Tagged: poetry

Still She Tugs

Biggest surprise of my life? Parenting. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape feeling the complete and utter awe that surrounds the totality of the parenting experience. And yet, despite parenting being a nearly indescribable wonder, there is one moment–one fairly common and frequent action–that keeps surfacing which illustrates it perfectly.

More than the always surprising bump of my hand into hers as we begin to walk toward and away from the car, more than her exasperating desire to be picked up just when I finally can leave the hamburger helper to simmer on the stove, more than her double-checking nightly that after story-time when I get up to turn off the light I will be coming back to rub her for a bit before leaving her alone to dream, more than all these things is her firm tug on my fingers when she recognizes we will be parting for whatever practical reason.

I make her go to her bed when she’s “not even sleepy!” twice a day, and because I am sleepy I linger in my bed when she wants me to get out of it. Still she tugs.

Recently she brought over a toy digital camera and demonstrated first-hand just how annoying it must be to have me tell her that I’ll only be another minute on the laptop or phone for fifteen minutes at a time. (Point taken.) Still she tugs.

I bull-headedly push my play-time agenda to the point of tears when all she wants is to be with me. Still she tugs.

I make her wait as I putz around doing who knows what because I’m not looking forward to sitting on the ground to play stuffed-animals. Still she tugs.

I dictate the order in which she eats her meal and drinks her drink. Still she tugs.

I never let her play in the bath after she’s clean. Still she tugs.

I choose the bedtime story more often than not because I know that these stories will have a lasting impact. Still she tugs.

And no matter how much I want to stay with her, my decisions have given her the memory of constantly leaving one of her parents for the other for an entire childhood. And still she tugs.

I Killed Church

Arrest me. Do it soon. I need to feel the cold steel of handcuffs around my wrists. I am even okay with the sharp-edged plasticky feel of zip-ties. Hurry up and place a guiding hand on my head as I step into the back seat of a squad car.

I did it. I confess. It was over a decade ago. I cannot remember the exact day but I remember why I did it. He had become weak. He had lost his edge. He was no different than anyone else. He did not even know my name.

Replace my name with a number. You can have my personal effects. I look forward to putting on a jump suit. My favorite letters are D O and C. I will wear them with pride.

I never wanted to hurt him. You should know that. But I did it just the same.

So what if it was negligence. I am still the guilty party. I saw his thirst for more money. I heard his desire for a bigger house. I felt his demand for more friends.

I prefer powdered soap. I have no friends. I have no family. No one will miss me.

He disgusted me. So I killed him the only way I knew how. I left him.

I thought I saw him last Sunday. I was mistaken. The man I saw was just an imitation. He was older. He would not offend. He would not provoke. He would not incite. He would not love. I knew then that I must confess my crime. The world needs to know. Church is dead. I know because I killed him.

Pizza

But what is it?

Not just bread and cheese and sauce, no.  This meal fit for God himself is so much more.

It is the sound of the loveliest doorbell.  It is the acceptable apology for the mealtime “oops!”  It is the welcoming party when the vacation ends.

It is the taste of summertime birthdays.  It is the texture of picking which movie to watch first.  It is the height of soda can towers.

It is the singing clock’s twelve chimes reminding all that Friday is gone.   It is the placing of a small hand into a big one.  It is the compromise between parents and children.

It is soda’s groom.

It is breakfast.  It is lunch.  It is dinner.  It is the substance of every moment in between.

It is nourishment.  And as nourishment, it is life itself.

Is it worthy of worship, this pizza?

Yes.  An unapologetic, unabashed, unable to understand yes.

Sounds of Life

His fingers slid along the front side of the envelope.  He recognized the sender as one capable of bearing no news or bad news.  The fear of bad news might be why he heard his fingers as they slid, a sort of low hiss.  He was near his breaking point.  His body was on full alert.  Finding a slight opening near the seal, he heard the envelope tear as he wondered why anyone would ever buy a letter opener.  He unfolded the pages, hyper-extending the crease with a pop.  Next, the sound of paper against paper filled his ears as his left hand unveiled the second page.

Then, there was no sound.

In that moment, in that void, he did what any good soul does when receiving bad news.  He used the limitless silence to escape.  He filled the silence with questions, with doubts, with denial.  That led to him filling the silence with Lawrence Fishburne’s voice.  “You have to let it all go Neo.  Fear.  Doubt.  Disss-Bee-lief.”  Finally, he filled the void with a smile.  Because the truth was–the truth was that from rock bottom there is only one way out.  Up.

Then, as always, laughter broke the silence.

The Motion Picture

Our widening eyes betray our excitement.  The air conditioner kicks on as we finish up our cereal.  It’s ten-thirty.  We’re going to go see a movie after she comes home from work.  We feel like framing the note she used to share this fact with us, and yet, somehow we know this wouldn’t be a strong enough commendation.  Instead, we re-read it a hundred times and blacken our fingertips as we vigorously review the showtimes in the day’s newspaper.

Scanning the areas she’s most likely to notice upon entrance, we clear the table of dishes, pick up a few pairs of shoes from the hallway, and make a few lines on the carpet with the vacuum.  It’s perfect.  Nothing will detour the event.

During the car ride, the escape begins.  Upon purchasing the tickets, we forget that an entire world exists outside the theater.  The pit stop before heading into the theater is where we last think about eating or drinking ever again.  The previews, the last time we consider looking any direction but forward.  The final removal of light marks the beginning of what we hope will never end.  Good-bye pain, good-bye disappointment, good-bye change, good-bye ambiguity, good-bye senselessness, good-bye sadness, good-bye despair.  Hello clarity, hello love, hello passion, hello happiness, hello resolution, hello caring, hello hope.

Hello hope.