Parts

He is spread out over my apartment.

Bits and pieces in bags and boxes.

Half handed over reluctantly for good image's sake, the rest scavenged at night from the dumpster.

We rescue parts of him

Only parts

Since I couldn't save him whole.

I can't quite pinpoint

Is the caption her declaration of independence?  She needs no one to coddle her, take care of her.  She is only dependent on herself. Was she reminding the person who originally held this photo that she doesn't need them? That she can, she does and she will continue to be her sole protector and caretaker.

Or was this sent on as a benediction of hope?  Independence is a long won battle for her and she is now starting to desire a partner.  Someone to wake up with and dance in the living room with.  Someone to call her baby.  Was this picture sent as an invitation?  Oblique and easily ignored, but not by anyone who wanted to be reminded that she was out there.  And she was not just waiting, she sent out this tendril, this invitation.

Who wouldn't be tempted by that smile?

I like to think that the person who received this missive smiled, sighed and packed all their things. Took a train down the coast and knocked on her door just after supper as she was cleaning up.

She came to the door, helped drag the luggage in and they piled it in the corner of the living room.  Maybe the person turned on the radio and still without a word they simply danced together in a peace that is so rarely found.

Welcome Home

I am a day late.  I am always late, but usually only by twenty minutes or so.  I’ve got my bag leaning against my leg and am twisting my scarf in my hands.  Standing in front of the porch just looking at the door and I admit I am hoping that somebody will spontaneously come outside, but it is late into the evening and I don’t really expect that to happen.  I gather up my courage and my bag.  Shouldering it, I begin up the steps towards the door.  It seems huge and extremely well locked.  The unwanted question rises in my head.  Will they still want me?  Of course they will want me, I tell myself.  Big breath, of course they want me.  I lift my hand to knock and a flurry of activity sounds from behind the door.  I was right about the door being well locked.  Soon the door creaked open and Ann peaked out from behind it.

“It is you!  I knew it would be you!  Harold said to check the peephole, but I knew!” She crowed stamping her feet like a child.

“Hi Ann, I’ve missed you.” I smiled at the diminutive woman whose voice is much larger then her physical presence.

“Come in, come, it is chilly out there! She practically shouted at me in her excitement.

“Thank you so much for having me. I am sorry about being so late.”

“Oh, honey, don’t worry about it, you are the nomad of the family.  We understand your time schedule may not be as exact as one would expect.  Enough of that, we got dinner for you.”  Ann waved towards the table by the door. “Just dump your bag there for now and we will get some good food in you.”

I felt a bit of guilt at the nomad comment.  If they only knew how true it was. I attempted to keep at least some sort of a semblance of a balanced life for them.  I laughed at myself, no to be honest, the things I do for me.  The portrayal is for me so I won’t feel guiltier about my strangeness, my inability to commit to even an address.  Thank goodness for friends with permanent addresses and post office boxes.

As we walked back to the kitchen, I was seeped in childhood memories.  The grandfather clock that was my best friend still kept time in the living room.  The time showed as 7:30pm.  It wasn’t as late as I thought.  The clock chimed out the ½ hr gong and I paused savoring its dulcet tones.  It wasn’t as loud as I remember, but living in a city will deaden your ears to most noise.

“Hey Ann, quick question for you?”

She turned in the doorway of the kitchen.  “Yes?”

“How did you know I was at the door?  I didn’t get a chance to knock yet.”

“Oh,” she laughed “Marge called from across the street to let us know that there was an “unknown” standing in front of our house.”

She winked at me. “She is new in town so she wouldn’t remember you.”   

I smiled at Ann “I had forgotten what it was like to be in a small town.”

“Yes, well welcome back, Treat.”  She grinned again and said “Come on, food is getting cold and I am sure Harold is quite impatient to see you.

I haven’t been called Treat for years.  When I first came to live with Ann & Harold, Ann would hug me spontaneously and tell me what a treat I was.  Eventually Harold started calling me Ann’s Favorite Treat and that was quickly shortened to Treat.

Pushing through the kitchen door, I was assaulted by the warm smell of Thanksgiving.

“Wait, what?”  I stuttered.

“Well, you’ve missed a few holidays and we know how much you loved your Thanksgiving dishes.  So we decided to make a few.”  Harold smiled as he spread his arms over the bounty of food on the table.

“A few, hmm?  Seems like you can feed an army here?”

“Oh, no” Said Ann, “Not a whole army, maybe the football team though.”

She turned and hugged me. “Oh honey, we’ve missed you so.”

Harold turned and wheeled away from the table.  I kept myself from starting.  I knew he was in a wheelchair now, but I hadn’t seen him since the accident.  He came over and I hugged him.  His arms wrapped around me felt as strong as they did 20 years ago when he would protect me from the ghosts in the closet and the monster in the bathroom.

“Missed you Treat, glad you’ve come home for a bit.”

“Missed you both terribly, I am sorry I stayed away for so long.”

“It’s alright, we still love you’” Harold rumpled my hair and gave me one last squeeze.  “Come on and eat or I will give the football team a call.”

I laughed and sat down.

The Saxophone Player

The man on the corner has been there for days, possibly months.  It’s hard for me to keep track.  He is always in the same bright yellow zoot suit.  Pressed to perfection and his matching hat pulled low over his brow.  I have never seen his face.  He stands in the shadow reflected by the streetlamp, a jar at his feet.  The saxophone he holds in his hands gleams brighter then his suit ever could.  And the low mournful sounds that are drawn out of it cause the passersby to drop coins, then shiver as they walk away pulling their coats tighter around them.  As the night passes, his songs recede to a more breathy cry then music.  I watch as he packs his instrument and picks up his jar to head for where ever he pretends is home.

He is waiting for someone, I know it.  I wonder who she is.  Is she the perfect girlmatch to his zoot suit slickness?  With bow topped heels and a polka dotted dress?  Hair done up in curls and bright red lipstick to mark his cheek with?  Will she waltz up one day and take him by the hand?  Will I get to watch them dance off into the night, see him toss his head back in delight at a whispered comment.  Finally see his face without shadow.

Maybe it isn’t a woman.  Maybe it is a man.  Or a family member or a long lost friend, who he has spend the last few years searching for and now simply hopes the call of his saxophone will bring them home.

For days I ponder this, creating scenario after scenario.  Then one evening, I notice the silence.  His spot in the lamplight is empty.  

Burnt Out

I have been vacated, sign around my neck.  Love lives here, but she is broken and worn down.  Looking like a cheap hooker in a bad wig and busted heels.  Hoping against all reality, that one day she will be saved.  Resurrected. 


How does one dress up their broken love?  Is there rehab for this?  Or do you give up, take her out back and shoot her.  Bury her corpse in the bottom of your heart. 


I am tired.  Too tired to dig a grave, too tired to even raise my arm to shoot.  So we sit here in this squalid motel room that used to be a heart and stare at each other.  What if there is no her, what if that slinky pose of kicked back on the grimy bed, propped up by her elbows, legs crossed at the ankles is me?  Am I just staring in the mirror?  How did I let this happen?  Looking at my feet I see the broken heels, the frayed straps.  I kick them off and pull off all the clothes.  I pile everything in the middle of that awful bed and set it on fire.  Yank the wig off my head and toss it into the flame.  


I burn my heart clear of this debris.   I will save me.  I will save me.