The Afghan

"This," my friend says, "is lovely."
Lovely is never a word
I use to describe the ugly afghan
crocheted by my grandmother
and dragged out of storage
when guests sleep on the sofa.

It is avocado green and orange,
milk chocolate brown,
and amber gold,
like the yellow my parents
painted the kitchen
of our new house.

"She picked each color herself,"
my friend explains,
as she carefully runs her fingers
up and over the zigzag pattern
with awe and affection,
though she never
met my grandmother.

It is the color palette
of my seventies family,
when Mom and Dad
were almost-happy still,
my sister played with Barbie
by the sliding glass window,
and my bangs were
appropriately feathered
away from my face.

"She thought about
you and your family
with each stitch."

I could see her then,
sitting in her green recliner,
counting stitches like
the beads on her Rosary.
"Love Boat" on the Sylvania,
drinking instant iced tea
while a cigarette smokes
from the ashtray.

It was after her husband died,
and Grandmom traveled
with her dog Coco,
bringing Shoo Fly Pie and
Moravian Sugar Cake from
Pennsylvania to our house
in Connecticut.

That Christmas,
she crocheted ponchos for us, too,
and took me to Hawaii
to see my Grandfather's name
carved in marble at the
Pearl Harbor Memorial.

The same deft hands
that crafted this blanket
raised son and daughter
independently in the fifties;
folded in prayer
for neighbors and friends;
prepared feasts
with love
for grandchildren.

"So much thought went into this,"
my friend continues,
as we carefully fold the afghan
and place it on top
of the antique hope chest
in the corner.

"Each stitch, each row,
holds love and memories."

March Long Weekend

It's barely 6 a.m.
and I'm busy.
Thankfully busy
with last minute laundry
and suitcase selection.
The outfits I will wear
hang on the curtain rod
in the bathroom--
Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday.

In a flurry,
I pass by the list
that sits in the
dining room:
Journal - check.
Books - check.
Pens - check.
Half-finished story
that needs editing,
and a red pen - check.

The car is cleaned out.
The cat food is stacked
on the kitchen counter
with instructions for
how to and when to.
The extra coat,
ice scraper, boots,
and umbrella--
sentinels at the door:
"are we there yet?"

The laptop glows,
plugged in and humming.
The charger says the
camera will be ready soon.
The cell phone is attached
to the kitchen outlet--
when the light turns green
we "Go!"

So this is what they mean
by "recharging your batteries."

December Blind Date

[A Series of 100-Word Stories]

MY MOTHER THE SHADCHEN
Yiddish finds its way into my vocabulary at random. Words I heard as a child from grandparents of veiled decent--chachkas, kvetch, babooshka-sneak in like hiccups. "Fishstay?" Grammy would ask. "Do you understand?" I understood my Mother's intentions clearly. "He's a nice man," she told me. "He works at a bank and drives a nice car. You should meet." "Yenta," I thought. It hissed in my mind like a curse. But yenta, in Yiddish, is a talkative, gossipy woman. Shadchen (shadkhn) is a matchmaker. My mother, apparently, is both. It's how he became interested in the first place. Oy vey!

THE PIRATE GETS ME EVERY TIME
"Luke Skywalker or Han Solo?" asks the quiz in the magazine I flip through in the waiting room. I forgot my book and am left with this dreg of pop-communication to bide time. I have an eleven o'clock with Leon. Hair. Eyebrows. Let the preparatory date rituals commence! Luke Skywalker was nice, I think. Jedi Knight is a good job. He drove an x-wing fighter. "So, why is 'nice' a bad word?" I wonder, imagining my date sitting stoically across the table. Nice? Or swashbuckling renegade space smuggler? "Han Solo" I check the box emphatically. He had me from hello.

"I DO BELIEVE. I DO BELIEVE."
If I seem disenchanted, Mom, I apologize. "What do you look for in a man?" you asked me. Before I could answer, you filled in the blank yourself. "Is it his clothes? His job? The car he drives?" These never occur to me, but I can't explain that to you. "You never know," you said with a sparkle in your eye, while visions of nuptials and grandkids danced in your head. You want me to believe. Close my eyes and hear reindeer on the roof. I'm too old for that now, but I'll play along and leave my stocking out.

WISH LIST
"What do you look for in a man?" her question pokes at me. I search my brain like rummaging through my purse for keys. "Red Sox fan," was too specific for my sister. "If I get stuck watching baseball, at least I'll like the team," I explained, rather ambivalently. A blank page stares back at me. "Just toss words out," a friend told me, "like spaghetti on a wall. Something will come to you." "Easy laugh," I write. "Common interests. Creative. Likes to travel." I suspect my sister would say I was asking for too much, but I keep tossing.

A HUNDRED WORDS FOR SNOW
"You are alone," my mother's Greek boyfriend says, with great emphasis on the final word. He and my mother have been giddy and giggling since I agreed to the date. "You meet this man," he encourages me. "You like each other. You get married." "You are happy," he finishes, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. He winks, as if we are sharing a secret. I wink back, but he misses my "just kidding" interpretation. Likewise, I am sure our definitions of "alone" and "happy" would get lost in translation, though I wish I understood his enthusiasm.

VISIONS OF...DRAGONS?
"I'm slaying dragons," I told a friend as D-Day approached, mocking my apprehension. I wasn't afraid when Mom escorted me to the formal introduction of my date--bemused, actually, as I imagined myself in ankle-length white cotton dress for this slightly archaic ritual. We met and shook hands. He had a kind face and we talked easily--through tea with the matchmakers, lunch and a walk at the beach. We shook hands again, and exchanged phone numbers. I didn't see any dragons, and a nice time was had by all. Or so he told me when he called last night!

Christmas Morning

Despite the two-week vacation, my internal clock remains on work-time, so I am awake while the stars are out and the wind sings through still-hidden trees.

Sometime before seven, the sky turns a pale purple and edges of the neighborhood begin to emerge from the night. The week's frigid temperatures have given way to comfortable cool and the wind has softened to a quiet whisper. Too early for the day's activities, the morning is calm and peaceful, so I set out for a walk--down the driveway no longer covered in ice, past my neighbor's house where I'd enjoyed Christmas Eve just hours before, around the corner to the cove that sits to the east of my house.

It is a breath-taking view when you turn the corner--a hidden surprise, there around the bend and just off the main and busy road. A sliver of golden light outlines the horizon, reflecting softly along the shore of the small beach at the base of the hill. A gull or two dot the morning sky, quietly soaring above.

A small collection of cottages sits to the right of the beach, and I walk here often-in the off-season, when it is empty and still. At the edge of the property, where the last few cottages stand sentry along a cliff near water's edge, there is a wooden bench and I sit down.

Clouds the color of lavender and peach stretch out across the sky like brushstrokes on a pale blue canvass. The wind tickles the water and shoots goose bumps along its surface. A cormorant swims by, then disappears under the water, emerging out near a lone sailboat, moored and rocking gently back and forth. Gulls land effortlessly on the rocks the locals call "The Mermaids," while a giant wave crashes up with great fanfare.

And then, the sun bold and bright, rises up from morning shadows and casts a broad banner across the harbor, warming my face. Fall leaves dance in a circle behind me, and a flock of gulls sing out in unison from the cliff below--Merry Christmas!

It's All Greek to Them

My mother--
not content
with "grandcats"--
tries to set me up.

A nice man, she says.
Goes to church.
Works at a bank.
Drives a nice car.

"Does he write?"
I ask.
"Paint?"
"Travel?"

"I don't know,
you'll like him,"
she insists.
Hopes.

"I have enough,"
I tell her.
"My work, writing,
the house, friends."

"Think about it,"
she says.
"I have,"
I respond.

She asks again,
a week later.
Three weeks later.
"No, Mom."

"He doesn't understand,"
she tells me.
"You don't understand,"
I reply.

"You meet, no?"
says her boyfriend,
the older Greek
from upstairs.

"You talk.
You like.
You get married.
No?"

"No,"
I think to scream--
but am polite
to my elders.

"Honey," he says,
"You are alone.
You get married,
you are happy."

"I am happy,"
I insist,
no doubt in
Swahili.

Close Encounter

It had been six months--almost to the day--since I saw him last. Saw him in such close proximity. Close enough to touch. Instead of love, I offered up a friendly "hi," and we exchanged that colloquial hi-how-are-you-fine-and-you-good fast and without eye contact. Midway through I realized he wasn't alone and turned away before we'd finished, stepping to the counter--a thousand words in hand.

The shock swelled slowly--as it does with those sudden unexpecteds. Disappearing knees, shaking hands as they attempted to insert card here. Deaf and dizzy with pounding pulse, my eyes pleaded silently to the cashier…hurry, I am naked and about to explode!

I grabbed my bag and raced to the door wishing I'd put on make-up or pants that actually fit my ass. Was he watching as I pushed the automatic doors to open?

Keys, where are my keys, trembling, searching crazy in my purse across the parking lot without looking don't let me drop this get me out of here is he there? Don't look back. Though a pillar of salt would be better than this.

Keys. Door. Sit. Hold on. Reverse. Drive. DRIVE! What stop sign? Is it over yet I wonder as tears blur my vision.

Isn't it over yet?

Making the Bed

Wednesday,
2:00.

A crystal’s rainbows
dance about
in southern sun,
as I fluff pillows
and straighten sheets.
Its intention:
new energy
in this space we shared.

Why is it then,
I think of you, still?

Dream Sequence

Technicolor,
full-length feature—
he comes to me
each night.
Every night.

In patchwork scenes
from waking-life…
across the table
in a diner,
by the water
near the beach,
in an elevator
at the museum.

Extras walking
back and forth,
standing, waiting.
I don't recognize them—
or him.
He is the news anchor,
the clerk at the store,
Bill Clinton?
I laugh and turn over
in my sleep.

"Where are you?"
I ask.
"Are you OK?"
"Are you safe?"
He responds
as if reading a
script I wrote myself.
My words, my answers...
drop meaningless
on the pillow.

I can feel him—
his hand in mine—
and smile
before waking fully.
Small comfort
in the quiet
of this empty stage.

The Magazine Experiment

One of my favorite magazines used to be Martha Stewart’s Living. The photos, the tips and ideas, the recipes—I loved it all. What I loved most, though, was the illusion that if I owned this or bought that, my house would look like her house—color coordinated furniture and linens, flawless design, perfect accessories.

The antique, sterling silver tray that housed my olive oil and balsamic vinegar? A Martha tip. The cobalt blue bottle to store my dish soap? Martha. After all, who would want those offensive condiment and soap bottles sitting out on the counter without accoutrement?

Those little domestic embellishments were paving the road to my ideal—so beautifully laid out in the pages of Living. Those little domestic embellishments were costing a fortune. The silver tray? $75 to creatively display $10 worth of condiments. The blue bottle? $35 put the $1.39 bottle of Joy to shame.

The truth is, it wasn’t her house I was looking to emulate, it was her life. In the back of my mind, I thought that if my house looked like her house, certainly my life would look like her’s as well—joyful holiday dinners, warm and intimate family gatherings, copious friends celebrating around feasts for kings.

I can’t blame Martha for the illusion of the life I was striving for. The promise of its possibility was presented to me at every turn—on television, in newspapers, on billboards and the internet. Seducing me from the magazine racks prominently displayed at the checkout stands—“Create Your Dream Home,” “Give Life to Your Living Room,” “Bedrooms Like the Stars.” At one point, I was the proud subscriber to Living, Cottage Living, Country Living and Better Homes and Gardens. As a bonus, I was automatically added to mailing lists of catalogs from near and far—two dozen at last count.

Each month, these glossy tomes of dreams would arrive in my mailbox, reminding me that I wasn’t quite there yet. To achieve that life, there was more to do. More to do, and more to buy.

And then, something happened.

I can’t remember why or when. There was no watershed moment, just a feeling. A realization. I loved my little house. I loved my random knick-knacks collected over the years, the photos of family and friends in mix-matched frames, the worn-out quilt draped over the thrift store sofa. And yet, it kept feeling like it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t enough because each month there were these reminders that I needed more. I needed the trendy kitchen appliances. The curtains and carpets and pillow and throws in this year’s “hot color.” The beaded chandelier for the bedroom. The decorative soaps for the bathroom. And when I got too much of the stuff I needed more of? Purchase decorative—but functional—storage containers, of course.

Purchase this. Buy that. I was caught up in an unending cycle of getting more to have more, with very little satisfaction. The cobalt blue bottle did look pretty next to the kitchen sink, but it didn’t make life any more joyful or fulfilling. No one noticed the silver tray with the condiments, it just collected dust and needed to be polished every month.

And so, one day, I stopped. I canceled my subscriptions to the magazines. I resisted the urge to buy them at the grocery store. I tossed catalogs in the garbage without even looking at the covers.

It has been three years since those books of dreams cluttered my life, with interesting consequences. I rarely have the impulse to get and to buy. I don't go shopping every weekend, or keep a wish list of things I need to purchase for this room or that. I’m not seduced by sales fliers or advertising promotions—I simply throw them out. My credit card balance is near zero. My house is not fit for the spread of a magazine. But when gathering with family, or celebrating with friends, my house—my home—is filled with things I love, things that have meaning and memories. Filled with the life I was looking for all along.

Beautiful Foolishness

Bursting from the confines
of appropriate
and polite
and compliant,
I exploded!
Ran down the street
with arms and legs flailing.
Did a pirouette in the
produce aisle.
Stomped my foot
and yelled with a roar.
Rolled in the grass
like a playful pup.
Jumped in the ocean
fully clothed.
Sang wicked loud
in a crowded room.
It's not chagrin
this pink on my cheeks.
But flush
from the rush
of beautiful,
unrestrained
foolishness.

Discarded

She wonders if he remembers the night they found that cat? Left to fend for itself in the winter woods, it died by the trail--as if it waited for someone to come back. Collar with its name, no address or phone. Alone.

He carried it to the vet, along with his warped sense of humor. "Were you attached to it?" she mocked. "Yes, and then I abandoned it," he replied--each of them poking fun at the intimate confessions they'd shared. Achilles heels, laid bare.

Ironic, how easily they laughed at the inevitable.
In his absence now, she remembers . . . poor discarded "Love."

Letting Go

Every week, via email, I get my horoscope courtesy of Rob Brezsny (www.FreeWillAstrology.com). His words are wise and wacky and wonderful. I think they appeal to me most because they are symbolic, rich in analogies and mysteries you have to think about for a while.

This week, for example, he bid those of us born under the sign of Cancer "to make 'in the buff on the holy mountaintop' your power metaphor of the week. Blend sacredness and nakedness in any way that appeals to your imagination, especially if it's in high places or makes you high."

At first, I didn't get it. I thought maybe this was one of those weeks when my orbit just wasn't in sync with the rest of the planets.

And then, today, in a series of events that made me definitely "out of orbit" in an angry and I've-had-enough sort of way, I got it. Because, in the process of angry and I've-had-enough, a small whisper of realization got louder and louder.

"It is time to let go of this."

To be honest, it has been whispering it for many years, I just chose not to listen. I was afraid to let go. I was afraid of the consequences. I was afraid of what I might find, or not find, if I sloughed off yet another layer of something I'd been holding on to.

"It is time to let go of this," I heard myself say out loud.

And then I called my friend Martha to verify.

"Well, it's about time!" she said with much enthusiasm.

Apparently, she'd heard the same whispers and was wondering when I would get around to it.

About an hour or so later, a friend emailed to say she was trying "put faith in front of fear" today, and I breathed in her words, deeply.

"It is time to let go of this."

There is a certain synergy happening here, and I feel it. With that one simple, powerful sentence--there is change, and validation, and release.

I feel…lighter.
Naked, one might even say.