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.

    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.

Ladies and gentlemen,
spectators and poets,
I rise tonight  in praise of the article, the conjunction
and of the gentle letter "A".

Like you I have heard the lessons
passed on by too many novice teachers of writing,
their diplomas still new on the wall.
I have heard the gosple of poetry as a purely enigmatic art form.
It is preached by men with balding pony tails and questionable personal hygiene,
sipping espresso in seedy cafes,
that a poem that makes sense
is mere pabulum for the massses.
And, like you, I have witnessed the carnage of syntax and sense
that can result from strict adherence to these fundamentalist beliefs.

My fellow writers of verse-
I come before you tonight to suggest that the word "the"
is not a thing to be shunned, but rather embraced,
for the lowly article and the simple conjunction
are the glue that holds language in place.
It is my belief,
my fellow explorers of the remote back country and high, craggy reaches of muse
that the pronoun, the preposition and even the unpreposessing period
can be the foundation of understanding and enlightenment.

I believe that a poem, like a car, has many parts
which are complex and bewildering to the casual observer:
catalytic converters, labyrinthine electrical systems,
convoluted transmission and enigmatic differentials.
I submit to you that these constructs are the nouns and verb-age of poetry
and like car parts, it is not always necessary to understand them,
to appreciate them.
It follows that if adjectives are the leather upholstery, burled walnut dash,
heated power mirrors and six-speaker stereo system of verse,
then the lowly conjunctions, articles and pronouns
are the nuts and bolts and superglue that hold the machine together
and enable the listener to glide along the highways to understanding.

For a pile of parts,
no matter how complex their engineering or luxurious their appearance,
will not transport your friends from here to there,
and a pile of words, no matter their lovely shape and pleasing juxtaposition
will not take your audience where you are trying to go!

A poem is a tower we build to lift our listeners, along with ourselves
to the apex of lyrical enlightenment;
our apotheosis from mere ground-dweller to the divine.
And if some build their towers a bit too high for the rest of us to breathe
the rarified air at their dizzying heights,
no matter.
For when the tower is constructed with empathy for the reader
and liberal use of verbal mortar and nails
we can at least admire the beauty of line and form
even if we rise only a bit above sea level.
And perhaps at some later date
we might yet puzzle our way up the winding staircase
and attain the author’s point of view.

But the poet who only piles interesting words higher and higher
with no attempt to connect the vocabulary in anything resembling human conversation
constructs only a pile of words:
provocative to regard
but un-enticing, even dangerous to climb.

In some cases, understanding is not even their goal.
Some poets are of that breed
who scatter words like New Year’s Eve confetti
in an attempt to convey
only the impression of their own profound intelligence
and formidable spiritual depth,
believeing the listener will think that they do not understand the work
only because they are not yet worthy.

I would remind my fellow writers that all too often
absolutism in pursuit of such linguistic fragmentation
engenders in the listener- not humble awe,
but a mad urge to rush the stage and overturn the lectern
or, in the more dexterous,
thoughts of fashioning some sort of noose from drinking straws
 to bring a quick end to this tyranny of words.

And it is with keen memory of this very desire fresh in my own breast
that I would exhort this august assemblage tonight
that there is no sin in explaining what you mean,
and that many a well-intentioned verse
could benefit from a more liberal application of the word "The".

Thank you, Madame Moderator.
I now surrender the floor and my remaining time to the next writer.

Attention customers!
The management and staff would like to take this opportunity to remind you
that this store was not put on earth
to be your personal coffeecup holder,  playpen or toybox.
The proper place to dispose of your half-empty vente soy decaf latte
is not on a shelf of scrapbook paper.
We have trash cans. Ask us!

Also, please do not allow your children
to wipe their noses on the new autumn suedes collection,
chase each other up and down the aisles
or climb on shelves filled with glass objects.
We do not  appreciate you letting them open boxes and distribute the contents
or color with the sharpie markers on our floor tiles simply because-
hey, it keeps them from bugging you while you chat on your phone
about your nail appointment tomorrow.

No, the fact that you have to get little Madison to soccer by four
does not entitle you skip to the head of the line,
it simply demonstrates your poor time management
and a herd mentality when it comes to chosing names.

This is a craft store. It says so in big letters on the front of the building.
We do not sell office supplies, tube socks or milk,
regardless of how convenient it would be for you if we did.
So don’t get in my face about what we don’t carry,
as if I personally made the decision not to stock it
because I knew you were coming in and wanted to ruin your day!

Please do not attempt to communicate with me through hand gestures
or by mouthing words across your cell phone call.
If you can not hang up long enough to speak to me
I will go assist a customer who can!
I may work for menial wages, but I have a college degree-
magne cum laude, bitch!- so don’t talk to me like I rode the short bus to school!
Ok, I have poor career planning skills,
but I can still write an expository paper- with footnotes!-
on a book I"ve never read, in an hour and a half,
that would make any English teacher in America weep with joy!

And by the way, we announced 10 minutes ago that the store is closing.
Unless you are taking out the trash or cleaning our bathrooms,
that means you have to go home!
News flash: even retail drones have homes and lives,
and we would like to get back to them as soon as possible.
So put down the glue gun, go get your child
(who is around the corner opening packages of modeling clay by the way-
thanks for that!)
and get the hell out of here!

For your convenience, this store will re-open tomorrow at 9 AM.
Please feel free to come back then because tomorrow is my day off!
Thank you and have a pleasant evening.

Ancient feet once trod through the mud of a prehistoric river
that has long since turned to stone.
These few, faint impressions-
all that is left to tell the story of that ancient journey
all that remains of the fears, struggles, hopes and dreams
of some long forgotten life.

Dark scratches on a folded piece of paper
tucked inside an envelope-
a loop, a whorl,
dotted and crossed:
just a letter you once sent,
but all that now remains of your thoughts of me that day,
footprints locked in the stone of our past.

Variations of light and dark, of bright and shadow,
a petrified smile in Kodachrome that once was you.
Your hand reaches out to touch my shoulder
frozen, mere inches from contact,
forever unconnected now.

Flickering images on celluloid pretend to be you,
waving at the camera at your birthday party.
Magnetic flecks on a bit of tape-
use your voice to ask me to,
"Leave a message at the beep".

What good to me is a letter
without the hand that wrote it?
Yet I surround myself with these fossils,
the burned images of our own Pompeii,
tucked in boxes, slipped into a drawer.
They comfort me and they mock me
for they have journeyed with me into the present
but you are forever in the past
leaving me only these footprints in stone.

I can touch them,
but they do not contain you,
these marks and shapes, this sound and shadow.
Yet sometimes, if I stand within your footprints
and listen carefully to the stillness
as I open myself up wide
I feel you,
trembling on the brink between past and present
and the stone grows soft again beneath me
from your recent passing.