Soapbox

We collect mementos
to try to keep the absent, present
and the past alive.
Letters and photographs, ticket stubs and trinkets,
Each brittle cicada skin of  experience,
retains only the shape of past joys.
Nothing contained in any box or book
can equal the connection of that rare, transcendent moment
of the open door.

It is an instant of true memory,
a tiny grain of time in my hand.
In a sudden, brilliant flash of sight and sound,
scent and motion,
the door winks open,
spilling a moment of light and warmth
into the dark, silent corridor
which is the space that exists between life and death,
between then and now,
between you and me.

In that unexpected instant
when the door appears before me,
I see you, I hear you-
for you are standing there.
You turn your head toward me,
lips just beginning to curve
in a smile that stops my heart
as the door swings shut again
and disappears.
Only the dark, unyielding walls of loss
surround me once more.

But I know now that you are out there…
in here,
patiently waiting,
unreachable and unchanging.
And so I go on,
watching and hoping for another glimpse
through the open door.

This is the third piece I have written about a type of memory event  where the mind suddenly accesses a depth of recall you did not know it still retained- something more than a simple memory, and closer to a visitation.
Or perhaps it is merely a glimpse through an open door into what awaits.

    I would like to go on record here as saying that next summer, or by fall at the latest, Tucker will be a great dog. I firmly believe that.
      He's bright and inquisitive, very affectionate and people-oriented, and has a lot of unique character and personality. He makes me laugh at least once a day. He'll be a great companion for many years, and knowing that he'll be standing at the stairs, fuzzy head tipped to one side, watching for me to come in from the garage when I return at the end of a rough day will be a great comfort. Until that day, however…

      Tucker gets lots of long walks in places where I can let him off his leash, because otherwise, I tend to yell a lot. After being a quiet, good dog all night Tucker wakes up at 5 AM… and so we get up at 5 AM. Breakfast, a bowl of water and then he starts his daily round of trouble: biting toes, chewing shoes and stealing panties from the laundry. So it's important to get him out of the house. But winter is coming, and don't like to be cold.

     Last week, while I was selfishly writing a poem instead of going for a walk, Tucker ate rat poison. I was at the kitchen table and heard him in the living room, being bad. You see, he has a certain bounce to his step that is only present when he's playing with something he knows he shouldn't have. I peeked around the corner to see what he was up to this time and there he was with a packet, or what was left of a packet of D-con pellets. I'm not even sure where he got it! Probably the garage.
    I fished the remnants out of his mouth while he rolled on his back and waved his paws in the air like it was a great game, listening to mommy squeal. After I washed my hands and wiped off the rug I called the vet. Our dog Mischa had gone a few rounds with a pack of D-con when he was only about 10 lbs soaking wet, and after we rushed him tearfully to the vet we were told that d-con is a cumulative poison and he'd be fine. So while I was concerned, I wasn't freaked out.
     Dr. Lehnerd's office informed me that the new generation of D-con is much more deadly than the stuff Mischa got hold of and old Tuckerby needed to vomit ASAP. Better there than here, so I took him to the vet for some doggy ipacec.

     After a few hours of observation he was pronounced "probably OK" and I brought him home with a week's supply of Vitamin K. He celebrated his homecoming by curling up at Steve's feet and, after 10 minutes or so of good behavior, began stealthily chewing  through the computer power cord dangling nearby. Fortunately my "Miss Clavel" instincts kicked in and I suddenly sat forward and grabbed him by the tail and hauled, revealing the cord between his feet.  The cord was doctored with some electrical tape and Tucker was sent outside for a "time out".
    And this was just one day.

    In about a year, I firmly believe that Tucker will be a great dog. Until then, better keep your eyes open when you visit at our house.

    There are four sisters in my family, which by any reckoning, but particularly in these days of small families is a plethora of the feminine.
     My little brother, the last and only male sibling, calls himself “The thumb on the mitten of life” and I’m certain there are times when he feels a mere appendage, subsumed by the sisterhood.
     It has been said, by one who knows us, “Wherever two or more are gathered, there is a coven”. Ah, but there is magic both black and white
in the potent brew cooked up by so many sisters.
     The black magic howls like a hurricane of resentment, jealousy and old hurts,  nurtured on a diet of eye of newt and toe of “mom-liked-you-best” but when the magic is good it can lift you above any pain, any loss or despair  and sustain you, validate you, complete you- because in part, it IS you.

    We four sisters come by all this naturally,  having grown up watching our mother and her sisters, and our grandmother with her sisters alternately support and undermine, love and avoid each other. The sister relationship contains onion layers of affection and hate, competition and unwavering support, approval and resentment all nestled inside each other, contradicting each other making the eyes water and the tongue burn with things said and left unsaid.

     I do not know the bond of brotherhood,  but those of you who have no sisters cannot begin to fathom all that is contained in that small word.
     A sister is a mystery wrapped within an answer, a nemesis wrapped in a hero, a pain in the ass contained within a best friend. Because the sister who will slap you silly if she catches you touching her stuff will also beat the snot out of anyone she catches tormenting you.

     The sister who will still never let you forget the day in 1979 when you borrowed- and tore- her blue sweater is the same one who emptied out her closet and jewelry box for you when she heard that your ex was going to be at the Christmas party with his new girlfriend and you needed to look really, really fine.

     The one who gets out a calculator to figure exactly how much you owe her  every time you split the check at lunch is the one who quietly left 50 dollars on your kitchen counter  when she knews money was tight.

     You know the sister who has no children is the one who will tell you how to raise yours, and the sister with two divorces is the one who
gives you advice on men!
     But the sister who is working 2 jobs herself  is the one who makes cupcakes for your kids’ birthday party because you’ve been taking care of a sick baby all week.
     And the sister whose own life is so screwed up that she seems to be spinning in circles is your first and best lifeboat when you feel your own sanity circling the drain.

     Your sisters are the millstones around your neck and the wings at your back.
     They are the Gladys Kravitz’s of your life, always peering through the drapes, clucking their tongues,  gossiping and spreading rumors about you.
     They are also the superheros,  who will defend you even when you are wrong, love you even when you are hateful, and wait quietly on the porch to drive you home after your tearful break up with that stupid man  that they warned you never to get involved with in the first place.

     A sister can hurt you like no one else in the world and is the one you know you can always count on to make you feel better.

    Sisters come from the same place. They share much of the same stuff. They sat staring at their green beans through the same horrible fights  between your mom and dad, and they too wondered if somehow it wasn’t all their fault.
     They remember falling asleep to the sound of rain on the roof  of your grandparents’ summer cabin, with cousins sleeping like grubby, happy puppies all around, and how perfect and simple the world seemed then.
    They swore with you the same oath 30 years ago to never let mom find out how the window really got broken.

     A younger sister remembers when she thought you were the smartest, strongest,  most amazing person she knew. She watched in awe as you fought your battles,  knowing you were making things just a little easier for her when her time came.
      Your older sister still remembers when you were tiny and helpless
and momma let her hold you for a minute,  and made her promise to always keep you safe.

     Because, if she is your Gladys Kravitz,  your sister is also the Ethyl Mertz to your Lucy ricardo. She’ll get you into trouble and be the voice of reason to keep you out of it. She’ll laugh with you, and at you,
and listen to you even when you aren’t making any sense.
    And when the bon-bons are coming too fast down the conveyor belt in your life she’ll be right beside you, stuffing them into her mouth just as fast as she can.
     She will rat you out in a heart beat- and take your secret to her grave.

    My sisters are the best friends I will ever have,  probably because they know me better than anyone else ever will. Which is probably why I want, so frequently, to kill them and hide the bodies. They know every single button I have and how to push them,  just with the power of their own minds.

While I did not fully appreciate it growing up,  I thank my parents now for giving me so many sisters. In fact, I once apologized to my daughter for breaking the chain and giving her no sisters at all. But having often witnessed the family coven in all its gorey glory,  she just laughed and said “It’s ok mom- I’m kind of grateful for that!”

Sweetheart, there was a time when I too would have gladly traded  a few of my bossy, opinionated, domineering, controlling, beautiful, perfect, all-the-teachers-think-she’s-SO smart sisters for a room of my own.
     But I’ve had a few decades to look life and death, joy and sorrow,
loneliness and companionship square in the face, and I realize how important it is to know that someone has your back…
even if they might be giving you the finger while they’re back there.
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    No, I wouldn’t trade my crazy sisters for anything.

    We all know the story of Lazarus, how Jesus rolled away the stone and called to him, “Lazarus, come out!” and raised him from the dead.  But suppose  Lazarus had decided not to come out?
    What if he preferred to stay dead?

     Lazarus had no doubt had a life of toil, and probably a painful illness and death. After 4 days of peace and quiet in the tomb, death was probably getting pretty comfortable. Suppose Lazarus had thought about it, and realized that he was going to die again, after all, and Jesus probably wouldn't be there to fix things.
    Hey, it could be even worse the next time! I could be eaten by a lion!
    Thanks JC, but… I’m cool.

     I believe that many of us grow to like being dead, after a while. Oh sure, it isn’t our first choice in life, but given time,  after a few years or decades, we get pretty cozy there.
     We know our way around.
     We’re used to the drama of it all, and the sympathy, and all the people speaking in hushed tones about us because of our, you know, condition.
   And so when someone tries to lift us up, to resurrect our hope and self-confidence- to give us back our lives by helping us to kick a habit, leave an abusive relationship or whatever has us entombed- to make a new start and go in a new direction, we say,
    “Thanks but… I’m gonna pass.  I’m good with being dead, actually.”
     I’ve grown quite comfortable with my addiction, with my anger. The winding shroud of my victimhood fits me pretty well, don’t you think? This may not be the best gig out there, but I know how to do it.
    I’ve figured out how to do “dead”.
    I don’t know how to be healed. I don’t remember  how to be clean or sober, to forgive my tormentors, to love myself, or to look at each new day as an opportunity.

     Sometimes, being dead is easier than being alive. It can be quite frightening to step out of the tomb  that poverty, abuse, disease or rejection has created, with that stone rolled oh-so safely in front of the door, and all our excuses ready-made.

   Sure, we ask for healing, but when we realize what it takes, it scares the crap out of us. Well, “The devil you know” as they say.
     For every story of someone who was lifted up and given a new life by the kindness and love of another, there must be many more who were afraid to answer the call, afraid to come forth and blink their once-dead eyes at the now unfamiliar light of day.
     What if I do it wrong? What if I drag myself out into the sunlight and no one likes the new me? What if I don’t like the new me?

     Sometimes its just safer to stay dead. People can be cruel, and life can be very, very hard to live with courage and grace.
     And you know, we all have a comfort zone, a quiet little cave that we may be loathe to step out of, even though we know we probably should.
     Our friends tell us it’s not a pleasant place to be.
     It’s damp and  full of rocks, and there are big-ass spiders in the corners!
     But if we leave this place, leave our co-dependency, our martyrdom or our self-hatred,  then where are we gonna hide when the rain starts to fall? Because you know, sooner or later, the rain is gonna fall.  It's no wonder we sometimes just put our fingers in our ears and hum very loudly when one of the imperfect but oh so precious little saints that surround us all starts calling,
     “Lazarus, Come out! Come out and live again"

    It's not easy to be someone's savior, but it's no walk in the park to be saved. We are all impressed with the miracle of Jesus calling Lazarus to come forth, but few of us give Lazarus enough credit for the courage it took to be willing to get up and enter this crazy world one more time.