Small In Sight

Laura hurried back from the restroom at the New York – Massachusetts border, hoping Mommy would buy her something at the wood-frame souvenir shop.  She hoped to parlay a moment of shopping into avoiding contact with these dull adults – her distant and rarely visited Worcester relatives.  Almost to the shop door, she slid to a stop, apprehensively staring at a man posing by the doorway.  The crowd snapped picture after picture.  Laura stood back and examined him with the cautious eye of a child who has been teased and tricked far too often.

He stood now with straight posture and stared off into the tree line, allowing Laura to creep closer.  His skin was acorn brown and heavily lined.  His solemn expression was tinged with tiredness.  His loosely braided black hair was held by clips on either side of his face.  The hair continued down to the chest of his fringed leather clothing.  But Laura could not take her eyes off the feathers.  Hundreds of white feathers in immense headdress covered most of his hair.  Laura frowned.

Mommy pulled out her battered old boxy Brownie and pushed Laura forward.   Without success she then ordered each family member to stand beside this apparition from storybooks.  “He’s a real Mohawk!”  Mom crowed with excitement.  Laura swayed her short legs and held her hands protectively behind her back.  She was not about to approach another strange man, even if he was two hundred pounds lighter than Uncle Maurie.  One by one the rest of relatives pushed by her and posed with the genuine human artifact and then rushed over to grab the best picnic tables for a last lunch together.   It was unspoken that several uncles were required as counterweights for Uncle Maurie’s table.  In exasperation, Laura’s Mom gave her a dollar to stand next to the Indian, struggling, for a photo that captured her expression as unenthusiastic.  

Finally Mommy turned and rejoined the clan rapidly unpacking lunch.   Laurie still remained watching the Indian, trying to remember a book from elementary school.  When there was a break in the crowds, she edged closer and said “Your feathers – they aren’t….”

He looked around then down and finally saw the expression of the young child before him.  He bent down to her ear, “It s what the shop owners make me wear.  It’s not authentic.  At home we wear the Kastowa or porcupine quills.”  He added, ruefully, “I am old and . . . this pays the bills.”  Laura nodded, forgot him and ran into the souvenir shop to spend her dollar on a small rubber tomahawk decorated with colorful feathers and colorful plastic boondoggle strings.  As she came out, she thought and handed the Indian her change – a whole dime.   “Did your family see the fire tower?”  he pointed.  “That is where the forest rangers go to watch for fires.  It also has a wonderful view of the land.” 

Laura squinted her eyes up the structure beyond a small field.  For the first time on this boring visit to see her distant relatives, she was curious.  She imagined Smokey the Bear at the top of the tower, or how she would see him putting out fires in the distance.  And the Berkshires that Mom always saw as so pretty would be nice at the top of those alluring tower steps.  “I can climb that”, she said to herself. 

The family at the tables chit-chatted politely, trying to eat their sandwiches and keep Uncle Maurie from flipping them over the table.  Everyone ignored subtle slights and past misunderstandings.  Cousins who were Laura’s age played among themselves and drank something called tonic.   Laura grabbed a quarter of an egg sandwich, making sure there were no disgusting green olives in it.  No one noticed as she headed toward the ranger tower. 

It took no time to cross the field.  There was no chain or bar duck under, so she hopped up the first level, and ran up the second.  From the first platform level and she looked down at her family, almost finishing the meal.  Soon they would pack up and make obligatory promises to do it again sometime, soon.   Several colorful leaves blew past Laura, reminding her that Mommy took her on a tightly controlled trip to Vermont last autumn.   It is better to sit and have them blow past you than drive all over and get sick to your stomach from the lurching curves in the roads, she thought. 

By the third flight of stairs, her resolve was weakening.   Her small chest gasped and heaved forcing her to sit down for a moment.  Catching her breathe, she took the last flight one slow step at a time.  It was so quiet.  So nice.   No squabbling family she didn’t know.  She heard a boy chickadee crying for his girlfriend “Phoe—be”.   The fence on the top platform prevented her from seeing Smokey the Bear in the beautiful maple and oak trees in the distance.   She realized that if lifted herself up and balanced on the top of the railing, her view would not be blocked.  She pulled herself up and over, balancing on her belly.  As she glanced down, she forgot about leaves and bears. 

No one appeared to miss her although the expressions on these tiny figures were too tiny to make out – even Uncle Maurie seemed to be just a soft grey circle.  She waved and said “Mommy!”  There was no change in the figures below.  She took a moment and inhaled a deeper breath of air. 

“Mommy,” she shouted. “I’m way up here!”  The figures now dart like ants communicating a new cache of food.  Suddenly, one head turned up, then another, and another.  Soon all the ants looked up at her.  There was silence, and then one screamed: “Laura!”

At last, she smiled.  They saw her. 

Deep Pain

           “Mr. Richard Smith?  Is this Mr. Richard Smith?”  the operator inquired unemotionally.   

Rick grunted in assent, still focused on his New York Times Crossword puzzle. 

“Your wife is Melody Smith?”  the operator tonelessly pressed on, in order to make certain that her job had been done to its utmost bureaucratically correctness. 

My shaky voice demanded that the volunteer hold up the cell phone next to my ear.  
“Rick, I think I just broke my shoulder or arm or both just outside the SPCA on the sidewalk.  They have called an ambulance. . . an ambulance or rescue thing is coming.”  I waited for the sort of reaction that one gets from loving, emotionally open spouse.  I heard no sign of a raised emotional register, other than his hurried “I’ll be right there.” 

“No, no, don’t bother.  I am being helped, and you have all that work to do.”  I replied, calm and reasonable.   I was surrounded by a crowd of eager SPCA volunteers; visitors searching for a furry new member of the family; and in the distance, a few worried staff, probably calculating the impact of this accident on their non-profit’s financial health.     

I was probably in shock, shaking as pain radiated from my shoulder in two directions; down my arm and across my shoulder blade.  My cell phone rang again, and a helpful hand pressed the button to answer it and held it up to my ear.  It was my daughter, an eighteen year old new mother who had just imposed on me to babysit for a week while she tried to register a week late for classes at a community college that she had no real interest in. 

“Mom!” she said, chewing loudly on a stick of gum.  The speed of her chewing often indicated the number of favors she would ask of me.  “(Chomp … chomp … chomp) Hey Mom, I was wondering if you could --”

Wracked with another spasm of pain as I spoke into the phone with frustration,  “Honey, I love you but I am in pain and have to go to the ER right now!” 

Long pause.  She would neither ask me why nor what was wrong.  As an emotionally disturbed, unattached child, she might blow up at the inconvenience of my broken arm or simply move on to the next target to meet her needs of the moment. 

“OK, Mom, I’ll call you later, but it’s important.  I need to know someth--   (click).”    I dropped the phone.  The motley crew of helpers and gawkers piled SPCA dog owels all over my body to keep me warm, despite my protest that I was comfortable, save the damaged shoulder area.  I hoped these towels were from the clean towel bins and not the ones recently used to clean up dog slobber and other canine bodily fluids.   My boss, B., lumbered over to me, peered down and asked,

“What happened to you?”  

in the careful way that probably led to her gradual  promotions from unpaid volunteer to overworked and underpaid volunteer coordinator, whose main perk appeared to be the right to bring her dog to work.   I looked at all the future witnesses in some future litigation and responded in as casual a manner as I could manage:

“Oh, I felt I was not getting enough attention and drama this week, so I decided that I needed to break or severely bruise something.” 

P., the oldest paid staffer, who would have had a lit cigarette in the corner of her mouth if it was allowed, graced me with the first laugh I had ever elicited in her presence.  Yesterday, she harshly notified me that my favorite dog at the adoption center, Cecil, had been put to sleep before I had arrived to give him some last words and affection.  Today, perhaps she understood that I was more humiliated than injured.  But I began to wonder what led me to this predicament? 

I began to remember a long to-do list of too many items, many postponed when my car broke down.   Slowly it came back to me.  I had come in to donate money in the name of a Rottie who had been put down to ease my aching heart.  I became distracted by clients who wanted to see some dogs and took a moment to again pitch in on my day off.  I decided to walk  Rudy, who wore a behavior harness that leads a dog by his nose.  I got outside and found the play area already occupied by other dogs.  I tried to maneuver past these dogs as well as SPCA visitors who viewed us as a petting zoo:  “Please don’t pet him, we are working on training him.”  I got passed a second group of older ladies and suddenly Rudy had had enough.  He lunged.   I said firmly,  “Stay back.”   Just as I felt he was under control, he lunged again. 

Seconds slow down when there is an accident.  My nano thoughts certainly filled a notebook.  I knew that I had wanted to prevent another dog being put to sleep.  I also knew that I could not simultaneously hold his leash and keep my balance.  And so, in a sense of service and resignation, I crashed to the pavement, hanging on to Rudy’s leash with all my might. 

The new problem was that I was horizontal.  Fortunately, Rudy was confused by my new position. 

“Are you OK?  What can I do to help?”  In seconds, two of the customers that I had just shown dogs to came up and offered me kindness.  I said, “One of you go inside and get a staff member with purple dog training out here.  Then someone call an ambulance”.  They scurried to help and it was not until I relinquished Rudy into the hands of an experienced walker that I allowed myself to look down and feel my pain.  My left arm was flat out away from my body.  Someone tried to bend it in and I screamed in pain.  I said, “Leave it” and looked down.  My knees were bloodied.  Pain radiated up and down my shoulder blade. 

Suddenly I heard voices say, “Is this your husband?”  He looked down on my newly broken body and said, “Did you need some attention today?” completely cracking up B. and others who had heard me state the same reason for the damage.  He kept the gawkers entertained while the rescue ambulance arrived and treated me to a free ride on the power lift ambulance gurney. 

            I announced that I had good insurance and told all the authorities within earshot that I was not going to sue for tripping while walking a dog.  In a pouty voice I asked the ambulance crew when the good stuff would be put in my veins.  The young EMT smiled and told me not until I got to the hospital.   They asked the same questions over and over, and I remained calm.   I felt only the slightest twinge when my husband asked if he had to come right away to the hospital, since he had work to do at the office.  I nodded and smiled a thank you that I could not feel. 

            I hide my sadness and pain behind humor.  The ER nurses giggled when I asked them if the ER doctor with “beard, glasses, arrogant manner who was always such a pain in the ass” was on duty tonight.   I made sure that everyone else felt better. 

My husband finally arrived with a cookie and water hidden under a newspaper and I smiled my thanks.  Soon after, the morphine went into my arm and I began to feel the warmth that most people feel from family.   I hardly heard the X-ray technician declare that I had a hairline fracture of the humerus bone nor felt the ice packs arriving late for my now greatly swollen knee. 

Two middle school kids arrived with lacrosse and football injuries.  My small room became full of worried parents.   I whispered for the nurse to set me free from the little space in which my heart had been hidden.   A day later, friends from around the world responded with concern and good wishes through the social media in a way that those who are closer never do.    

Decaying Chakras

This was written in response to a prompt about a piece of music.  Everyone else responded with lovely classical, jazz or even well known bands.  I had an earwhig... The Age of Aquarius!  

Declining Chakras

Sahasrara:  the Crown
Minerva full-grown sprang
From Zeus' grey matter;
My forehead ensconced less
Intelligent chatter.

Ajna:  the Brow or Third Eye
Make vivid mementos
Impress every sight
As my weakening vision
Turns day into night.

Vishuddha: the Throat
A smooth swanlike neck
Once unblemished and fair,
Hangs wrinkled and crepey,
With new chins to spare.

Anahata:  the Heart
"A thoracic aneurysm blows only one time in a hundred patients," my doctor reassured me.
"If those were lottery odds, everyone would be buying tickets," I responded grimly. 

Manipura: Solar Plexus
Gut pain and vomiting bile.
Laparoscopic cholecystectomy
   NOW!  the doctor said.
Christmas in the hospital
Seems like a spa instead
With home life far too stressful
And all my family's woes
For no presents and no gallstones
I'll take morphine at St. Joe's.

Swadhisthana:  Sacral
I feel compression on my spine
Despair sneaks in again
My spirits are held down by pain
I need a little Zen.

Muladhara:  Root
As aging fingers touch the soil
With fall's decaying matter,
I sense an ending similar
Let my ashes simply scatter.

Gate, gate, paragate
Parasamgate
Bodhi svaha.