Forty Minutes

They can’t be serious.

Me having a conversation with myself?

To begin I will have to picture everybody naked. Now don’t start squirming in your seat quite yet. This is about me. Full disclosure, my brain is automatically set to overdrive. If you’re still reading, hang on to your hat.

4:30 a.m.

Dear God! Look at the magnificence of daybreak. Should I stay awake for sunrise or go back to sleep? I’m already wide awake. Let’s see how it plays out. Good gracious, the colors cannot be matched. Muted peach, mango, mix of blue into a purple haze.

Open the window a little wider. Listen to the bird song. All’s quiet. Jeepers, I’m awake before the birds. Guess I’ll go to the bathroom. Yikes, it’s freezing out here in the hall. Coffee. Coffee. Coffee. I love the sound of the percolator.

Check the temperature on my phone. 56 degrees F. Summer’s late arriving this year. Last year too. Every year, of course.

Funny, how we all call it, “my phone”. Back in the day there was no such thing as “my phone”. We had “the phone”. It came with the house, attached to the wall. Everyone used it.

Should I move to Wickford? That loft space of Joslin’s is a bit dark. Not sure there are enough windows for me. No deck either. Wickford is such a yawn. Cute little village but not enough stimulation. Certainly not enough mix in demographics. They roll up the sidewalks at 5 p.m. for cripes sakes. I miss the ocean and the college crowd already. But I could get a dog. They say that there is never a friend quite as loyal as a dog.

Ahh, nothing feels like the first hot sip of coffee.

Yesterday was exhausting. Guess I didn’t see the triggers coming. But it wasn’t about me anyway. It was about my best friend in life. I can’t get my head around his prognosis. Twelve to eighteen months? Jesus H. Christ. Don’t cry. Dr. Oncology announced it last week just as though he were talking about a lab rat. None of the four of us in the room flinched. Each afraid to cast even a side glance toward another that an avalanche of tears may ensue.

My best friend is a commercial shell fisherman. Big, strong bull-raker. Twenty to forty feet of metal stale into the water. Manually raking clams from the bottom for your feast. He dug two hundred pounds of them the next day.

Yesterday, though. My best friend had his port-a-cath placement at RI Hospital. For the chemotherapy. Then, hopefully the immunotherapy. The least I could do was to drive him there and stay with him. After everything he’s done for me.

Through thick and thin, he’s been there. A more loyal friend is not to be found. Lose him to stage IV esophageal cancer? Twelve to eighteen months? A world without my dear, sweet friend? He is the most kindhearted person I’ve ever known. It just cannot be.

Yesterday, though. Seems that the four or so hours I waited could’ve been worse. Wandering the halls, searching for meaning I said to myself, Wow. That guy is handsome! There goes another. Where were all the hot looking young guys in scrubs when I worked here?

Oh, my friend? He and I were sweethearts a long time ago for an exceptionally long time. We’ve both moved on but have remained the best of friends through eighteen years of ups, downs, life, near death.

I wonder if I should move to Wickford. It is rather a quaint seaside village. I would have a water view to the north and the east. I’ll be closer to a large group of close-knit friends. Save money. Write more. Photograph more. Travel more. Perhaps make new friends. One day I might get a dog. A second runner-up to the most loyal friend I’ve ever had.

5:10 a.m.

Geez, will you look at that? The splendor of that sunrise.

6.13.19

Written in response to writing prompt,

“A conversation with myself”

Summer Music

Will you join me on the hammock

under the shade of the umbrella leaves

of the noble Sycamore tree

we’ll share the shade

the lemonade

a story from your childhood days

Your Mom your Dad

a comic tale of the retriever you had

lazily we’ll swing with ease

to the rhythm

of the summer breeze

we’ll sway to and fro

entwined in twines

of yesteryear and dreams

of so many tomorrows

you’ll play your melodic musical voice

I’ll listen dreamily to the choice

we’ll be marvelous summer music

if you please

play two-part harmony

on the hammock

enlaced arms and sun kissed knees

beneath the shade of the umbrella leaves

of the noble Sycamore tree

6.6.19

Anthelion Arc

You are the lighthouse

glimmering light of darkest night

your voice the bellowing sound of life

guiding me ashore across oceans of storms

sound is light

when you beg of me,

Come hither, don’t leave me, please come back

from your after fog

in the tunnel of light

A choice to make

the light at the end

or you,

the sound of Anthelic Arc

your angelic face, your love so strong

heroic pull of that wooden door off the wall

for me, my life

My love

You are the Anthelion Arc

You are the lighthouse

You are the light

This boring prompt, an irksome commission dealt a formidable blow to my motivation my every sense in proclamation declared you cannot write without inspiration all the insipid places I scoured for any humdrum amplification through sifter tediously I poured the flat, monotonous, the prosaic the Avant-Garde as well the archaic miles I hiked, searching for anything banal trekked the good earth from dawn till nightfall yet with all my images, mosaic but for reality T.V., old cars and conversation politics I cannot unearth in my exploration a duplicate, an unoriginal entity from to pick to deliver to you this rainy Thursday antemeridian. Thursday Antemeridian This boring prompt, an irksome commission dealt a formidable blow to my motivation my every sense in proclamation declared you cannot write without inspiration all the insipid places I scoured for any humdrum amplification through sifter tediously I poured the flat, monotonous, the prosaic the Avant-Garde as well the archaic miles I hiked, searching for anything banal trekked the good earth from dawn till nightfall yet with all my images, mosaic but for reality T.V., old cars and conversation politics I cannot unearth in my exploration a duplicate, an unoriginal entity from to pick to deliver to you this rainy Thursday antemeridian. Thursday Antemeridian This boring prompt, an irksome commission dealt a formidable blow to my motivation my every sense in proclamation declared you cannot write without inspiration all the insipid places I scoured for any humdrum amplification through sifter tediously I poured the flat, monotonous, the prosaic the Avant-Garde as well the archaic miles I hiked, searching for anything banal trekked the good earth from dawn till nightfall yet with all my images, mosaic but for reality T.V., old cars and conversation politics I cannot unearth in my exploration an unoriginal entity from to pick to deliver to you this rainy Thursday antemeridian.

Anna and Arlo

When my former husband and I built our dream home in 1997 I said at the closing, “They’ll have to carry my dead body out of here.” Clearly that didn’t happen. 

Since then I’ve taken up a new quote which reads like this, 

“My barn having burned down, I can now see the moon.”   Mitzuka Masahide

A new chapter.

Anna and Arlo

Anna suggested in her advertisement for a private loft space with private bath that she “has a dog”.  Early in my search for a a small writing and photography studio I thought, “Wow, even a dog!” 

We set an appointment for a viewing.  The place has everything I need and more.  A lofty room with a private bath, all the treetops from here to Newport, some of the waterways, Jamestown, the bridge, the sky, the sun, bright star and the moon. 

With only a couple of weeks before moving date, I set to giving most everything away that doesn’t matter.  Starting anew.  Again.

Anna

Anna is five foot seven and built like she means it.  There’s a genuine kindness to her which can be quickly read. Whispering platinum hair for one who surfs by summer. Crystal blue eyes. Anna is twenty-five years old. I feel maternal toward her already but I’m keeping it under wraps because, well, she’s twenty-five years old. Anna goes out for the evening when I’m getting settled with my feet up and a good book.  She seriously invites me along. I am flattered but politely decline. Anna perkily asks me on a Friday evening, “What are you doin’ tonight?!”  I unapolgetically reply, “Laundry.” 

Anna is always warm. She likes the heat set between 58 and 60. I think this is akin to waterboarding. I like it set at 72. Thank God for space heaters.

Anna is a breath of fresh air.  A spring in my step.  Anna is summer colors of green, blue, red, yellow in the gray sky of winter. 

Arlo

Arlo stands five foot seven and weighs in at one hundred twenty-five pounds of pure joy. Upon our first meeting Anna said, “he’s blind in his left eye.”  I could see for myself that something was amiss with both his eyes, so this didn’t surprise me. Arlo did, however, make every attempt at eye contact, endearing him to me immediately.  Before long I discovered that he’s pretty near blind in both of his eyes. One of his eyes is surrounded by a huge black splotch. The other, all white.  One pupil is blue, one brown.  All of Arlo is colored with large black splotches. Arlo is one huge animated Rorschach Test.  Arlo is a dappled afternoon summer sun.  A sweet soul of spectacular proportions. A gentle giant.

Arlo is a ten-month-old Great Dane puppy.  

Arlo is the new canine love in my life. Arlo greets me with big screen, larger than life kisses.  He takes it upon himself to sit and extend his left foreleg toward me, softly placing his bear paw against my chest.  He positions it affectionately across the sacred space where I stash my wounds, my scars. He looks me in the eye with both of his, cloudy, drooping, slightly misshapen. There with my imperfect heart, Arlo with his own imperfections, bides awhile.  

He gives me pause; Arlo does as souls who touch mine often do. 

Together Anna and Arlo are a sight for sore eyes.   

The first place I inspected when leaving the last, little did I think it would be this easy.

I never expected to find myself with them, here.  With Anna and Arlo, the treetops, the bridge, its eternal string of Christmas lights. The birdsong.  The sunrise,  your star, still. 

And the moon.

Life, as it continues along. 

And so, begins another day.

5.23.19

How

Where do you
who will you
how?
which way
do you
turn
what do you
when ought you
how can you
learn
who will you
lean on
when your soulmate disappears
The who, what, when the where, how and
the
Why?
dreaded disease
with a vengeance returns
and
confirms all your fears

Mundane Monday

Sweet the south wind blows on an otherwise mundane Monday in May.
Step across the threshold.
Tread upon the soft earth.
Touch a supple green leaf.
A vivid flower petal.
Hear birdsong.
Feel warming sun against your cheek.
If for only a moment,
sense magic.