Cold Memory #4 - His side

During her time of greatest need, he was buying peanut butter...

She was always sending him messages - "I love you" and "Thinking of you" and "Hope you are having a nice day." How can so much good, so much genuine kindness feel like a million knives penetrating his skin?

As he scanned the aisles of the grocery store for his favorite brand, he realized almost aloud, admidst the Saturday sounds of crying babies, squeaky wheels, and labored cell phone conversations, that he hated her.

Hate. Really and truly hated her.
The knot in his gut twisted and reared, the sensation he always got when the nightmare got ahold of him.

He hates her because he knows she knows he hates her.
And loves him anyway.

And his throat is filled with bile, the disgust rising to his lips as he reads ingredients and carb counts. He selects the one he knows she can't eat.
It doesn't matter anyway.

It was then his phone rang, beeping irritatingly against the rest of the noise in the aisle. It was her "911" ring tone. Something was horribly wrong.

But he was so angry, so annoyed, surrounded by all the din and human excessiveness, that he let the call go to voice mail.

The phone died. Finally silent.


As he got back into his car, the worst of his emotions caught up with the wretched loathing. He was always letting her down anyway and she knew enough people she could call instead.
Failure never felt so numbing.

When he got home, her car was gone.
There was no note.
There was no message.
His voice mail inbox was a loud, bottomless dial tone.

And he cried for the first time in six months.

The Poem

She steps through the front door at St. Nick's and goes directly to the restroom in the lobby to wash her hands and get her bearings. She leans over the sink, allowing the hot water steam to flush the ice off her cheeks. When she looks into the mirror, behind her, she sees scribbling on the side of one of the bathroom stalls.

In looping, markered handwriting, is what appears to be a poem.


I lie inside this paper bag.
Breathing tepid sugared air
Through tubes of regret and morbid despair

And when the flash bulbs in my room
Spark me once more,
When my conscious dissolves and fizzes,
The world no longer tries
And I feel no more his quizzes.

In this light,
In this moment,
I submerge and give in.
Swallowing myself up and closing the sin.

Where'd you go, my refuge,
My love?
For I've never felt so alone here
Or even so alive amidst the swag,

Letting go softly, wonderously,
Gazing down this paper bag.


She heard nothing inside the bathroom, but the echo of her heart accelerating against the tin and tile. She breaths deeply and exits, the poem burning a spot inside her mind.

Human Conditions

It was a blurry and rainy morning when she pulled into the hospital parking lot. It was as if the elements always detected weakness and disease and brought forth the complementary precipitations. The wind blew fiercely, slapping her reddened cheeks, and the bitter rain made walking delicately a challenge.

As she approached the building, her gaze fell on an elderly man struggling with an elderly, immobalized woman in a wheelchair. His hand gripped her coat, the veins arching feebly, and as he heaved, he emitted a gut-wrenching groan. She fell helplessly back into her chair.

"Damnit woman, help me!" He cried passionately.

His face reddened and his eyes watered from agonizing strain. The woman merely sat, her gaze plastic and unmoving. The hair around her forehead matting as the rain pelted her uncovered pate.

She walked toward the couple, wondering how long this had been going on. The man lurched and pulled again - the desperate effort proving futile.
She approached, her mouth poised to offer help, when amidst the roar of wind she heard him cry,
"God, why me!? Why!?"

She stopped. Waited for the anguish to melt into the air and water.
Then,
"Can I help you, sir?" she asked.

Startled, the man looked at her, wiped his brow, and then relaxed his grip on the woman. The old woman slumped forward, began to murmur incoherently.

"No, we're fine." he answered.

And though she doubted him, she turned toward the hospital and continued walking. As she passed, she heard a triumphant "There!"

She looked back and saw him getting into the driver's side of a van, the old woman sitting in the front passenger seat.


Perhaps in times of human frailty, we need only know help exists.

Warm Memory #5

It was late in the morning when she first caught him looking into her eyes. What she viewed there, she'd not seen before. Not in this pleasant light.


He truly is captivating and the waves of his mind run deep.

And while the rest of her senses were distracted, this brief and soulful gaze allowed her inside for but a few moments. He showed himself, was vulnerable to her for only seconds.

And whether he intended to or not, she felt his genuine affections in that fleeting glance and felt beautiful having not ever heard it from him before.


She later wondered, if he could see her too and hoped, without her having to ever say, that he did.

Noodle sends a message - Her plan changes

It was a typical Monday morning in November, rain splashing haphazardly against the windshield wetting what seemed to be everything. Gloom penetrated her surroundings and she could feel winter on her immediate horizon though the temps were still above 40 degrees.

She glanced at her directions as she left the apartment complex, making certain she knew how to get to St. Nick's. She didn't want to be late for her duty there, but knew she never wanted to arrive either. What a perfect day to be serving time.

As she drove, fog smudged the windows and it would take yet another ten minutes to decide whether or not she was too warm or too cold.
"This sucks," she couldn't help muttering aloud. No one could hear her.

It was on dreary, depressing mornings like this that her old memories of him surfaced reminding her of what could have been good about all of it. She loathed these positive, heart-warming feelings because they were false. He doesn't love her. He likely never could.

And just as she was about to drift into an early morning melancholy, a message appeared in her phone - it was from Noodle.

"You - Me. Dinner. Tomorrow. Say 6 pm? My place. Emoticon Smile"

And though she was not in the mood for a chuckle or much of a smirk, a playful grin curved her face and she realized she could actually look forward to it. Noodle struck her as a sincere, personable guy. And she was craving conversation outside the ordinary - a handful of words to take her mind away from the hell pressing on her brain. The hell she had an obligation to deal with - the box, Mrs. Weedgrass, the frayed edges of an old story.

As she pulled into the drive of St. Nick's, a cliche song came on the radio, reminding her of her new goal.

"It's true," she couldn't help saying to herself, "It is too late to apologize."

And with that, she confirmed with Noodle, grabbed her purse, and prepared for her day at the loony bin.

In His Room...

When Mrs. Weedgrass put the box back in his room, she scanned what was left of him. On the desk were three sheets of pink paper, folded neatly. They smelled like perfume. In his haste, he must have forgotten them.

And because no one was home to stop her, she opened them and discovered the three he had left behind...


THE MISSING POEMS:
To You
From Me


Missing Part I

When my body is once again on ice
Chilling firm against 2 AM solitude
And buzzed on caffeinated dregs,
I will think upon you.

Nose to nose in little night hours
Against TV flicker and candle flame,
I will recall the soft curve of your head
And the delicate pinch of your cheek.

Remember lips together and arms enlaced,
Fingertips tracing memory lines
And crooked smiles lying face to face.

I will dream upon your night sputters,
(You spoke most, unconscious, next to me)
And I will close my eyes to hear all you’ve yet to say.

And frozen to my bed, I will reach out for one more,
Fervent argument,
Those frayed out, frenzied passion presses
That once burned me up, fired me on.

But you are gone
And I am here.
Solid cold, entombed in all I knew before,
Wishing entwined fingers and teasing toes.
Longing for your brush by and soft secrets,
(The ones I swore I’d keep if you stayed -
if you’d shared them.)

And I love you still, in my way.
I may (May I?) love you always.

For what we have was a tumbling dream,
A fanciful move made permanent,
And I lie…
Awaiting your return.



Missing Part II

Rain comes again to my eyes,
It splashes against my presence.
Day blurs into darkness shines again dims opens.
Shuts firm against a mind torn with memory
And the soft wound of a lover gone.

To be honest, he left quite suddenly -
Rather, the summer months were way too brief.
I watched him slow step into the night,
A young tear suspended in a lazy eye.
(I once wondered if it ever fell.)

My shirt on his back and my pleading in his mind,
He sliced through the night, onward into new days.
Here’s to the memories, to the future, to the now.
And I watched him go, pores shaking from grief.

With stomach clenched and wretched palsy weeping,
I think now to my injured heart’s memory
Of a man who brought both inspiration and lamentation
And led me to burn up and under despite my intuition.

Remember me, dear someone, recall the kiss against the 1 AM darkness,
The cloaked smiles and glances,
The desperate embraces,
The shudders and giggles,
The growls and sneers,
The strength of two brought full force against a challenge…

And knowing it would end.

My someone, my memory, my own,
Creation in time.
When the sun is full again, when the rain ceases to fall,
I will summon you up again.




Missing Part III

Today a pleasant memory haunts my brain.
Casts its familiar shadow,
And I mourn my vanished day;
Its death slow, slipping softly into murkiness.

Into the crypt, that unspoken place,
I drift out and then away.
Life cools and quiets,
And again, I am alone with you.

Suspended this time, I return.
At the curb, in the deepening shades of evening,
You look to me beneath the brim and I can only see your teeth,
That crooked smile line I used to gaze upon.
Wind whistles and your arms outstretch, pleading.

Your mouth dips, curls, returns again.
Faces lift, eyes pierce, searching for my surrender.
And I beam to recall, my nose against your chin, lash flutters
And the scent of dampened skin.

Silent commitment
Was it ever really so?
And I cling to you, to your specter,
As moment fades to gray.

Awakening from numbness, I gaze about for your trace.
Memory settles across my mind and I long again for your embrace.
Floating now, you glimmer then fade.
And I question my wisdom, my balance, my self.
Your outline now only what I can view in this shade.

Rule #6

She really hates this rule, but is now forced to adhere to it as the not abiding keeps her coming back for punishments.

When it becomes evident that there exists no reciprocation, it is imperative that you decide to put yourself first. Giving unashamedly is admirable, but the heartache that ensues once it is never returned, is not worth the exhaustion of the soul. It then becomes necessary to move on and grow, knowing you gave your all.

A woman must always know when enough is enough.

Sensation #3 - terrifying fear and anguish

There exist few emotions she knows that terrify her, make her question her ability to control what is under the surface.

Late at night, she drops the phone, hears the delicate thud as it impacts the fuzz of the floor. It sounds loud even though most of the tones muffle and are absorbed. In front of the TV, the one she just purchased, just became used to with its sharper image and better technology, she drops to her knees. She too, feels muffled, absorbed into the floor.

Her fingers grasp the flimsy carpet, claw at it as she tries to stall the spinning sensation, the weight of a feeling she's not known before. She feels like she's moving and yet she is there, anchored to the carpet by her fingertips, her nails.

Nausea bubbles in her stomach and then wrenches, opening up the heaving sobs she'd been holding in for over an hour. She falls forward, off her knees, buries her head in the dismal fabric and howls in animalistic pain. She is spinning, wailing, grasping out to each side as if continuing to fall through some imaginary hell.

Hot tears flow uncontrollably from her eyes and they burn with the knowledge that they will continue to cry for days from here on out. She is exhausted from the pain, from the horrible knowledge, from the thought of losing it, and ultimately, from knowing there is nothing, nothing in the world, she can do.

Helplessness paralyzes her and makes her scream for God. Help me, she cries internally. God, help this terrible thing.

Her hair mats to her wet face and she heaves, gasping for oxygen as she's drowning in tears and choking sobs. The sounds she emits, she has never heard before. No one will ever hear them.

She feels wounded, incapable of rising, and so she falls asleep in the floor buried under the weight of duress, under the call she knows is beckoning her to action, and yet she is flat forward. God, does she dare blow the lid off this thing?

All the hurt, all the pain...all the unfathomable torment she knew deep down was there before, but she denied hoping it was never true.

Somewhere, someone is dying and all she wants to do is save a life.
And she cries in heartbreak, not knowing how.

Rule #5

Her code of ethics and propensity for genuine kindness always trump any hatred or anger she feels. And it is in this vein that she adheres relentlessly to her fifth rule.

Always forgive. This does not mean you must forget the heartaches, the pain, or even the injustices that continue to plague and haunt you. But you must forgive. Love, true friendship, and kindness are unconditional. You never know when what you do may save someone, help someone, may have an impact that brings additional good to the universe.

And even if it smarts and even if it risks your pride, your honor, and your sense of control over your emotions, do what you must when someone you care about loses touch with their world. It matters not what has happened in the past, for genuine love never judges, never operates on condition, and ultimately, never fails.

Cold Memory #3

It always happened on a night when it would have meant the most. It was always when she was desperate for a reassuring embrace or a handful of comforting words.

But what really made the hell worth it were those nights when they could fall asleep together - the nights when he'd roll over and curl around her like a bookend. His head would rest between her neck and shoulder and his arm would wind deeply around her as if pulling her in as far as she could go. This, most of the time, was all she needed.

And it was the nights he refused - the nights he insisted he couldn't sleep that way - that she hurt the most. Rejection made manifest in lingerie. It seemed she always felt the coldest, the most exposed when he openly refused her. And it was on these nights, the ones that felt the bitterest and most painfully human, that she was incapable of slumber.

She lay awake most of the night, her eyes burning against the glimmer of the outdoor light slipping through the broken blinds. She'd listen to the melodic bangs of the furnace and the soft, rustling movements of the cat at the end of the bed. And she'd watch him. Watch him breathe easily, watch his body rise and fall rhythmically as if she never should have been in her own room.

And it was then she felt like an accessory - a stranger in her own home - and someone she then realized he never needed for this purpose, but for something else entirely.

Mrs. Weedgrass gets the package, reads the letter

When the postal service brought the crisp brown box to her door, Mrs. Weedgrass was pleased to have finally gotten some mail. No one ever sent her packages or real letters the old fashioned way. It seemed everything that came via the postal service was official, devoid of kindness in some way.



The house was quiet - no one is ever home anymore - and so she took the box to her kitchen, the walls echoing with the tiny clinks of nicknacks shaking against old paint.



When she opened it, saw the contents, read the letter with its urgent warning...her heart skipped and she clutched the edge of the countertop. A bead of perspiration formed and dripped from her white hairline. (She did not like to sweat.)



And quickly aging Mrs. Weedgrass breathed in sharply, the oxygen catching coldly against her ribs as she did. She felt her organs liquify and her teeth then come down firmly together in a way they hadn't in years. Her red-brown eyes narrowed to slits then opened in a wild, hysterical way, rolling from side to side as she steadied herself.



This was the beginning of the punishments she always knew God would bring.



The young woman knew.



"God help me," Mrs. Weedgrass muttered hotly.



She knew.



"I knew it would be her," she added softly. "It had to be her."



And she placed the box back in its rightful room and went to the den to organize her thoughts. When she sat down, she peered down into the basket where she saw her last weaving project slowly unraveling...

Warm Memory #5 - from way back...

Back in those days, she was always testing the limits of her youth. No one particularly knew or cared at the time and it was the indulgences she escaped with that made her life worth living, not those limiting and ordinary things she was best known for in town.

And it was before her days became gradually more complicated that she was able to experience singing along to a scratched up CD, the giggles of an awkward friend, and the vein-clearing effects of "cooking vodka" from a coffee mug.

This always brought on the sensation of novacaine and the ridiculous, private jokes that would endure a lifetime.

Postcard from an Old Friend

Sometimes, her more articulate friends will send postcards reminding her of the genuine hilarity of youth and the mark of seasons gone by.

In the mail was a card from Swabby, an old friend from college. He'd just begun his writing career and was sending his vibes out into the universe. The card read,

"Even though the mood was bitter, the weather rainy and strangely transcendental, moving me forward, but moving me backward quite rapidly too,...to a time when we were all younger, happier, ran around with our feet in the air...thinking next of only whose bed we'd sleep in tomorrow and laughing at the bed we woke up in that day."

And she smiled reading the passage, it's sincerity and honesty resonating like the heat of her very first and only tan line.

Sunrise Salutation

Her inner Yogi

She learns the most about herself and her own personal world before the sun rises. It is only in the blue black coldness of the dark that she can truly dive deep into the heart of the matter.

It is in these quiet moments that she imagines he would learn to genuinely love her if he could.

But would she ever share this incredible silence with anyone?
She is unsure because she cherishes her daybreak moments as she does her poems.

Scar Tissue

One morning, she realized to herself as the November sun came up, that after all of the shrapnel, all of those terrifying and violent flesh wounds...

She can no longer feel herself through the skin.

Warm Memory #4

There is a special place on his body and it is only here, in this reminder, that she can fall into that deep and peaceful slumber she loves so much.

It is always in the mornings when she realizes how she has found the intense quiet of sleep. Between his shoulder blades is the smooth, concave pillow in which her weary head fits. It is only when he faces left, his right arm draped lazily backwards over her thigh. It's as if he's pulling her along with him, into his dreams and yet, she hasn't experienced them.

And when the sun comes up, she sees it rise over his right shoulder, she can't help but smile inwardly knowing she can never speak on this, that it is not a feeling forced between friends. These are the moments between only the mind the heart, maybe the liver if it could understand in that way.

The scents - the lingering soap, the muted smell of old perfume, the dry smell of an unfamiliar blanket all make the scene its warmest.

It is the taste of the cracking raw daybreak, the black sensation of frost between teeth and the fuzz in the eyes, like stale eyeliner mixed with sweat and tears.

She can feel him breathe, his chest rising predictably and his heart thumping softly, rhythmically inside, because he is far away someplace while she looks at him through her weary, broken eyes.

Though in his visible slumber, he traces her with a finger as if in his dreams, she's always been along with him.

Two Relatable Quotes for the Now

"Always bear in mind that your own resolution to succeed is more important than any one thing."
Abraham Lincoln (1809-1865)

"I don't know the key to success, but the key to failure is to try and please everybody."
Bill Cosby (1937 - )

Rule #4

Starting over requires several changes made, but the first and easiest to accomplish is to obtain a new sense of style. As the season shifts away from the past, be sure to wear short skirts; grow your hair long; and and wear a genuine smile with laughter in it. These are sure to boost confidence and ensure the appropriate attentions. When necessary, wear glasses, but only if the lenses are completely open and clear.

The Secret Letter

When she mailed the package that morning, she smiled thinking of the letter that was lying just underneath the first flap. When it was opened, she would read everything, and hopefully it would make a difference. Finally.

Dear Mrs. Weedgrass,

I do not know you. We may not have ever truly met in the way we could have. Having learned all about you and feeling the devastating effects of your existence on the planet, I feel it necessary to express what you inevitably must know in your cold, bitter heart.

I will put it quite simply and quite plainly so that you do not misunderstand nor have to muddle through my rhetoric.

Your bitter disappointments and hatreds, your self-loathing, and ultimately, your manic discontent and sociopathology has affected many and most definitely have created a small sphere devoid of love or ability to heal.

Find it in yourself to love. Do it openly and without shame. Apologize. Give hugs and bring warmth where it is needed so desperately. You have very little time left on this earth in which to do it.

I know this.

Don't ask me how.

I do.

And should I ever meet you on the street, so help me, you will be the one person I make pay for it though it has never been my place.

So make sure you don't know me and make sure you never meet me.

It is best this way.

Mend it. For your sake. And for the sake of those closest to you whom you have wounded so horribly.

Sincerely,

Me.

Packing up and moving on...

At home, alone late at night, she puts everything left in a box marked "Then, not Now" and prepares to have it shipped. These were the few items that she could not throw out into the street for fear he would seek revenge. Then again, she had been told he was plotting it already anyway. She was one step ahead.

She was surprised when it didn't take very long. It took a half glass of wine, a song, and a quick read to get it all done. The night was heavy with rain and the lights in her place dimmed for the occasion. As she packed each sheet of paper, each little scrap of what could be called "what's left of it," she wondered to herself if this was right? Did it really have to go like this? Did it have to be her way, or rather, her fault? She wasn't sure.

She would likely never know.

She had never purged anything in her life - had always kept some remnant, some leave-behind-item as a lasting testament to what was once so very beautiful and genuine. It scared her on this night, knowing that in the morning, there'd be nothing left. But she couldn't write like this anymore. It hurt too much. And it didn't mean anything, didn't make sense anymore. So much was so foreign and so far away.

Surely he would understand. Surely it would make sense to him when he heard it - when he saw it the way it really was. He had once told her that to truly write this poetry, to truly put herself, her soul, her whole being into it, she had to follow the path of solitude. This was her shack in the wilderness.

She placed the story she had written on top. He didn't know she wrote real fiction. He never knew she'd been writing the entire time - didn't know it had been about him when he wasn't looking. Now he would know. Now maybe he would see her, sense her, in the way he should have all along. Back then, she'd just been a student.

Smiling, she added only a few other items in hopes that he'd see her and remember only the good about writing and creating with her - a rumpled t-shirt, a card, his book, the letter she never sent, and the two photos, one of her naked body and the one she once took that he didn't know about.

And she closed the box, sealed it with tape before she could think again and then took a long drag off of her wine. She wrote no return in the corner and grabbed the dark felt marker to address it.


In the morning, she took it to the post office and handed it to the morning clerk. "Please send this express," she said coldly, the wine still in her eyes.

And she let go of the box before she could stop herself, knowing she'd addressed it to another woman instead...