enjoyed my hour of domesticity. The sun rising over the winter wonderland that was my front yard. The muted (I kept the volume down so I wouldn’t disturb John) reports from yesterday’s Olympics. The first cup of coffee. Morning stretching. A little writing. At 5:30 John came into the kitchen. “Why did you get up so early?” I just smiled.

Learning to Drive

I didn’t learn to drive until Steve told me he was leaving me for another woman. We were living in West Palm Beach in a two room apartment over Mercedes Gomez’ garage. We slept on a mattress – no frame, no box spring, just a mattress. We were lying on that mattress when he told me he was leaving. Nothing between me and the floor but a thin mattress. Nothing between me and loneliness but Steve. And I didn’t even know how to drive. The next morning as soon as I got to work I called Aunt Gladys. “Aunt Gladys, Steve is leaving me and I don’t know how to drive. I’m almost twenty-four years old. My marriage is over. And I don’t even know how to drive.” The next day she picked me up in her gold colored 1972 Chrysler and drove me to a remote part of Martin County where Paul had taught her to fire a gun. She put the car in park, got out and told me to scoot over behind the wheel. When she had settled herself in the passenger seat, fluffed her hair and checked her lipstick she took a deep breath. “Okay. Drive.” I drove. If she hadn’t injured anyone with Uncle Paul’s pistol then I probably couldn’t do much damage with a Chrysler. “Ten o’clock and two o’clock.” I realized she was telling me where my hands should rest on the steering wheel. This was before airbags. Hell, it was before seatbelts. “When you turn, turn like this.” She demonstrated the way the steering wheel should move through my hands. “Don’t cross one hand over the other when you turn.” I was getting the hang of it, but there were no other cars within five miles of us. Aunt Gladys helped me study for the written test. I only missed one question. (When do pedestrians have the right-of way? The correct answer is all the time, not just when they are in the crosswalk like I said.) I passed the driving test in spite of the fact that I had learned to drive barefooted and had a really hard time driving with shoes on – still do. And Steve didn’t leave me after all – not then at least. He waited until four years later and by then I didn’t need him anymore.

Daring Adventures

There were lots of daring adventures growing up on Pungo Creek. Like the time the REA cut off our electric. Mama came in one night to find Aunt Blanche, Addie and me sitting in the dark staring at a blank television.

“Why are you idiots sitting here in the dark?”

Aunt Blanche didn’t move her eyes from the screen.” They came out this morning and turned off the electric, Frankie Mae. Said we were three months behind.”

“Shit!” Mama went into the front room and got the kerosene lanterns from the top of the piano. She put one on top of the television and one on Aunt Blanche’s Bible table. “Well at least we ain’t sitting in the dark, but how do we get the television to work?” Mama looked at me as she spoke like she expected me to answer her.

Lucky for me I’d been trying to figure out what to do. “Well, we could run extension cords across the branch to Uncle Roswell’s house and plug them in to the back of the television set.”

Mama lit her cigarette and stood there for a minute like she was thinking about my plan. She took a long drag on her Chesterfield and blew the smoke out before she said anything. “Where are we going to get an extension cord long enough to stretch all the way to Roswell’s?”

I’d thought about that too. “There’s lots of them out in the brooder house.” We used them to run electricity out to the heaters in the winter.

“Well I’ll be damned. I like it. It just might work. Let’s give it a shot. Come on and help me, Brenda. This was your idea.”

I think the thing that appealed the most to Mama was the notion of stealing from Uncle Roswell. We piled all the cords into the skiff and rowed over to Uncle Roswell’s boat house where we plugged in. Then we rowed back, stretching the cords along his dock and through the branch. “I think we are just going to make it, Mama.”

“That’s my girl. I swear and be damned. This is something your Daddy would have dreamed up. He would have been proud of you.”

...hopelessly flawed; shot through with rot

I climbed up the crumbling steps to what was once the front porch of the decaying, old house. There wasn’t a single unbroken windowpane, but the front door was padlocked. I stood on a rusted glider and crawled through a window. The floor of the entry hall was shot through with rot. Nothing moved but the dust motes that danced in the streams of light from the late afternoon sun. The only sounds were my own inhalation and exhalation and the pounding of my heart. The house smelled like liniment and snuff and something else I couldn’t place. Something sweet and pungent. The world on the other side of the padlocked door suddenly seemed far away and unreachable. I took a step. When the floor didn’t give way, I took another step. What was that smell? It was so familiar. I had played here when I was a child. Always alone. This was my secret place. The house had been abandoned for years. The last owners had left suddenly. They had wired instructions to their solicitor to dispose of the furniture and put the house on the market but the solicitor was hopelessly flawed. Before he got around to following his clients’ instructions he was arrested for shooting a man in the back. Justified, he said, because the man was crawling out of his wife’s bedroom window at the time. The judge didn’t agree. “A man in your position should be setting an example for the community. We aren’t a bunch of savages, you know.” So I guess the solicitor had more to worry about than selling the house. Strange thing was that apparently the owners never made any inquiry about the sale of the house. No one ever heard from them again. Rumors circulated about the house. Most of the tittle-tattle ended with decapitation, disemboweling or hidden crypts. From the time I was old enough to disappear without setting off alarm bells I explored the house from attic to cellar trying to uncover its secrets. I never found anything more sinister than some letters written in a language I couldn’t understand and a chest full of rosary beads.

Dark Aroma

The dark aroma of strong coffee rose up to meet her as she fumbled for the light switch. For the hundredth time she thanked the coffee gods for her automatic Cuisinart grind and brew. Keeping her eyes closed she let her nose lead her in the direction of the coffee maker. Her left hand found the mug. Her right hand made sure the opening was facing in the right direction before she poured the coffee. Only when she had gulped down half a cup of the miraculous mud did she open her eyes. Just a bit.

Still dark. Were it not for the rumble of the garbage truck one might mistake it for midnight instead of 5:30 am.

Another ordinary Thursday morning.

She swallowed her vitamins and washed them down with another mouthful of coffee.

She placed the mug on the counter and bent over to touch her toes. Standing forward bend. Relax. Fly away.

Thursday morning. She would stop at the gym on the way to work. Shower and change after her workout. She could relax a while before putting on the workout clothes that were probably still damp from yesterday. Their dark aroma festering in her gym bag.

She poured another cup of coffee and walked into the front room. She sat down without turning on a light, hugged her knees to her chest and sipped her coffee. Bliss. Relax. Fly away.

Her peaceful interlude came to abrupt end when she was joined on the couch by her two always exuberant canines. The Samoyed circled clockwise several times before settling comfortably at her right knee. The Dalmatian straddled her and quickly delivered 22 Dalmatian kisses. “Too much tongue, Darcy,” she laughed as she hugged the liver-spotted dog. The dark aroma of last night’s Science Diet now mixing with her tepid coffee.

Spit

She learned to tread carefully around the little house on Pungo Creek. Grandmama and Granddaddy weren’t particular about where they put their spit cans. The spit cans had been around since before she was born and they had the right of way. Grandmama spit Peach Tree Snuff and Granddaddy spit Beechnut Chewing Tobacco. Both spits looked the same in the cans. When she wasn’t spitting Grandmama polished her three remaining teeth with a “toothbrush” she has gummed into a functional device from a green twig. “This is what the Indians used to clean their teeth,” she explained to her granddaughter who, as usual, was standing a safe distance away. When she wasn’t polishing her teeth, Grandmama kept her “toothbrush” in her Bible. She was never far from her Bible or her spit can. Granddaddy preferred Our Daily Word. It was more portable than a Bible. He kept a copy in the pocket of his blue chambray shirt. Unlike Grandmama, Granddaddy sometimes misplaced his spit can and when that happened he just spit. Sometimes at the woodstove. Sometimes in Grandmama’s can. Sometimes in the pots of cactus that lined the windowsills. Sometimes he missed. It was fortunate that Granddaddy spent most of his time outdoors.

Where Do 5 Years Go?

Everything since John Lennon’s death seems recent to me. He died 25 years ago today so five years is just a twinkle of an eye. I peeked at my “Daily Prioritized Task List” for December 2000. My life hasn’t changed much but there are differences. I only had one mortgage then. We hadn’t bought the house on Mill Creek. I had just begun sponsoring Leslie. Hard to believe I have been her sponsor for five years. I had 17 years then and thought I knew everything. Woody was still alive but he had just begun to suffer from incontinence. Correction: we had just begun to suffer from his incontinence. I don’t think it bothered the old dog a bit. Five years ago this week I took him to Dr. Wardell for the first time. He gave him some pills that helped a little. Luke was born in December 2000. He weighed just three pounds fourteen ounces. I visited Bob and Julie at Fairfax Hospital the day he was born. Bob was so excited I thought he was going to implode. I went with Julie to the neo-natal clinic to see Luke. He was so tiny. She was dying for a cigarette. Last Monday Luke went with John, Bob and Jeff to the BB&T Basketball Tournament at the MCI Center. Luke loves all sports but NASCAR is his favorite. I made the last payment on my green Camaro convertible in December 2000. Two years later I emerged safely from my mid-life crisis and traded it for a Jeep Liberty with heated leather seats and a moon roof. I still had the Sheet Metal Workers account five years ago and judging from the amount of time I spent meeting with their attorneys and risk managers I earned every dime I made on that account. John’s mother was alive. I mailed her a birthday card on December 26, 2000. On December 8, 2000, there is a note to “Call for Dishwasher Repair”. On the 7th my Spiritual Formation Group met at my house and I had made Zen Hash – a delicious combination of spinach, onions, zucchini, pine nut and rice. Whoever helped me load the dishwasher after dinner didn’t scrape the plates because the dishwasher repairman found the drain completely clogged with rice. I saw the Caps play the Bruins and the Lightning. I had hockey tickets then. They were one of the things I gave up when I got serious about my writing.

Just Right

You will recall that when we left our narrator on Friday, she was going to adopt a beagle named Snoopy.

She went with Papa Bear and Arlo Bear to meet Snoopy at the Annandale Animal Hospital. “We’re here to meet Snoopy.” The Vet’s employees were perturbed because their lunch had been interrupted. Begrudgingly, Hazel (the least perturbed) brought out Snoopy so everyone could get acquainted.

It was not love at first sight. If Arlo could talk he would have said “Mama Bear, get me out of here. This beagle is crazy.”

Mama Bear would have agreed.

It was a sad trio that left Annandale Animal Hospital as Hazel led the wildly barking beagle back to his puppy jail. Especially Mama Bear.

Papa Bear agreed to make a stop at the Lost Dog and Cat Rescue Open House on the way home where they made their way through a plethora of beagles. “Did I miss the news about the beagle population explosion?” asked Mama Bear. She was about to give up when she spied a timid liver spotted Dalmatian. “Look, Papa Bear! She’s not too large, not too small…she’s just right!!” Darcy the Dalmatian had a very sad story. Her owner had gone to jail on November 2nd and Darcy had missed being put to sleep by just a few hours. Since November 2nd she had been living in an animal shelter. Most people want puppies. Darcy was three years old.

Papa Bear looked skeptical. He hadn’t seen what Mama Bear had seen. It wasn’t looking good. Sadly Mama Bear followed Papa Bear and Arlo Bear back to the parking lot where Papa Bear saw the sad, sad expression on Mama Bear’s face.

“Oh, alright! Go get her.”

That’s how Darcy came to live with her new family where she will live happily ever after.

Afraid of the Light

She approached the day marker warily. She didn’t like day markers, channel markers, buoys, blinking lights in the middle of vast bodies of water. Haunting foghorns. Lighthouses casting their shadow of light across seas made treacherous by the rocks on the shore. All of these innocent navigational aids fed her loneliness. Made her feel mortal. Reminded her that she was lost. That she had always been lost. Against her will she forced herself to look at the day marker. At the osprey roost nestled in its belly. The giant bird surveyed her for a moment and then flew away making a great loud show to distract her from the four baby osprey that peeped over the edge of the well-constructed nest. The mother osprey called to her “Come away. Follow me. Ignore by babies. Hear me cry now.” An osprey had never attacked her though she knew they were feisty enough to drive bald eagles from their territory. She had been attacked by mute swans several times when she had been incautious enough to bring her kayak too close to their babies. She always forgave the swans. She loved them blindly. They were not mute of course. When they flew their wings sang out whipping the air into a froth of sound. She was afraid of the light. Red right returning. She navigated by the mole on her right arm. It was surrounded by a constellation of freckles hatched by the sun she should fear but didn’t. Darkness had fallen quickly. The creek was shrouded. The banks lost in night. The watery way home illuminated by those eerie lights that made her flesh crawl. What forgotten event had birthed this unnatural fear of buoys? Had she once been an osprey trapped on a day marker watching her mother spar with an eagle? Had she been a fisherman who died clinging to a clanging buoy praying for a rescue that never came? Does some dire buoy related fate lie in her future? "Go toward the light. Go toward the light. It’s waiting for you."

Persistence

Before he opened his mouth I knew I loved him – knew I would love him for a long time. Longer than I had loved the procession of men that had marched through my basement efficiency in the months between December and November. It was the early eighties. I was in my early thirties. My sobriety was still in it’s infancy – just eleven months old. John walked into the P Street meeting and stopped for a coffee before taking a seat in the circle. I nudged the woman who was sitting next to me and whispered, “I am going to marry him.”

When he got up to refill his cup my eyes followed him. He still hadn’t spoken. I liked his brown eyes. His full beard. Long hair. Flannel shirt. He was short. Not thin. Not fat.

“My name is John and I’m an alcoholic.”

“Hi, John.”

“I just moved to Washington from New Jersey to go to law school. I brought everything I own in a 1979 Datsun that’s held together with bungee cords, but I know I’m doing the right thing.”

I decided to invite him to dinner but first I needed to have him vetted by my sponsor Paul. Women are not supposed to have male sponsors but Paul was Southern. Paul was a Poet. And Paul was the only person in AA that I had anything in common with. Besides Paul was loving me until I could love myself.

“Hi. Welcome to Washington. Would you like to have coffee with Paul and me at Martin’s?” I know now that John was such a coffee lover that he would have had coffee with Richard Nixon.

“Sure. I’d like that.”

Over coffee I noticed his New Jersey accent got more pronounced when he spoke passionately about things and he was passionate about everything. He used cream and sugar. Smoked Marlboro’s.

I kicked Paul and signaled surreptitiously that he could go. He left. Smiling a sad smile.

“Would you like to come over for dinner Wednesday night? There is a show on TV I have been looking forward to. The Day After. It's about nuclear war. It has Jason Robards in it. He’s in the program, you know.”

I was doing what I always did when I was nervous. I was talking too much. I sounded like an idiot. But he didn’t notice.

I made a peasant stew with tomatoes and sausages. Wore my prettiest dress. Made sure I had plenty of coffee. There was a moment of awkwardness when he noticed that the only piece of furniture in my efficiency was a four-poster bed. We ate on the bed. Later we made love on the bed. Slowly he moved his things into the efficiency. The Datsun was eventually towed away but John stayed.

Stingrays, Part 2

Steve studied the appetizer. He couldn’t identify it, but it looked inedible. “I give up. What the hell is that... stuff?”

Kathryn smirked. “Not much of a gourmet, are we? It’s calamari.”

Understanding dawned. “Squid.”

“Exactly. Now we’ll see whether I really do have you eating out of my hand.” Katie picked up one of the slippery critters, dipped it the accompanying marinara sauce, and raised it to his lips. “Open up.”

Crap! He hated calamari. He’d tried them in Italy, and in his opinion, they had the consistency and taste of rubber. “The things I do for you,” he grumbled.

“The things you won’t do for me,” she answered with an intimate smile.

He leaned toward her, opened his mouth and accepted her dubious offering, licking the sauce off her fingers as she withdrew them. Then he looked into her eyes. “The difference between me and the stingrays is, I won’t leave when you run out of squid.”

Home

Home had always been the little bungalow on South Woodlawn Avenue. She stood in her empty bedroom. It looked bigger without her bed and dresser – now loaded in the back of Uncle Bill’s truck. Her bed had a metal headboard with hundreds of tiny holes just the size of the tips of her five year old fingers. She and her daddy had played a game. He would place his hand behind the headboard and cover one of the holes with his finger. She would try to touch his finger on the other side before he could move it. She liked the sensation of touching her daddy’s fingers through the headboard. She missed her daddy. Her heart was empty without him. She walked from room to room. She walked into the closet of the room where her mama and daddy had slept. The closet was empty but she could still smell her daddy’s after shave lotion. She stayed there for a long time in the dark inhaling the last scent of her daddy.

Her mama had said they were all going home now. She was confused. This was home. Home was the green house with the gum ball trees in the front yard where she and her daddy and stretched out on army blanket and eaten bologna sandwiches. Now, she walked around the front yard picking up gumballs. She filled the pockets of her yellow dress. The one with the sash that her mama could never tie just right. She always ended up taking her next door to Mrs. Evans’ house. “Blair, will you tie this girl’s sash for me? I don’t know why it always looks cockeyed when I do it.”

She wondered who was going to tie her sash at the place where they were going…the place that would be their new home.

Newlyweds

Steve came up behind Kathryn just as she was getting ready to pour herself a cup of coffee. He hugged her around the waist, then slipped a thumb under her waistband. “This skirt is getting awfully tight. You’ll be showing soon.”

“Right, soon I’ll be getting fat. You don’t have to sound so happy about it.”

“I admit it, I’m happy. Your stomach blowing up like a balloon is an advertisement that you slept with me. I melted the ice queen. I know it’s politically incorrect, but having people know that makes me feel proud.”

“I guess I’m politically incorrect too, because hearing you say that turns me on,” she admitted. She thought a few seconds, then added, “Of course, everything seems to turn me on these days. Must be these damned hormones.”

He rested his cheek against her hair. “I didn’t totally satisfy you this morning.”

“Sure you did,” she lied. She’d had an orgasm. What more did she want?

Ignoring her, he unbuttoned the top two buttons of her blouse and slipped his hand inside her bra. She squirmed as he made contact with the nipple.

“Hard as a marble. I thought so. You’re not finished.”

“And you’re not helping by touching me that way.”

“I’m going to help. I can’t let you go to work all cranky and frustrated, and have people think I’m not doing my husbandly duty.” He slid his free hand under her skirt, bunching the skirt around her waist, then stuck his hand inside her pantyhose and panties. His finger swirled around in her juices. “You’re definitely not finished.”

“Stop it! I love you for caring, but we don’t have time.”

“Sure we do. Don’t worry, there won’t be any teasing this morning. I’ll get the job done quickly.”

His hand was already moving in just the right spot, at just the right pace, with just the right pressure. Damn him, he was right. Despite their short courtship, he knew her body so well. She was only a few milliseconds away from flying to pieces.

His whisper was warm in her ear. “Stop holding back, Katie. Be my good girl and give me a huge, giant climax.”

That did it. She shrieked and fell forward against the counter as waves of pleasure rolled through her. He turned her to face him and held her in his arms, murmuring, “Oh yes, Katie, yes.”

When she finally stopped shuddering, he took a step back and brushed her lips with a quick, soft kiss. “You needed that, Katie. I’ve got to teach you to stop depriving yourself.”

Her smile was lopsided. She buttoned her blouse. “I’m a mess.”

He touched her cheek. “No you’re not. You’re beautiful. This blush looks much better than the one you put on with makeup.”

“I’m going to be late for work.”

“Only by a few minutes. If anyone gives you a hard time, tell them the hot young stud you just married gave you two orgasms before breakfast.”

Trespass

There was definitely a face at the window. And below the face a body gleaming in the moonlight. A naked body. A man's naked body. Cupcake growled. The man growled back at the trembling cocker spaniel. The naked, growling man dropped to his hands and knees and pressed his face against the glass door. Even in the darkness, she could see the blood streaming from the side of his mouth.

"I must be dreaming." She thought.

The man - if man it was - rose to his feet and resumed his banging on the door. He howled like a wounded animal. The door vibrated. Philomena prayed it would withstand the assault.

Suddenly he stopped. He brought his face very close to the glass and seemed to smile at Philomena. Then he pointed to the river, turned and walked away - beckoning her to follow. She tried the phone again. It was still dead.

Emeralds

He gives her emeralds. Jewels the color of her eyes, and with the same fire. Emeralds made into earrings and bracelets and necklaces and rings and pins. Enough emeralds, says his exasperated aide, to use up the production of an entire Brazilian mine. His favorite is the necklace, a slim gold chain with a giant emerald pendant surrounded by diamonds. He loves to see it hanging between her breasts when they make love. He wishes he could possess her body and soul, but she holds a part of herself aloof. The emeralds don’t make up for the one thing he can’t give her. His name.

(Free-written fron a guided meditation led by Nancy at a Kitchen Table meeting)

Before I Became a Mermaid #2

For Rich*

Before I became a mermaid I could ride a bicycle
Then one day I grew that tail

Now my bike is rusting in the shed

Unused
With my old piano
My brownie scout uniform
And those old Beatle albums.

Don’t need those here in the creek
Floating under mama’s mimosa tree with the crabs and croakers
Breathing in brackish water
Breathing out memories

Missing the sweet sounds of my youth

*When my friend Rich read my first mermaid poem his immediate response was "You don't need legs to play a piano...but you need them to ride a bicycle."

How I became a Blunderite*

I didn’t intend to become a Blunderite. It just happened. One day I was normal. The next day I was sitting at the Blunderite table at the Birchmere listening to my husband belt out all the lyrics to Alice’s Restaurant while pounding on the table so fiercely that he spilled a drink on Don and Agnes (fellow Blunderites.) Regardless of how I got here, I enjoy being a part of a group that takes their music seriously and life lightheartedly. Today as John and I celebrate our 19th wedding anniversary (and begin making plans to celebrate our 20th in Rome) I can’t say it any better than Arlo did. (Happy Anniversary, Honey...and thanks for the roses!)

It's been years since we've been married

I know we paid some dues

Now ain't it something just to lie here together Just me and you

Outlasting the blues

***

* A person who has entered Blunderdom (Arlo's domain)

** Photo by Cheryl Harrell, Arlo Fanatic

I Must Have Imagined

I must have imagined Embudo. Sitting on the deck of Aunt Gladys’ tidy stucco home with the citrus colored rattan furniture and the gleaming terrazzo floors, Embudo seemed far away. I watched the seemingly unlimited supply of water from her automatic sprinklers douse her perfectly manicured grass, spray her grapefruit trees, sprinkle her lime trees and decided I must have imagined carrying water from the Rio Grande for cooking and bathing and drinking. I must have imagined emptying our chamber pot in the arroyo. I opened her avocado colored refrigerator and gazed at shelves laden with yogurt and milk and cheese and Pepsi Colas and beer and iceberg lettuce and shrimp and sirloin steaks and I was sure I must have imagined going to sleep with an empty belly. I picked up her telephone just to hear the dial tone. I turned on her radio and listened to Cream and Vanilla Fudge and Mountain and knew I must have imagined reading by lantern light. I let her kiss me goodnight and tuck me in. I let her brush the tangles from my matted hair and paint my toenails pink. I let her make me feel like her little girl again and I was convinced I must have imagined the terror and the loneliness and the hopelessness of those silent nights when we huddled together in that cold cabin for warmth not affection and no words were spoken and I was sure no one could ever love me again.

The Wanderer

I was sleeping deeply, but not well when I heard it. Something between a growl and a howl. I woke up. 4:25 AM. I must have been snoring because I was alone. When I snore John just quietly retreats to the guest room. He has learned from bitter experience not to awaken me. Something else was missing. Arlo. When I’d fallen asleep the big white dog was curled up between John and me. Thinking he might have followed John to the guest room. I checked. No Arlo. Just John – snoring away. (Later he will tell me he had insomnia – didn’t sleep a wink.) I search the rest of the house looking for Arlo. I check in all the usual hiding places. Bathtubs, puppy crate, under beds, behind the big chair in the living room, under my desk. I go back to the guest room to check again to see if he is there. He isn’t. Finally, close to panic, I shake John. “Honey, I can’t find Arlo.” He wakes up quickly. If he had to choose between losing me and losing that dog I would lose. He looks in all the places I have already looked…and behind the woodstove. Then he notices the patio door is open – just a few inches. “The door is open,” he moans. Panic creeps across his face. “Arlo, Arlo come here” I shout from the kitchen - accompanying the call with the customary two claps I always use to beckon him. A second later a big white head peeks through the open door. His expression says – “What’s the matter? Can’t a fellow take a little moonlight stroll?” He smells of fresh earth. I check him for injuries. He has apparently avoided the coyote and fox that have begun to frequent our suburban neighborhood. He has learned a new trick. How to open the patio door. He tries the (now locked) door at least a dozen times between his unscathed return at 4:45 am and our 7:00 am departure for work. I make a mental note to remember to keep the door locked and say a silent prayer of gratitude.

Before I Became a Mermaid...

Before I became a mermaid I could play the piano.

Then one day I grew that tail
Smooth and taut like the skin of a quince

It grew faster than my breasts that swelled overnight
Limes one day. Mangos the next.

I shimmied to the creek
Slid down the bank next to mama’s mimosa tree and
Buried myself in the water with the crabs and croakers
Swapping the sweetness of my piano
For the silence that stretched from here to yonder.