Thought of the Day

One of the greatest illusions in life is that any stretch of road appearing straight and narrow is just that—an illusion. Every twist and turn has the potential to either crush or conform you—most often both.

Odd Fellow

It has been as enlightening an occasion as I can recall; the acquaintance of an odd fellow who accompanied me last night during the loneliest piece of my evening walk. A stretch where trees on one side lean and lock branches with the opposing side to form a dark and hollow tunnel; a blackness so complete the dirt path disappears beneath the feet of those who tread there. The reputation of such a treacherous and loathsome section of road has in my opinion become greatly exaggerated, but certainly the man who claims not to have overheard villagers swapping stories would be either half-deaf or teetering on the edge of oblivion. I suspect, as in all burgs, it is no coincidence that as the ale flows freely so do the lips of men. If there is one word describing what can be seen and touched, then man will craft ten for the intangible; neither good nor bad, it is his nature and he cannot escape it. With sufficiently diluted minds they gather outside taverns in the wee hours of morn, arms stretched overhead casting eerie shadows, patiently waiting a turn to express an interpretation of what transpires in the tunnel. A pauper’s therapy more or less, where each delights in how it might feel to wield control over a slice of life when he is told from a cradle such hope is nonexistent for their kind. For generations I suppose there is no consideration given to time outside work and how unknowingly they’ve handed that slice over to spirits in tall glasses. Before I digress completely, suffice it to say one grizzly rendition feeds another until the rising of the sun gathers them home. Perhaps it also bears mention there were no spirits involved in the meeting of this odd fellow a few nights earlier.



He appeared from nowhere or perhaps from everywhere at once, an apparition gathered from unruly parts of a wayward wind or fashioned from the slimmest splinters of time. I supposed the later, as closer inspection revealed a striking resemblance to a better version of me; his face ironed free of wrinkles, belly still flush with his chest, and a good measure of freedom remaining in his gait. Neither of us acknowledged the other, yet his steps found synch with mine, like two soldiers marching into battle, minds filled with certain dread, the details of which too morbid to speak. As any good townsman or merchant will attest, I am not often given to the kind of foolishness that allows for speaking the mind of another, but I believe on both parts this meeting carried an air of duty rather than preference for good fun.


Leaving the light of day behind instantly he lost sight of me and I of him, only plodding steps and beating hearts indicated the presence of another. Having shared nary a word between us none was designated to assign a pace and each struggled for control. Void of words, expression, or body language, I recall an overwhelming air of aggression bellowing from the young man. The lack of elegance and grace shall keep me from describing it as dance, as the man gripped my arm in such a manner as to issue a challenge, like one young boy coerces another to wrestle. I never understood completely, or even partially, this primordial urge to establish dominance over another, but if the man expected his work easy, I supposed it was my duty he should meet with disappointment. I meant for him to understand that not being given to such inclinations is an entirely different matter than being found incapable.


Determining the source of such vile anger for a complete stranger was as complex equation as I have set about solving, but lost all pertinence when he struck the first blow, catching me squarely in the forehead and bridge of the nose. Devoid of daylight I could not confirm the onset of double-vision, but felt reasonably sure good sense and manners were left behind to bake in the sun. His father failed to instill in him the philosophy that a measure of respect was due even a stranger. If barbarism and thuggery were his primary means of communication I intended to speak to him clearly, extracting respect where it had not been offered. Consumed with a rush of adrenaline I unleashed a flurry of blows I supposed would break the young man of his habit.


As it were, this stranger was skilled in the art of brawling, as if such things could be carefully and meticulously sewn into the fabric of one’s being. His treacherous tactics drained from me every ounce of courage and strength I summoned from reserve. We clutched and struck at the other for what seemed like hours, each grabbing a handful of conscience yet finding it impossible to even bend the opposition’s resolve. I suppose we covered each square inch of the tunnel three times over before emerging on the far side still locked in battle. A sliver of remaining daylight exposed each to be crippled, bruised, and bloody; a matched set of fiery eyes mere inches apart. Deep within his I discovered a great many things, but suppose he found in mine something so terrible and disturbing that he feared facing it would destroy him completely. He leapt from me and dissolved as quickly and eerily as he appeared.


Sound sleep has eluded me three nights running and I can assume a handful more as I recall subtle details of my encounter with this strange and odd fellow. There lies a connecting point between us, where past and present collide; he is most assuredly me as my former self who came looking for what became of him. Deep into the predawn hours between shots of brandy, small revelations befall me. In this slightly altered state his jealous and aggressive nature seems quite understandable. I had known him forever; his conscience transparent as a pane of glass. How reckless and random were his thoughts and actions, but all the while understanding the intricacies of every circumstance that transformed something wild and uninhibited into a universally acceptable gentleman. From his perspective he saw absolutely nothing at all he recognized as himself. How completely and utterly disheartening it must be to feel you’ve been erased completely from existence.


I search for him now and again on my evening walks, folded between the bark and meat of a tree that lines the side of the road, hopping from one cloud to another, or even a hint of his scent on a warm summer breeze, but I suppose there is no compulsion for him to visit again. I believe he was genuinely and completely crushed in the ‘me’ he found. Never would I ask him to bear that level of disappointment again. Someday, if the winds are perfectly aligned to coincide with the passing of time as it synchronously moves forward for some and backward for others, should we meet again, I would wish him to know one thing—despite what I allow the world as a whole to see, there is much more of him lingering than is apparent from the surface.

Dream a Little Dream

“Just pick a winning horse for Daddy. If I place a phone call from here we can walk away millionaires. Come on, baby, after all we’ve been through with this, what’s the harm in making a little something for ourselves?”



I stared at him long and hard. Throwing daggers with my eyes bought time to gather words potent enough to penetrate what remained of his conscience.


“Dad, I’ve told you a hundred times, I don’t choose my dreams they choose me. I don’t see horses, lotto numbers, or the stock market. I see burning houses, dying people, crumpled cars, and pools of blood in alleyways!”


Like a sleeping volcano, my response erupted louder than intended and attracted every set of beady eyes in the bar. I supposed dad had slipped toward comfortably numb, but I felt the burn of each additional gaze as the collective weight settled on our backs. Someone finally voiced what everyone was thinking, “Looks like we got a genuine freak in the house tonight, fellas!”


Dad bristled before swiveling on the stool and launching an angry scowl in the general direction of my detractor. He pretended that double-vision had not claimed the space a foot beyond his nose two hours earlier. Puffing his chest he wanted every patron to believe if there were reason enough he could stand without wobbling. I saw an ugly situation sliding distinctly in the direction of uglier, so I acknowledged his good-hearted effort to defend me.


“It’s no big deal, Dad. Just turn around.”


Alcohol reduced his attention span, so within moments my father regained his focus. We came to the bars often enough for both of us to realize we weren’t leaving until he reached the bottom of the liquor bottle sitting between us. Sully’s was a rundown, smelly, ugly, place, where people bearing like qualities came to meet. Even those that strolled through the door differently stumbled out the same. If not for my compulsion to watch over him I’d have been a million miles away, and sometimes despite my physical presence my mind dabbled with faraway places. Daddy’s escape came in clear bottles of amber colored liquid, and mine in dreams of how wonderful life could be if it were dreamless.


Over the years he attempted to shield me from how the world viewed people like me. It took a gravely, anonymous voice rising from a dark corner of a rundown bar to confirm my suspicions. It wasn’t anyone’s fault really. Those having dreams about catastrophic events before they occurred has to classify them as permanent residents of ‘freakville’. Without even realizing, I moved there at the age of five, but the part I regret most was dragging my family with me.


I remember the first time with painful clarity. How the lace at the bottom of my dress scratched my knees as I skipped around the kitchen table singing a tune.


“Grammpy died, Grammpy died, Oh how we wish he were alive.”


Neither the innocence of a face painted by the hand of God, or the darling curls framing chubby cheeks could offset the morbid nature of my song. On my third trip around mother grabbed my arm and put her fingers over my lips to hush my singing. She asked me why I sang about such things, and why I would wish something so ugly. I explained it wasn’t a wish at all, but from a dream last night. I described sitting on his knee and that we were watching television. That he gave me a big hug and a kiss, and drew my head to his chest. That I heard his heart’s last beat, and he was smiling when the angels came for him.


Mother dismissed the dream to eating too close to bedtime and adamantly asked I not sing the song. She had asked me to help her finish breakfast when the doorbell rang. Daddy answered and when he entered the kitchen to inform mom her father passed late last night all she did was stare. She was staring at me in a way that made me very uncomfortable, and changed our relationship forever. In the following weeks she probed me about my dream. I didn’t want to talk about it any longer because every correct detail I provided tore away another piece of her love for me.


Daddy still denies that worry drove my mother to an early grave, but prior to her passing I dreamed about it. She was whistling in the backyard with a clothesbasket nearby and laundry hanging. The colored clothing on the line represented the pretty things she once hoped for me, but the buzzards circling overhead symbolized the darkness of what my dreams had done to us. The circles became tighter as the descended little by little. Mother flailed her arms frantically in an effort to save what she could, but their beaks and talons shredded all that swayed in the breeze. With a swirling sea of black about her head my mother fell to the ground. That’s exactly where Daddy found her two days later.


It started with dreams, but later morphed into vague visions during daylight hours. There were hundreds if not thousands of them, but I learned to keep close watch over the key to my mind. Once I realized I could do nothing to prevent or preempt the future I kept most of them secret, locked inside. Every day I struggle with the misfortune of being given half of something useful.


The slam of an empty whiskey bottle startled me back to reality and signaled our departure. We left the bar around 4:00pm, and I remember three things distinctly; the kind of things that lodge in your brain and rot. Firstly, my father stumbling down the curb, secondly, me coming up short as I reached for a handful of his shirt, and lastly the loneliness in the rush of wind from the city bus that took him from me.


For the very first time in my life it was the things I didn’t see that ushered in an unbelievable burden of guilt. If only I had felt the quiver in my gut, we’d have stayed until daddy passed out. I’d have figured a way to get him home. A million times over I wished for something as simple as a light switch to stop the dreams. I had no idea of what I asked for.

Pain Eater (The Summons)

I've decided to expand upon a previous story. It may make a bit more sense after reading the original story.

Pain Eater

Pain Eater
(The Summons)

Jimmie climbed back onto the doctors table to await test results. His mind like an intellectual version of a gumball machine—millions of thoughts swirling in his brain until one peeled away and filtered down for processing. What a jewel of a thought it was—contemplating the irony of wait. How inaction bordered on negating the very definition of a verb, yet within a medical facility idle moments serve such vital purpose. Waiting perpetuated the eeriness of the unknown; fueled the idea that every worker knew more about a patient’s condition than allowed to divulge. Workers playing the roles of perfect minions; dancing in the hallways like puppets masquerading with painted-on smiles. Each peddling the premise of promise; that somehow through the pursuit of higher education a doctor acquired the ability to heal. As if simply desiring something so noble could make it true. The entire charade was nothing more than a higher form of hogwash.


Dr. Medina arrived carrying a packet of x-rays under his arm. Jimmie barely noticed the company in the room or the grim look on the doctor’s face as he did his best to temper the news. Words dribbled from his mouth rolling one into the other like vegetables into a blender.


“Tell me, Doc, do we have time for a serious question?”


Dr. Medina found Jimmie’s request for a ‘serious’ question uncomfortably amusing. Following an elongated stare in the direction of his watch he nodded, allowing his patient to speak.


“There’s a woman in the waiting room—probably middle thirties, thin, short hair, and a kind face. Glued to her sides are two of the cutest little girls I’ve ever seen. Each draped over an arm as if she’s their favorite carnival ride. Have you seen her?”


“It’s the second Thursday of the month, Jimmie. She’s due for another round of chemo—of course I’ve seen her!”


“Oh I understand you believe you’re treating her, but that wasn’t the question, Doctor. Are you moved by how pale and lifeless her eyes are; how the heaviness of her heart has seeped through her pores and settled like a fog around her. How day by day she’s losing the battle to hide her struggle with mortality from her babies. Are you able to see those things?”


The exam room became an experiment for displacement, as if every molecule of air was vacuumed out and thick layer of tension rolled in. The slap of x-rays against a metal counter echoed cold and still.


“Jimmie, you need to listen to me closely. There are time-sensitive decisions that need to be made. Can we avoid critique of my bed-side manner and get back to your condition?”


The woman in waiting touched Jimmie from the inside out. He was no more able to release the hold she had on his mind now than he could physically let go of her in the waiting room. They shared a hug that lingered; he brushed a tear from her eye and stroked her hand until they called her back, but perhaps the beauty of the moment was only the shared realization that modern medicine had lost sight of a patient’s true needs.


Disgusted by the lack of urgency on the part of his patient Dr. Medina cleared his throat a second time.


As thoughts of the woman faded Jimmie turned his attention to the row of plaques hanging on the wall.


“The best medical schools money can buy, and yet you don’t understand this at all, do you, Doc? How can you heal patients when you can’t even see them? You used to believe in a higher power—a creator in control of all things. As a young man you allowed him to guide you to the poison and watch over your methods of treatment. What caused you to leave those things, Doctor?”


An icy glaze swept over the physician’s face as his mind drifted to a dark and unsettled place. As uncomfortable as was the snapshot in time, more than anything he resented someone opening the door to it—a patient no less. The loss of control consumed him and so like a missile shatters its silo doors, his tone erupted sharp and cold.


“Jimmie, it’s not your day to play doctor! You’re not mentally or emotionally equipped for it. So if you’ll stop this superfluous nonsense I’ll deliver your diagnose now.”


The outburst produced nothing more than a wry grin from his patient.


“If you mean the cancer—I know full well what’s inside me. Soon it will be gone, as will the woman’s in waiting. In case you haven’t figured it out, Doc they are now one in the same. As much as you need to believe I came here to see you today, I came here for her. “


The consultation ended in a stalemate with Dr. Medina accepting a denial of treatment form while Jimmie continued to elaborate as he dressed.


“You see, Doc, God designs no one without purpose. He created with me with the ability to carry things for others; physical ailments they are unable to bear on their own. I inherited this ability from my Aunt Laura. She referred to herself as a pain-eater. Spent most of her life half-crippled by the afflictions of others, yet she chose to greet every morning as an opportunity to live out her calling. She saw a gift in what others would consider a curse. Most everything in life depends on perspective doesn’t it Doc? How is it that you lost yours?”


Jimmie didn’t require an answer just yet. He finished buttoning his jacket and placed a piece of scrap paper in the doctor’s palm. Folding the doctor’s fingers around the note Jimmie held them closed while he made his offer.


“After you see Jenny—when her test results come back clean and none of your journals offer a plausible explanation, please consider coming to our next meeting. You have the address, and we desperately need your help.”


Locating a reasonable parking spot turned into shear madness. Not even the finest play or sporting event warranted a five-block walk on such a frigid winter night but the doctor needed answers. In twenty-eight years of practice he had seen a single case, but in one afternoon a total of six terminal cancer patients walked from his office with a clean-bill of health and new lease on life, presumably because of contact with a man of questionable mental stability. One who possessed no medical qualifications whatsoever and identified himself only as a second-generation pain-eater.


Second-hand furniture lined the perimeter walls of an apartment designed to small. A single empty chair remained out of twenty or so. Doctor Medina passed on the front row and instead chose to stand near the door. If the appearance of the inhabitants was any indication he anticipated an early escape. Concert tees, brightly colored hair, or unusual piercings and tattoos appeared to be prerequisites for admission. Out of place didn’t begin to describe the doctor’s presence here.


Jimmie extended his hand.


“Thanks for coming Doctor. I’ll assume Jenny’s test results were the deciding factor on accepting my invitation. The other five cases were to avoid the understandable inclination to dismiss this as a freak occurrence. I assure you, everything that occurred in your waiting room was deliberate and divinely orchestrated.”


Dr. Medina leveraged the handshake and jerked Jimmie close.


“Why did you invite me here? Personal gain—you want to know how much you can extort from a doctor for your services! I’m telling you now I want no part in your black magic.”


Jimmie drew back matching the intensity with which the doctor delivered his accusations.


“None of us are for hire! If we even considered such a path our ability would be immediately and permanently be stripped from us. Funny you suggest black magic—there is a darker side to this and there are more of them than us. Through the same method of physical contact and transference they deliver disease and pain. In my mind the real question is how many in your profession would we be willing to arrange an endless pool of patients? Many already have. I needed to reach you first. Our group needs a spokesman who will be respected in the medical community, who can remind them of the Hippocratic Oath they all took. God directed me to you, Doctor Medina—are you telling me he was wrong in doing so?”


Jimmie’s attempt to keep the conversation private failed. All were innately aware of the importance of this moment. Every eye and heart in the room fixed squarely on the two—waiting for the pendulum to swing in one direction or the other.


“Doctor, time is of the essence. You assure me our group has your full support, and we’re on the way to your home.”


The physician’s face reflected an indescribable degree of perplexity. Indecision coursed through his veins like fire. He reached for the handle of the door, but the swing fell short as it met with Jimmie’s foot.


“Did you hear me say we would go to your home, Doctor? More specifically where your daughter is under the care of hospice? She has deteriorated to a point where your heart barely allows you to maintain eye contact. She understands you feel that you and your medicine have failed her. That’s why she can’t look you in the eyes, but we all know you have done everything within your power. The fact remains she’s broken beyond the scope of modern medicine. There is only one who can save her now. Damn it Doctor, are you too stubborn and prideful to let God use us to give you your daughter back?

Thought of the Day

There is nothing more imminent in life than death. Nothing more humbling and perhaps harrowing than the moment you realize the person staring back at you from the mirror is a player in this game and despite your attempts to cheat, thwart, or postpone it, your turn will come.

I am reminded of the final paragraph of something I wrote some time ago titled “A Hunters Eyes”

http://poeticjustice-dan.blogspot.com/2010/11/hunters-eyes.html

“Even now as I sit in my tranquil state, the transformation from hunter to hunted looms near. Truly it began seconds after drawing my first breath, but it is only now I’m aware of its steely approach. Being prey is nothing to fear, for everything is hunted by something or someone. My prayers are only that I may face the hunter who desires me with dignity and grace.”

The only possible way to hedge your bets against unpredictability is to convince yourself that today is ‘your turn’. Your only priorities are to live, laugh, and love appropriately. 

Gates of Passage

A few of the words came in dribbles, others eluded her completely. Katy’s spotty recollection of the Mending Wall would have crushed Mrs. Carter; a woman who believed the poem to be of such greatness that all third graders should have devoured every word and committed them to memory. Katy recalled the look of horror on her teacher’s face as she explained Frost’s ambiguity left her cold inside. Her teacher coaxed her to an empty corner as if a third-grader with an opinion might be contagious. Swallowed by a state of panic, Mrs. Carter drew the back of her hand across her forehead and crumpled into the nearest chair. Katy had yet to connect the sharing of her thoughts with her teacher’s sudden illness, and she had plenty more to say. She described in great detail her profound sense of disappointment in the author’s inability to act upon his apparent desire to tear down the barrier. Mrs. Carter’s eyelids fluttered as Katy attempted to lighten the mood by suggesting that perhaps Frost was riding the proverbial fence of which he so eloquently wrote. Mrs. Carter’s eyelids slammed shut in a state of unconsciousness as Katy asserted indecision was in part, and in certain cases, a complete indicator of weakness.

She stared past the iron posts until the vertical and horizontal lines melted into a puddle of black. Fences served no purpose other than to keep people or things locked on one side or the other. She supposed the builder of this particular fence a fool. With respect to graveyards and spirits, barriers were helpless to do either.

Katy leaned her bicycle against the fence. She hated when mother was right and she had been on both accounts. In a perfect world Katy would have been mature enough to have attended her grandmother’s funeral with the rest of the family, and she supposed most fourteen year old girls had long ago removed the flowered basket hanging from the handle bars of their bicycles. Most girls her age didn’t ride bikes at all, but that was their problem.

Katy was born a roller coaster, her mother a merry-go-round, and most days the chasm separating them could not be bridged. Mother seemed to believe if she threw the term ‘young lady’ at her a gazillion times a day perhaps at least a remnant of it would stick. Katy wanted to puke a putrid, green, stream every time she heard it. Her mother acted as if she should understand completely what the title entailed and how to navigate the waters gracefully. She didn’t. Life in its present form simply moved too fast. Each day ushered in a new level of awkwardness. Katy longed for yesterday. She missed the way her pigtails bounced when she sprinted to first base, how her dolly’s eyes sparkled when the two sipped tea from tiny cups, and the strange feeling in her tummy when her father bounced her on his knee.

Overnight something swooped down and snatched every beautiful thing from her life. She despised the cakey feel of makeup, like her face could barely breathe; how her breasts continue to swell, interfering with the handle bars on hair-pin turns. The way the boys looked and smiled at her was different and disgusting. If these awful things were part of being a young lady she would rather stay a child. Stopping time didn’t appear to be an option. The injustice of being uncomfortable in your skin seemed inevitable and permanent.

Katy scanned the graveyard for fresh mounds of dirt, finding three that matched the general location her mother had given.  She lifted a paper sack from the bicycle basket, bit down hard on her lower lip, and moved toward the archway that marked the entrance.  The framework of twisted iron rose gracefully from one side of the gate before falling to the other, finding time enough between rise and fall to paint an ornate design against an azure sky. Even in a parking lot for the dead there were hints of elegance if you took the time to seek them out. The hinges of the gate were rusty and the moan dashed any hope of slipping in quietly and anonymously. A doorbell for the dead she thought.

“It’s Katy, Grammy. You home?”

After the words left her mouth she realized how ridiculous they were, but no more so than using ‘Eenie-Meenie’ to select one of the three graves. Her skinny finger bounced from one to the other until two were eliminated. Tightening the grip on the paper bag she tiptoed forward. The lettering on the temporary markers was tiny and difficult to read. By the time Katy could make out the name “Herman Mortimor Wagner” she realized her feet were nearly touching where his should be. She envisioned the toenails tickling hers to be black, curled, and filled with dirt. A sudden creepiness scaled her spine. She drew a deep breath and began backing slowly. Her heel snagged a hardened clod of dirt and a startled shriek ended abruptly when she met with the ground.

A sudden wave of easiness washed over her. If an angry spirit was on the prowl, her clumsiness would have made his work easy. She could only hope that clumsiness made the flesh bitter and sprits avoided her type altogether. Katy slowly reclaimed the breath squeezed from her. Her face flushed as she felt the breeze, much cooler and in places it should not be. She scrambled to pull the purple dress from her waist back over her hips and glared at the high heels strapped to her feet. She turned to the marker and spoke in an apologetic tone.

“I’m so very sorry, Herman Mortimor—wrong grave. This is all new to me…the heels, the dress, graveyards in general. While I’m not at all sure if spirits communicate with one another, if they do, please don’t tell my Granny you saw my underwear. She’d be very disappointed and embarrassed for me.”

Grannies did those kinds of things without thinking—bearing the good and the bad of their grandchildren’s decisions. “No mistake is unrecoverable”, she used to say. Granny used those words a lot with Katy. The time she confused tablespoons with teaspoons, when purple grape juice dribbled down her white ruffled blouse, but especially when a clumsy turn sent a family heirloom to an early grave. Katy burst into tears when she realized what she had done, but without expression Granny patted the top of her head, grabbed a broom, and swept up the remains. As Katy shivered at the sound of broken glass dropping into an empty waste can, Granny whispered that she had secretly hated the color and shape of that old vase, but never had the courage to do anything about it. She went on and on how it resembled an urn; how the color matched nothing in her home, and the relief she felt to finally be rid of it. Katy supposed grandparents had the latitude to lie, if it spared the feelings of those they loved.

Granny was a master helmsman when it came to people. She steered difficult conversations and circumstance toward the best possible outcome. That day Granny tuned a broken vase into a discussion about the uniqueness of individuals. How some women were graceful and pleasing to the eye, and all that was fine and good, but the world placed too high a value on the exterior. She spoke of how courage was difficult to come by, and Katy had been born with more courage in a hangnail than most would discover during a lifetime. Granny didn’t dabble on the surface; she dove straight into the soul, probing the depths, searching for jewels to bring to the surface.       

Katy plopped down Indian-style before her grandmother’s stone and wasted no time opening the paper bag. 

“Hey Grammy, brought one for each of us.”

Katy laid a peanut butter and banana sandwich at the base of the stone and took a bite from the other. Katy giggled.

“Met your neighbor, Herman Mortimor, a few minutes ago…a little scary at first, but seems like a nice enough guy.”

Katy reached deep into the paper bag.

“I found a vase to replace the one I broke. It’s purple and the lines are curvy and sexy. I hope you like it.”

The weight of holding up a one-sided conversation worked on Katy’s insides. Tears formed in the corner of her eyes as she placed a fresh bouquet of white daisies in the vase.

“Plain and beautiful, Grammy, just like you.”

Sobs came in uncontrollable bursts, tears carving her cheeks like tiny knives.

“The truth is I miss you terribly. Right now life is unbelievably hard. I don’t have the answers to anything, and you’re not here to help me anymore.”

Katy felt the presence of granny close. She adored the strength of her arms wrapped around her and the peace and comfort seeping into her soul. Katy absorbed every ounce of goodness and encouragement a vision of Granny could offer. She placed her hand on the stone and closed her eyes. The sun broke across the bridge of her nose, warm and inviting.  Katy listened intently to the sound the wind made as it slipped through the boughs of the pines. Wanting—believing desperately that her grandmother’s voice could heal everything.  

As is so often the case in life, Katy did not receive what she believed to be the answer to all her difficulties in life. She was however blessed with a measure of understanding that allowed her to move forward one more day in a positive direction.

Katy returned to her bicycle and skipped across the lawn with purpose. She stood a long while admiring the flowered bicycle basket setting at the head of Herman Mortimor Wagner. She expected to return now and again filling the basket with a portion of the flowers she brought for Granny, and they would laugh at how awkward their first meeting had been.  

Granny smiled deeply as she watched a budding young woman slip through the mist of dusk toward home. Piece by piece Katy would discover that her strength was not founded in a tired old woman, but was budding and growing within. Soon the garden in her belly would flourish to excess. Granny could hardly wait until Katy shared it with another and two generations passed through the gate to lay flowers.   

Burn

Throughout a lifetime a lucky man will come in contact with a handful of humans that meaningfully impact his life—rare men and women who quietly go about changing the world around them one life at a time. For me, Lloyd Perkins embodied and embraced all that is good and honorable in a man. Under the most extreme circumstances he answered only to himself; settled down at night with what he knew to be right, steadfast, and true. If people were paint and life a canvas, the majority would melt in the center to produce the muted shades of mediocrity. I’m convinced Lloyd Perkins would have wilted and died there. He is a fiery red hue, one of the scant few born to dance on the fringes of life.



From his outdated flattop to the way he carried himself reminded me of an old stallion that refused to be broken. After you crush the dreams of a few cowboys word gets out. All that’s required from that point forward is to posture in the corner of the coral, stamping your hoof and making certain they see the steam rising from your nostrils.


A steady diet of adrenaline is not for everyone, tends to eat most from the inside out. Over the years I watched plenty of decent men come and go, but within ten seconds of our first meeting I knew Lloyd Perkins was born to lead. His ‘old stallion’ persona perfectly suited for a man selected to head a S.W.A.T. team. The beauty of the situation was simplistic. I don’t believe for a second he realized the magnitude of impact and influence he had over his men. Lloyd relied more on actions than words. Each of us knew he considered his position a distinct honor and he viewed his boys as extended family. If a situation got ugly Lloyd would be in the thick of it. Not even a shred of doubt existed that if required and without hesitation; he would die in place of any one of us.










_________________________






Information flowing from dispatch continued to be sketchy. Around midmorning a state trooper executed a routine traffic stop. As he approached the vehicle the unthinkable happened. Instead of simply speeding off, the driver jammed the car in reverse, backing over and killing the patrolman. He fled the scene at a high rate of speed, leading officers through two counties before bailing out of his vehicle and holing up in an old barn. The drivers ride turned out stolen, so even at this point his identity remained a mystery. As of yet no one wanted to connect our runner to a brutal mother-daughter slaying, but plenty of us were thinking it. The murders were only hours old and investigators still combing the scene for evidence, but a man doesn’t run like that because he’s a few minutes late for a P.T.A meeting.


Team members swayed in unison as the van made a hard right turn onto a dirt road. Leaning on the accelerator the driver announced we would arrive on scene in less than two minutes. Lloyd gave the signal for a final gear and weapons check.


“Men, we got a job to do. Let’s get it done safely and efficiently so we can all get home to our families.”


Right arms extended and fists touching we chanted, “We are the best of the best. Do our part and God takes care of the rest!”


I suppose the ritual was a strange cocktail of cockiness and humility; a confidence in our training, abilities, and fellow man, but much like our leader we hoped for just enough renegade to get the job done but never so much we forgot who is ultimately in charge of the outcome.


Our van slid to a stop next to a line of squad cars and before the dust settled the back doors burst open. Lloyd leapt from the vehicle and we streamed behind, fanning out, and taking up position.


“Who’s in charge of this scene…I need a status”, Lloyd barked.


A young officer stepped forward.


“We believe he’s ex-military, definitely heavily armed, Sir.”


In full surveillance mode; eight sets of eyes scanned and processed the bits of chaos lying about, but Lloyd was our spokesman—always. A single point of contact simplified things.


“Son, I’m not telling you how to do your job, but why in God’s name didn’t you call for us earlier?”


A shadow struck the young man’s face, making whiskers where there were none.


“Extenuating circumstances, Sir.”


Lloyd invaded the man’s personal space, delivering an honest assessment.


“You lookin’ at the same mess I am? One officer wounded, and from the looks of it, three more dead before they hit the ground.”


Lloyd abandoned the boy to act on a plan I knew to be forming in his head. Like a cobra his movements were purposeful and efficient.


“Marcus, take a position on the second floor of the old home. If we can snipe this guy let’s get it done.”


Voluntarily or not the officer on scene had been relieved of his duties. There was little for him to do but follow Lloyd around as he continued to position the team. It was only a matter of time before the young man became a nuisance. As if shedding the weight of a shadow Lloyd turned on the boy without warning.


“Is there something more you need to say to me, son?”


The shadow moved over the young man again, but this time didn’t even pause at his jaw-line, instead swallowing his entire outline. With head hung low the young man’s voice dribbled from the shadows.


“Just that I’m sorry, Sir—so very sorry.”


Lloyd grabbed the officer by his shoulders and squared him.


“Look, Son, someone has to knock on doors today—inform three families we lost their husbands and daddies. And having been there, no amount of sorry will make that job any easier.”


I feared the weight of reality would buckle the young man’s knees. If time allowed I would have pulled him aside and explained that someday when he had a son of his own he would recognize rebuke as a necessary part of instruction.


A newly arrived black sedan saved the young man from further scrutiny. The gnarled veteran stepping from the vehicle was Colonel Lionel Nichols, the head of State Police. Lloyd and he shared a friendship long before each stepped into their respective leadership roles. The young officer moved to a safe distance, perhaps anticipating the locked horns of two angry bulls.


The elders shared a hearty handshake, with Lloyd speaking first.


“Don’t look good Nichols….your guys took some heavy losses. Your boy needed to get us involved earlier.”


Lionel moved his head from side to side in dissent.


“Wasn’t his call, Lloyd. I asked him specifically not to involve your team if at all possible.”


“That’s bullshit, Lionel…you know the protocol better than anyone. What were you thinking?”


Before the Colonel could explain his position an officer rushed up.


“The shooter refuses to talk to our negotiator any longer—says he’ll only speak with the head of S.W.A.T.”


The Colonel reached for Lloyd’s shoulder, “I really need to speak to you before….”


Without a moments delay Lloyd laid the phone on the hood and flipped the phone to speaker.


“This is Captain Perkins. Who am I speaking with?”


A voice fashioned from gravel and grit emerged on the line.


“Well, well, Captain…..the perfect title for a man with a perfect little life.”


Every ounce of color flushed from Lloyd’s face. During a million sets of undesirable circumstances never had I witnessed such an expression. In the absence of a response the man hijacked the line.


“What? Don’t even recognize your little brothers voice after all these years? Why don’t you take the opportunity to inform your colleagues how you fuckin’ cut off ties with me after Afghanistan. Told our entire family I was a nut…even went as far as getting an order of protection against me. This is between you me and Lloyd…come and get me!”


I disconnected completely, couldn’t make myself listen. One can only image the swirl of thoughts and emotions coursing through Lloyd’s body and brain. It pained me more than if it had been my own. The state police had known the identity of the shooter all along—the extenuating circumstances the officer spoke of. I knew how Lloyd’s mind worked, his knees buckled with the weight of each slain officer weighing on his conscience. He was traveling a lonely, desperate stretch of highway, and I needed to step up.


“Boss, I’ll gather the men. We’ll use the ram and bust those doors open.”


I hadn’t moved two steps before Lloyd returned to us.


“Get back to your position. I’m still in charge. I know what will bring him out.”


Lloyd gave orders to set the roof ablaze. Few things on earth wield the power and permanency of fire. That realization alone did not fully explain the uneasiness that swept in and settled in my gut. As I held the Molotov cocktail in my hand, I recalled a drunken celebration a few years back. In the dim hours of early morning Lloyd shared the details of a personal circumstance that was tearing him up. His brother returned from Afghanistan early. The transport he was traveling in was struck by an R.P.G. and his brother thrown some distance away. Despite the flames he returned again and again. Three times over he dragged another soldier to safety before the final explosion. A combination of burns over sixty percent of his body and the two soldiers he could not save proved too much for the young man’s mind. Lloyd shutdown after that and I don’t even know if he recalled what he shared with me.


A blanket of eeriness fell around as indecisive wisps of smoke flirted with dormancy. As if summoned a steady southern breeze arrived and transformed the roofline into a boiling stream of black that billowed skyward. Each fiery breath consumed another swath of wooden shingles and moss. Over and over I considered the human life trapped inside. By now his belly likely pressed against the dirt floor drawing from a waning reserve of fresh air. Collective wishing did not bring him out, and neither did my physical efforts prevent Lloyd from rushing in.


My granddad used to tell me even the fiercest storm begins as a subtle change in the horizon—and I suppose he was right. I’m convinced none of us could have changed the outcome of that day, but sure wish someone had been watching the sky. We executed our job to the best of our abilities and God did take care of the rest. At the time, the barn’s collapse seemed to me the cruelest and inappropriate end possible, but now I can appreciate the bigger picture.


The mother-daughter homicide victims turned out to be Lloyd’s wife and daughter and his brother the killer. No man should ever endure such agony. The dual blow would have been too much. Instead God allowed Lloyd Perkin’s last thought to be that of trying to save his disturbed brother. As bitter-sweet as life appears to be it’s those type of thoughts that grant me peace.

Thought of the Day

In a dusty corner of you mind lies the realization your approach is reckless. When you have time you will analyze it further—maybe tomorrow. For now something inside you says leaning harder on the accelerator is better. If reaching a destination as quickly as possible is the primary goal then speed is the obvious answer. Cars swirl past on either side. What if their destination is the same is yours? It occurs to you there is no glory in second place except that created by the man who finishes there.



You’re tiring of this game the temperature gauge is playing. You really don’t care if it sits squarely in the red forever. Fueled by a renewed sense of urgency you downshift hard and go for a double lane change. Something is wrong with the steering; the engine no longer responds to the mashing of the accelerator. You watch helplessly as the speedometer flutters and begins to plummet. You picture the ghoulish grins of those surpassing you. The loss of control is consuming; its icy cold hands slide down your throat, wrenching your stomach like a wash cloth.


Suddenly your vehicle is possessed. It slashes across lanes, finds the exit, and coasts into a rest stop.


Abandoned and frustrated you kick your vehicle before turning away. You walk toward a sizable group sitting on the grass beneath a shade tree. You’re thrust into playing the role of an understudy who’s forgotten their lines; a stranger in a strange land. The words rest and stop aren’t even part of your vocabulary. The laughter and their frivolousness nature immediately puts you at odds with them. You sit down at a distance, but close enough to listen.


For the first time in a long while you notice the breeze, but more the things it carries. Your eye is drawn to clouds lumbering across the sky. The smell of freshly cut grass settles over you as a Blue Jay scolds a squirrel who draws too near. The man continues to speak, and what he’s saying seems less like nonsense.


“The further you travel down life’s highway you discover it’s difficult to appreciate scenery at a 100+ mph. Destinations and schedules rule you. With all the subtly of a black-hole it sucks you in, and like a black-hole it warps and distorts everything, and if you allow it—people, conversations, interactions, and relationships, become nothing more than distractions.”


You walk back to your vehicle, kicking it twice as hard as you did the first time. You still don’t know exactly what brought you here or the identity of the man speaking, but you begin walking. You cross the median and have your mind set on catching a ride in the opposite direction. As the sun settles closer to the horizon you hope you can remember your course and that it’s not too late to discover those things, people, and opportunities you missed.

Thought For The Day

Being bitter or better is a daily choice. There are easy days when the sun shines bright, but more prevalent are those days we can't outrun the storm. When our minds tell us the best we can do is curl up and feed the fury. All of us wrestle with idea of complete submission, but I pray that in those quiet moments we are still enough to hear our heart's whisper of rainbows and promise. There is not much middle ground here, we either choose to see tomorrow as a miserable collection of yesterdays or the blessing that I believe it to be. Nothing guaranteed, simply a life extended by twenty-four precious hours, and the opportunity not to reverse or regret decisions made, but to analyze and improvise, to be better even in one small way tomorrow than we were yesterday.

Some Days

Some days just start upside down. I ain’t talkin’ about a jackleg at the drive-thru skimpin’ on the scalded milk in your white-chocolate mocha. More a life-style that leaves you wakin’ up at the bottom of a dumpster every morning, hands and feet bound. There’s an undetermined amount of garbage between you and fresh air, and as much as it turns your stomach you know the only way to get there is to start eatin’. Makes you wanna hurl most days, but don’t let anyone tell ya being a detective in the South Bronx ain’t without its perks.
 A junk-yard dog ain’t much for paradin’ around at a show—prefers to run at his own pace, bites at the leash that binds him to another’s will. White-gloved ladies with floppy-brimmed hats know the only way he’s takin’ home ‘Best of Breed’ is if he eats the competition. A dog like that does what he knows to do in order to see another sunset. Granny Donatelli taught me about the kind of tenacity that boils from within—that it’s OK to be that kind of dog.


In nursery-rhyme terms ninety-three pounds of sugar and spice ain’t nothin’ to fear but it’s a game changer when you’re ten years old and that gnarled thumb and forefinger latches onto your cheek like a pair of dollar-bin vice-grips. Survivin’ the clench meant you done only half the work. The shake that followed consisted of a painful and vigorous thrashing that in some perverted way brought her great pleasure. But come to think of it, wouldn’t the world be a better place if all ten year old boys understood the importance of bringing their grannies pleasure?


Professional wrestlin’ was the steak and taters of grannies television diet. Even as a young boy I figured if two half-dressed fat dudes wanted to slither around pressin’ private parts it shoulda happened behind closed doors, but I came to appreciate what wrestlin’ done for her. While nobody was lookin’ she climbed out of the shell the world saw and become as real to me as my young psyche could handle. After you seen it once you learned to recognize the warnin’ signs. Things was headed south when her eyes went glassy and the corners of her mouth got shiny. Only once had I seen such a display of raw aggression, but had trouble reconciling the two. Comparing your granny to the neighbors Rottweiler bordered on sacrilege of the highest order. Let’s call it an early brush with reality; the day I stood in my bedroom window and watched Moses display in convincing fashion why a three-legged cat should never venture far from home. Granny and the most feared dog in the neighborhood bore undeniable similarities. Both had jowls that quivered with anticipation and a mindset that left reason two blocks back. Like the spring-loaded hips of Moses, Granny would lean forward in her rocker and outta nowhere would loose a string of curse words that would make a Turret sufferer blush six shades of red. As profound and disturbing as the episodes were the whole thing lasted no more than a few moments. Once the referee accepted the submission Granny fell limp in her chair, like an expressionless shell of a human body after an alien abduction. In those eerie moments before granny came back to me completely, I knew exactly how the priest in the Exorcist felt. I too wanted to do somethin’ to help, but the thought of her head spinnin’ around 360 and spewing pea-soup left me frozen in time.


Some people might frown on a young boy learnin’ to curse and spit tobacco from his paternal grandmother, but if you wanna learn to read you gotta go to the library. Granny was real—no pretenses—right down to the ability to fart like a three-hundred pound man with an unholy penchant for chili dogs. Even today her bits of wisdom live on. She reminded me there’s at least a dozen ways to skin a cat. It was her way of tellin’ me there’s always more than one path to a destination.


Cops are a strange breed, believin’ justice comes in all forms. So long as it comes timely, ain’t any of ‘em bad. Not one standin’ on the dock was frettin’ over the prospect that justice arrived in the form of an extended nap in the East river. Alfonzo “The Bull” Luchesse was stiff and lifeless as we fished him out of the sludge, and all I could hear is Ganny’s voice sayin’, “Dead is dead ain’t it?”


The Bronx white-pages had fewer names than those who legitimately wanted to see “The Bull” on a one-way trip outta this world. Business owners tired of being shaken down, rivals lookin’ for a cut of the drug traffic, and jilted women. Alfonzo showed no prejudice when it came to the ladies; he loved them all equally lousy.


After floatin’ a few questions around the neighborhood I decided to pay a visit to a particularly buxom brunette named Bridget Bardello. With a name like that you’d think she’d scratch out a livin’ doing somethin’ pretty—a florist or somethin’. Fact was she did work with arrangements; choreographed all her own dance moves. Bridget hit the stage hungry-like from start to finish. Straddling a shiny pole running from floor to ceiling she doled out her magic in small, tantalizing doses. There were other dancers in the place, but Bridgette was the roller-coaster that kept ‘em standin’ in line.


Nothin’ says classy like a flashin’ neon arrow, but I suppose the clientele slithering around the Rumpus Room weren’t as much into ambiance as amenities. The night was all played out with the exception of a couple lizards staring at leftovers through blood-shot eyes. I approached the corner table and slapped a bottle of Thunderbird down between the old dog and his bone. Bridgette looked surprised a guy could drop her mid-sentence and split for the door. Did I mention the fact I ain’t much on ice-breakers?


“No offense, Baby, but I think he found you coutin’ ones from last night’s take a turn-off. Didn’t look like a math major, but between the two, he figured the Thunderbird was the guaranteed ride.”


I expected her to be upset over the prospect of lost business, but Bridgette was a pro. She worked men like Charlie Daniels eats up a fiddle on a Saturday night.


“So Bridget, word on the street is you and The Bull had a public fallin’ out the night he went for a swim. There anything you need to get off your chest?”


“Just these pasties—you offerin’ to help?”


Her response came between drags on a Virginia Slim, accompanied by a giggle. She stood and saddled up close figurin’ the odds were slim I could resist those babies waggin’ in my face like two-dollar lollipops. There I was in the middle of a gentlemen’s club after hours, pressed against a firecracker like Bridgette. A man could get lost with no chance of findin’ his way back to sensible ‘til sunrise, but I had a job to do.


“Sugar, I’m not opposed to a girl short on brains making her livin’ by horizontal means, but if you’re fishin’ tonight you got the wrong bait for this cat. Don’t tell me the fragrance you’re wearin’, let me guess. I’m desperately torn between Dumpster Diva and Heavenly-Ho. And as far as your pasties go, I’m like the hometown grocery…don’t do plastic.”


I glanced in the men’s room mirror and again at the photo. Provoking Bridgette into slapping me across the face was easy, and although the pattern did match the bruised cheek of Alfonzo Luchesse it wasn’t enough. So like many a gent gone before I left the Rumpus Room unfilled—but not without a piece of evidence I hoped to be substantial. Four-inch stiletto heels brought Bridgette to five foot nothin’, but man did she pack a wallop—enough force to break the clasp on her bracelet.


I suppose he noticed the hand-print on my cheek and the crooked smile that accompanies a jacked-jaw, but good friend don’t ask those kinda questions. Virgil Valvano adjusted the jewelers loop for a closer look.


“Sloppy craftsmanship…nothin’ I’d want my name attached to, but the rocks are quality. I’m certain I sold ‘em. Let me check my files.”


The prospect of Virgil keepin’ records made me smile like a homely girl standin’ at the punch bowl eyein’ the last geek plastered to the wall. In the ten years since our initial introduction Virgil had done good for himself. As an undercover agent I had arranged a rendezvous in a dark alley off 142nd to buy a 100 grand worth of illegal diamonds. With both of us bloody and bruised our dance ended with Virgil sporting some shiny new wrist-ware. Like any good date I introduced him to the back seat of my car—face-first with my boot planted in his backside for leverage. In exchange for rolling over on his supplier in Angola the prosecutor cut him a break. I had to admit, reformed look good on Virgil.


He returned to the counter grinnin’ like a shit-eating dog waiting to teach his pup a new trick.


“You’re a bold man—flashin’ around fifty-grand worth of ice like it was CZ.”


Dropping the hardware into the inside pocket of my jacket I spent a solid minute prayin’ I hadn’t done an injustice to my favorite pair of boxers.


“You sold a house-worth of diamonds to someone and don’t recall that off the top of your head?”


I allowed the cold steel of steel of my sidearm jammed against his cheek to signal the deterioration of my mood.


“Don’t play with me, Virgil!”


“I ain’t playin’. Fifty-grand ain’t nothin’ to sneeze at but business is real good these days.”


I nodded toward the security camera in the corner.


“Virgil, tell me you got a popcorn maker in the back and can’t wait to show me some video.”


Granny always said, ‘You can’t make chicken-salad outta chicken shit.’ The buyer in the video was dolled up like the Queen of England, but the stiletto heels had enough bling to make a blind man beg for a second pair of shades. Bridgette Bardello and I definitely needed to have a more intimate chat so as I could wrap my mind around just how much disposable income a stripper has these days.


A few hours of shut-eye proved costly—it always does. Over a couple of drinks the owner of the Rumpus Room told me Bridgette didn’t show for her shift. Her dressing room was as empty as Monday morning church.


I spent the next two days trackin’ down extravagant purchases with no common theme. Other than the fact Bridgette and the ‘Bull’ had a butt-load of cash and didn’t mind spillin’ it in all corners of the city. On day three I woke feelin’ like an old tom cat humpin’ a ball of yarn—I was getting’ chafed.


Midmorning I got a phone call from the coroner. DNA results showed the body we pulled from the river was not Alfonso, but his twin brother Arnold. Talk about night and day. I can only imagine the scrappin’ that went on in their poor mother’s womb; the indigestion caused by a gangster and priest rentin’ the same space. None of it made sense.

Thought for the Day

Take a picture of someone you love today. Carry it with you and let it remind
you life is fragile, that you should treat every day with care, and you get out
of life only what you are willing to invest in others.

The Glue

As the clock rolled into the second hour, boredom spread to every corner of the sanctuary. Even the pastor’s wife, Irene, appeared powerless against the forbidden meeting of eyelids and the sudden twitches that accompany the uneasy entry from consciousness to rest. The occasional snap of Mrs. Hallock’s gum transformed into a metronome gone bad; a feverish pace I feared might sprain her tongue or prematurely and irreversibly wear the enamel from her teeth. Just twenty minutes earlier the Johnson twins were content to snap the back of each other’s ears with rubber bands. Now one lay across his mother’s lap and his mirror image over his fathers. Each set of eyes glazed over and mouths agape, like a poisonous gas had incapacitated them. Not even the mischief and energy of five year old hellions could withstand Pastor Wieland’s sermon. As for me the pain was real and tangible, settling below my beltline. For a moment I contemplated turning to the row behind for verification that my tailbone had bore completely through the impenetrable oak pew.


A new kind of restlessness sprouted as Pastor Wieland began sputtering his traditionally prolonged prayer. Before the much anticipated hearty Amen, I offer a prayer of my own. “God, if at all possible, allow his mind to be too consumed with his message and its purpose to hear the collective sigh from his parishioners. Without question the pastor’s a bit antiquated in his thinking and preaching style, but Harwood Grove would be an emptier place without him. He is a faithful servant and a fixture in our community; bless him and Irene fully—and please nudge Irene so that she wakes from her slumber before he lifts his head. Amen.”


From the pastor’s perspective, sneaking in a little work on a Sunday afternoon was indistinguishable from using a butter knife to carve a nun’s heart from her chest while she sleeps. He would carefully avoid lending words to those lines of thinking, but a man of such conviction and strict adherence to the Word need not voice his every thought for us to know them. One could search long and hard and never discover an ounce of hypocrisy with respect to his sermons and how he conducted his daily life. Pastor Wieland made the ideal neighbor, but only one home separating his from mine left me nervous—afraid of the incongruity he might observe in my life with regard to words and actions.


Certainly the ‘old money’ he and Irene descended from would afford the ability to live in relative luxury at the edge of town, but that is precisely the point. Irene found great purpose in staying home to raise her boys to be good men, and her husband opted for the meager salary and general scrutiny of a small town pastor. Together they displayed a sense of purpose that transcended collecting worldly reward. Some in the community busied themselves with the matter of interest earned on inheritance, but anyone with half a brain and one eye saw it spread throughout the community and I suspect much of the principle found its way there also. The pastor joked about why they had not settled in the country, claiming to have heard a clear message from God. “How should a shepherd watch his flock from a distant field? He cannot—he must take residence among them so that he can keep a careful eye on the wolves that would destroy them.” I suspect God trained his eye not only for wolves, but also lambs with a mind to stray.


Finding no use for the last bite of a grilled-cheese sandwich, I tossed it on the saucer and went about clearing the table. The window over the sink provided a clear view of my garden—now a disturbing scene of chaos. Like watching a funeral procession of a loved one, I dug deep to recall memories of better times. The arrival of spring ushered in an overwhelming sense of renewal where the smell of freshly tilled earth settled in my nostrils and a sense of accomplishment as I surveyed the rows of carefully planted seed. Months old now, the memory was stale. In its absence a sense of guilt and neglect settled heavy. I was the shepherd sitting on a hill too far away to reach those things entrusted to his care. The garden represented only my most recent shortcoming, and I suspected someday soon full disclosure would require me to gather the courage to check the rear-view mirror of days past. Presently I found it too painful to examine tiny images of opportunities slipped away.


A wise man would have chosen a flame-thrower, and I contemplated it until I surmised that inquiring at the hardware store about the rental of such an item of destruction would surely prompt a call to local police. Instead I gathered an arsenal of tools from the shed and entered the battleground. No sooner had the first beads of sweat formed on my brow a familiar voice startled me.


“John Benton—I certainly hope deep beneath those weeds there’s an ox in the ditch.”


Pastor Wieland chuckled.


Small talk seemed my only choice for buying time.


“Pastor, what brings you out this afternoon?”


I half-expected him to say the sound of the devil’s tools clanking so near his home woke him from a dead sleep.


“Just heading out for my afternoon walk and thought I’d see how things were with you. What did you think of my sermon this morning?”


“Your sermon—I thought it was long…..I mean long overdue.”


Shifting into full recovery mode, I hoped a few ripe tomatoes and cucumbers would serve as reparation for hasty words.


“Pastor I was sitting in my easy chair after lunch resting peacefully for the day—being Sunday and all. But I began thinking about how displeasing it must be to God to see these beautiful tomatoes go to waste. Do you think you can see past the fact that I just happened to rescue them from certain destruction on the Sabbath?”


His frown melted into a smile.


“Those are beautiful tomatoes, and Irene hasn’t fixed cucumbers and onions in quite some time. I suppose if I pray over them long enough they’d be fit for nourishment.”


Pastor set the vegetables aside. A smirk appeared on my face as I visualized a cat dropped from a rooftop—I felt I recovered reasonably well.


“Back to my sermon, John. Often I feel I’m delivering a general message to the masses, but on rare days I get the distinct impression my sermon is directed at only a handful, and on even rarer days I feel God is funneling my words to one very specific heart. Today I felt you were the only one in the sanctuary. Did you feel it too?”


I had felt it completely. I was the catcher repeatedly calling for a change-up, but God was on the mound shaking off my signs, throwing fast balls directly at my heart. As of yet I couldn’t admit the impact to myself. I needed time to interpret the message and how to properly apply those principles to my life.


“Pastor, you sure it wasn’t Amos Little sitting a row over that was your target? He looked pretty convicted to me.”


“You know, John, maybe you’re correct. I think I’ll head that way. Thanks for the produce.”


Before the pastor reached the edge of my lawn I asked God to forgive me for throwing the trail. I also prayed fervently that Amos wouldn’t return the favor by sending the Pastor back my way.


Even though the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the temperature hovered in the high seventies I lit a fire. My insides were chilly. The pastor’s message dwelt on past indiscretions and conflicts, how easily small words and deeds are perceived by those wronged as more significant than the offender recognizes. That there is no statute of limitations on wrongs needing righted and apologies that lodged and died during the thought process. Reminding us that the road to hell is paved with good intentions and the time for action was yesterday.


The dancing of flames is a mystery of sorts, one moment swaying in unison and another battling to determine sufficient air space for coexistence. If God intended us to be solitary creatures we would have been born in cages, without mouths to speak, ears to listen, hearts to feel, and arms to hug. Each time I am still enough to absorb it, the vastness of his plan for humanity awes me. With night draped over me fully and fire fading to ashes another bitter truth rolled over me with all the subtly of a locomotive. None of us is guaranteed even a single second of tomorrow, all the plans we push off to another day could implode in an instant. How will we feel when He finds us lingering hands full of nothing but excuses?


“Hey Marcus, this is John, tell the boss I’m taking the next couple of days off. Not sure if I have any vacation time left, but pay or no pay I have important business. In his airtight world of self-importance it will be a tough sell, but smile wide when you tell him he’s been trumped by a bigger boss. Thanks, man.”


At seven a.m. the aisles of Nuemann’s Market were practically empty. Truth was business became scarce altogether since the big-box stores opened up. Yet Neil Neumann continued to struggle to make something of what his father and grandfather identified as a vital service to this community. I respected him immensely for that.


“Hey, Neil, got a minute to talk?”


“Nothing but time these days…business ain’t good, John. Took a second shift job at the factory to keep things afloat and Jenny ain’t too happy about it. Keeps pushing me to close the doors, but I just can’t turn my back on what pop and granddad built.”


With little warning sunken eyes lost in the shadows of dark circles began to leak. Thoughts from the night before prompted a reach across the counter. I used my God-given arms for hugging and prepared both my ears to listen. Neil needed hope and encouragement beyond what I could provide, so we prayed silently over the meat counter.


“Sometimes God has a way of altering our paths, fixing broken ways of thinking. It just occurred to me that maybe he was reserving that lonely stretch of empty pew beside me specifically for you and Jenny. Talk it over with her and maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”


After I offered Neil my handkerchief I meant to say what needed said.


“You remember when your dad ran the store, how all the boys stopped here every morning before and after school, picking up a pack of gum or handful of candy? Candy meant nothing to me. At that time my love was baseball. I idolized every facet of the game; the sounds and smells of the ball park, the players that were bigger than life. They had a way of transporting me to where my mind needed to be.”


I retrieved a pack of baseball cards from my pocket and placed them on the counter.


“Don’t remember the exact date I stole them, just that I did. In the following days and weeks I couldn’t muster the testicular fortitude to bring them back. The look of disappointment in your dad’s eyes would have crushed me. But in all these years I also couldn’t bring myself to open them.”


Beside the wrinkled and yellowed pack of cards I laid a fifty dollar bill and continued my explanation.


“Figure a dime for the cards and forty-three years of interest, ought to be close. It’s amazing how heavy an ounce worth of cards became though the years. Unfortunately, Neil, some things can never be made fully right. Because of my hesitation and head-strong ways your dad has already passed. It doesn’t have to occur today or tomorrow, but I need you to grant me forgiveness on his behalf.”


I traveled no more than a half a block down Main when Neil burst through the door after me.


“Hey, John, there’s a Mickey Mantle rookie card in here!”


I lifted my head skyward to find a deeper shade of blue than a moment earlier, and an irrevocable smile spread across my face as I called back to him.


“It belongs to you, Neil—it always has.”


As I walked northward down Main the steps came easier. For the first time in decades it felt good to be moving toward something, instead of hovering or in retreat. The subtleties of the sidewalk consumed me, in particular the division between each section. Without the one before or after it was simply a concrete pad, an island of isolation, having no beginning point and leading nowhere. Every life needs a destination.


Stopping by the flower shop seemed the right thing to do. It could never be enough, but I didn’t want to arrive empty-handed. With bouquet in hand I rounded the corner and the sun ducked behind a dark bank of clouds and shadows melted into pools below grade. Landscape surrounding the place was immaculate, entertainment they shipped in top notch, and the level of care impeccable—all of it cleverly designed to absolve us from guilt. We would sleep sounder if a loved one stayed somewhere with a peaceful or regal name like Shady Acres, Bickford Place, or The Regency, but fancy names fooled no one. Each of the residents carried forlorn expressions like they were standard issue, a byproduct of realizing that for the lion’s share this place was the last stop.


I never intended to stop coming. Certain aspects were easy, like looking past how time twisted the body and expressions of the woman who raised me. In a strange but comforting way, reciprocating those things she had done for me so many years earlier; reading a book out loud, brushing her hair, stroking her hand, they all seemed to draw the arcs together and complete the circle of life. But sadly and without warning I reached the limit of my inner-strength. On a rainy Wednesday afternoon she could no longer recall my name, that I was her firstborn—that I ever existed at all. Selfishly I pressed until she became so confused and agitated she chased me from her room. How absurd it sounds to say hurt kept me away for this long, but I am at a complete loss to describe this horrible thing that swooped into our lives, gobbled up something as sacred as memories, and in its wake left behind an indescribable emptiness.


I arranged the flowers in a vase on the nightstand, and drawing up a chair I was content watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest as she slept. A loud noise in the hallway caused her eyelids to flutter before slamming open. She seemed less concerned about a stranger sitting bedside than with the contents of the vase. Her eyes lightened and the corners of her mouth lifted.


“Carnations are my favorite—how did you know?”


I grinned and shrugging my shoulders.


“I thought every woman loved carnations?”


“Perhaps they do, but they hold a very special meaning in my heart.”


Her eyes drifted from the present into the past and she began telling a story I’d heard a hundred times before, but was starved to hear again.


“My late husband brought me carnations on our very first date. We lived in the country and he never was good with directions, you know. He was to arrive at 5:00 pm, but somehow got lost. By 5:45 I was busy trying to manage the prospect of being stood up. Just after 6:00 the bell rang and I swung open the door and my entire world changed forever. Out of all the prospective women out there, such a beautiful man arrived on my doorstep wishing to spend time with just me. From that moment forward, when in his company, time completely lost any relevance at all.


We sat by the pond talking for hours before he worked up the courage to hold my hand. He was a strong man and his hands were calloused from farm work, but he held my hand like I imagine God holding a dove. It was harvest season and he had to leave much earlier than he wished, but as he walked me home he explained the meaning of the three different colored carnations. Light red represented admiration, and he was already consumed by it today. The white stood for pure love; he said that he firmly believed we would discover it together in the months to follow. Finally the last carnation was dark red and symbolized the deepest love and affection one can feel for another. Something so splendid it had to be spread across decades to fully appreciate the expanse and depth of its beauty. I blushed as he told me he wanted to share that gift with me. While the sun was busy settling into the horizon that evening, I hid his words in my heart, and even though he’s passed now because of him my heart remains full forever.”


She stopped speaking and stared at the flowers again, as if they were a portal between yesterday and today. She blinked several time before turning to me.


“I apologize for boring you with such a story, and I’m very sorry my condition doesn’t allow me to remember people and names. I didn’t catch yours.”


Tending the corners of my eyes I composed myself and searched for a proper response.


“Names are kind of overrated aren’t they? If someone decided long ago carnations were called something else, or if they had no name at all, would they mean any less to you? Let’s keep it simple—just call me Sonny and I’ll call you Ma if it doesn’t bother you. I enjoyed your story and would like to make a promise to visit once a week if you’ll have me.”


The way she busied herself fiddling with a button on her gown made me nervous about the proposal.


“Sonny—you’re right about names. You seem like a nice enough fellow, and being a good listener is very important in life. I think I’d enjoy your company on a regular basis.”


As I left Bickford Place that evening I noticed someone sitting on the park bench just beyond the door. Twilight didn’t allow for positive identification, but his words to me did.


“Well, John—I can tell you for certain it wasn’t Amos Little God was speaking to yesterday morning, but I think you already knew that. How’s your mother doing?”


“Pastor Wieland, thanks for being the glue that holds people like me close and long enough to God that we develop a lasting bond.”


We shared the bench until the moon hovered high above us. Spoken words were minimal, but I remember hearing something very profound that night that still sustains me, and I’m almost certain it wasn’t the pastor voice I heard whispering.


“Humility is life’s great equalizer, a brutal reminder you are only a renter in this world. Continuing to wrestle with things beyond your control exposes the flaws of the human mind and spirit, but I love you anyway. Have you considering that losing your mother-son relationship was required for you to discover her as a friend? Friendship is what she needs most in her last days. John, I need you to leave here tonight feeling you salvaged those things within your power to affect, and isn’t that the way every day should end?”