End of a Day

“Mommy!”

He kept them up last night till I got home from overtime. It was like heaven.

“Mommy! Mommy! I got all smiley faces!!”

“Mommmmmeeee mommmeeeee potty!”

She with the blackish brown eyes ran at me and hugged my belly.

The LittleOne ran at me and hugged my legs. A blond and brown pony tail met my eyes as I looked down at my babies, my growing, loving babies that I created. I carried. I care for.

“Ok, back here to finish your stories.” My Love is beaming from the bed, knowing he did a nice, RIGHT thing, proud of himself for lasting ONE MORE DAY as a single dad while I work the 7 to 7 overtime. More money for our struggling family. The little pony tails bounce back to the bed. They climb up, but still face me, chattering like sparrows.

“Mommy, I have a splinter you need to get out.” She with the blackish brown eyes shows me her soft palm, with a tiny sliver of wood in it. My heart soars. I AM the one who deals with splinters. He can’t take it, but moms have to do the things that cause pain to create healing.

“Booboo! Booboo!” Not to be outdone, The LittleOne shows me a fresh shin bruise that I simply must kiss immediately.

Off to get the tweezers, my eyes fill a little. Yes, I’m tired (boy there should be a different word for HOW tired), so a little emotion is predictable.

But really, it was honest joy. Look at all my gifts…

Talisman

After the Hey Day

Hooker eyes at sunrise
Notice blood-shot
Punch bowl mistakes and price tagged dreams
TV assassination glory
Button up spine
How is normal processed?
            Check the bar code.
 
There’s dark bark to any rough tree
The greedy/heavenly ignore the seedy/melancholy
 
Sluts will be sluts
The always motive
 
Losing count of clock ticks
Cocktail napkin warnings
Soap box prophet calls the day,
Smoking away some shitty pain.

For He Whose I Am

The bus had been 19 hours and 12 minutes of wasted time.

“What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know. I obviously wasn’t thinking, judging by your reaction.”
“Go home.”
“Okay.”

She was now seated on the bench at the bus station, under the pretense of waiting for the next bus. In her hands, she held the pocket watch.

“That one.”
“This one? Miss, this one is an expensive watch.”
“I know.”
“Ok. Cash or charge?”
“Is it extra to engrave?”
“No, Miss. It’s complimentary. I will get you a sheet of paper.”

For he whose I am.

Counting her money again, she hesitated from buying a ticket. Why did she think he would come and stop her? Just because she came so far? Held back this long, her tears were heavy, overripe and finally fell like devastating bombs on the dry skin of her hands.

Feeling better after her cry, she stood up with purpose to buy her ticket and return home. She would write the whole thing off as an experience, an adventure, and fodder for her work. Maybe she would even get a book out of it…

“Violet!” Then, he was there.

Skin

someday to me someday’s skin someday’s taste
fantasy to you, fantasy’s skin, fantasy’s taste
forever to us
forever skin

Dream I

She would run from the house, lifting her rough skirts to increase her speed. To get there. The shouts of the sisters would echo, but she would ignore them and laugh, casting her eyes up to a blue sky. The sound of the tall grasses played drums on her tall boots. She would get there, she would. Defying all the rules, she would make it to the place, the illusion he had bloomed in her earthen mind. She would search the forest, wondering if it was all a Victorian fairytale, had she burned her bridges in a free fall for no reason, no promise.

But in her dream, he was there. His clear eyes darted to the side and she saw the carvings. And then he was gone again. She felt with her fingers tips and the wood still hummed and burned with life. She read it like a map and was off.

A new course charted.

All Days Should Defy Logic A Little

Sunday, Sauce and Paper Dolls

Circles In A Pond

The children are writing on themselves.

I am tattooed, its true. Recently I got something new. This is the fourth tattoo since my oldest was born. She gets very excited, she loves me, she thinks its neat. She loves the fakes ones. But she hadn’t written on herself before.

The youngest is a hellion. She writes on everything and herself. The freedom and disregard for authority of the youngest has busted a dam in the oldest. The oldest is now lying, acting sneaky. Then…

I am doing dishes and I can hear the girls chattering away, playing and being silly in the “playroom”, a.k.a. a really small cozy nook behind the This-End-Up Couch. I wander into the livingroom just to check on them and notice my oldest decorating the youngest’s feet with blue triangles. Right below where she has written her own name.

“What are you doing?” She executes the “I’m Caught!” jump and I get no response.

Closer inspection reveals much decorating of skin has occured. And this is the second such incident since the newest tattoo. Sigh.

I get them both in the bathroom. I will have to scrub them since she wasn’t using crayola or anything, but some random no-name that came from a kit. I sit down on the milk crate and start pulling off clothes.

“Why did you do it?” I ask her casually. She is trying to get undressed without unbuttoning but stops at my question.

“I don’t know.” She responds, getting serious.

“Come on, I know you aren’t stupid, so knock it off. Tell me why.”

“I wanted a tattoo, like you.”

And there it is folks.
Thats how fast actions meet their consequences.

Love Is Free

“I need to know why. I need to know why you took me.”

“And I am under no obligation to tell you.”

“Meme, you must tell me. You don’t understand…”

“I understand. I understand you feel you need to know. And I do not feel the need to tell you.”

“I am 17 years old!”

“And I am 71.”

“Why? Why did you take me from them? Why??”

“It was war time. You were conceived behind fences. Something like that doesn’t make it to the real world. Nadia went to Berlin and Mac was back in the mines. Damn fingernails never even got clean. So you see, I took you because I wouldn’t allow them to determine your fate. That was for you to do. Under my supervision, of course.”

“Meme! Ha! “

“It isn’t polite to laugh at an old woman.”

Title Unknown by Vivian Maier

 Sunday Picture Press