underneath

"momma, can we go outside? i want to hug the bees. i know they will want to play today. i just know it."
She shot me the, for god's sake not again, look - how many times can a kid get stung before she stops this?
"now sweetie, the bees are very busy and can't understand that you want to play with them. please stay away from the rhododendron and find something else to do."
Like any willful four year old, I sure as hell was going straight for that giant bee-filled bush. I entered into the lush igloo, looking to make sure my momma wasn't watching me. In I sat, beneath the magenta blossoms that swirled in fragrant layers above me. I could hear my momma's voice and smell cigarette smoke, which meant she was on the phone.
I'm underneath, in my own world of right and wrong and no one knows I'm here. Except the bees. And today they will stop to play.
"hi, it's me. will you play with me today?"
With a grin of assuredness, I reached my small hand upward into the canopy of flowers filled with bees of all sizes and kinds. My prowling fingers approached a fat bumblebee dusted in furry pollen. Like a prospector to gold, I carefully plucked the bee from the blossom. Bang, I was shot in the palm and throbbing pain ensued.
Deep within, a fury rose from my stomach to chest, chest to mouth. No, no don't scream Julia or momma will know you are here again and she told you not to. She told you not to play with bees.
Underneath, I listened to the cacophony of their wings as my hand throbbed in unison. My momma laughed in the background and I realized she still hadn't seen me in the forbidden bush. I looked at my hand covered in holes and bumps from previous stings and then at the fresh stinger lodged in it. It hurt so badly. Why wouldn't they play with me?
I closed my eyes, laid down and smelled the grey smoke wafting between branches.
Underneath, I wanted to love and I wanted to play. But it sure did hurt. Tomorrow, I would try again.

the last hurrah

With breakfast in our bellies, my children eagerly engaged Grandpa in a cutthroat game of Go Fish.  They delighted in my parents coming for a visit to the island and had drafted a tight schedule of activities and adventures for Grandma and Grandpa.  I was washing up the last of the dishes when my mom approached as though holding a mischievous secret.  “Let’s get ready for our lunch date.  What do you think?” Perplexed by her offer, as we had just eaten, I flashed her a curious smile.  We had a long-standing tradition of noon rendezvous, just the two of us feasting and delving into a myriad of conversational topics.  It was sacred mother daughter time so when she called me to court I didn’t so much as question her intentions.

I kissed the heads of those blissfully lost in play and we headed to the car.  Once we sat, my mom grabbed my hand and looked me in the eyes.  “This is the last time I will be able to come and visit you.  Here’s what I want to do darling.  Drive us to the grocery store.  Buy me a bottle of white, buy yourself a bottle of red and we will head to Dockton Park.  I have things I need to tell you.”

Struck in this moment, I realized my mother was dying.  All the talk about cancer, treatments or lack there of, and hospice had not prepared me for the sudden acknowledgement that I would lose my mother.  This was it.  Our last hurrah. 

“You got it momma.”  I wasn’t drinking at the time because I was emotionally at war and alcohol fueled the enemy.  But hell if I wasn’t going to drink with my mother on this day.  In godspeed there we were, 10am in the store buying wine.  No food.  We didn’t have time.  And we marched back to the car and drove straight to the park.

The bitter February rain relentlessly pelted the car.  We parked in the upper parking lot looking out into the gray face of winter.  Raising our bottles, we drank like two queens of the Nile.  Time ceased and the water of Quartermaster Harbor froze before us.  The car erupted with laughter and rich stories, reflections, and gratitude. Everything came flying out of this 35-year-old cornucopia of memories. As we neared the bottom of our bottles my mother was preparing for a last toast.  She went to pour into her paper cup and missed it completely hosing the entire center console in sweet elixir. Tears of hilarity folded us together. Arm in arm, love engulfed us whole. 

Several hours passed.  It was time to take mom home. Like bringing a drunk teenager in after curfew, I snuck her past the watchful eyes of my father and tucked her into bed.  She definitely needed a nap. I lifted the blanket up to her cold hands and put my lips to her cheek.  Tears traversed our faces.  “Sleep well momma.”  Her eyes closed and I stood there marveling at each breath of her body until the sound of my son calling me drew me from the room. 

a letter to loss

When you ask me how I’m coping with the recent loss of my mother, my response reflects the confusion of a Magic 8 Ball:

I’m OK.  I’m so fucked up.  I’m lugging around a screaming heart in my chest.  I’m a whitewater of love.  I’m wickedly blind.  I’m dying.  Come back later.

And it’s hard not to be hard on myself.  See, there I go again.  But the truth is, no one really knows how to accept death because every death is different.  Well, there are a handful of folks who seem to have a grasp, but as a person staring into the shadows of loss, I can say there are more unmarked trails than lit ones. 

There is no 12-step plan to manage or to stop this grief.  I’m suspect to the negligence of any claims that love will obey and isn’t ruled by total chaos because the deeper penetrated my arterial vein, the more I spin into the unknown, be it into ecstasy or horror.  Or both.  Most certainly into both. 

The best response I can give you right now is that I am learning to be a constant dancer.  I birthed both of my babies while fearlessly swaying and stomping across wooden floors, so it figures that in the face of death I’d be sweaty in the core of the mosh pit.  Every day reflects a newfound embodiment of letting go.  Interpretive dance at its rawest. 

Some days I’m arm and arm with love.  My mother is so close I can feel her peppery breath to my cheek, and the warmth of her fingers on my shoulder.  Other times I’m standing alone at the middle school dance, paralyzed and awkwardly reaching out for hope, for a body, only to find false idols and blisters. 

Then comes Sunday, the day my mom left her life, when I hit into textured walls of nostalgia and longing.  My nose bleeds and the ache burns my bare feet up to my chest and out through my skinny arms.  I look for her and she is nowhere.  I call for her into darkness.  Like a child in the throes of tantrum, I scream violently for her throwing myself against the door that separates us until I succumb to surrender.

This continues day after day, week after week.  And damn, the only thing I know is that I’m so thankful my mother taught me to dance in our living room.  Without those moves I’d have no idea how to waltz with life and with death now. One step at a time.

 

gatekeeper

as the gatekeeper of a lighthouse, i must close the gate at dusk every night.  time had moved blackness forward and i wandered into it with wet cheeks and a mascara blur.  the white metal barrier awaited my governance - when left open it was access to a northwest nirvana, and when closed resulted in a begrudging reroute with a hefty side of historical disappointment.  and here i am left as the one holding the precious padlock to a person's offbeat travels.

i started to sob wholeheartedly again.  clutching the tiny key in hand, i pictured it as the entrance or exit point of every relationship i've had.  be it the lock down or lock out of a lover, every flavor of this moment landed like chicken bone in my throat and i was gagging on its rigidity as i walked to the gate.

then i heard a sound -- youth suddenly penetrating my monologue of middle-aged medivalism.  a boy and a girl laughing.  talking about the mountain and midterms, about how pretty her eyes were.  that they were in the dark alone.  i froze like a cowboy in a spaghetti western.  these kids were here after hours and i couldn't shut the gate until i escorted them out.  so i approached softly inquiring if they were the inhabitants of the black jetta in the parking lot.

they sweetly apologized and i recanted my efforts as porter by nearly gifting them the beach itself.  "what you're doing is precious,' i said.  (and i want it too.)  "don't stop.  go to another beach and keep talking like this."

they drove away and i locked the gate.
i can't wait to open it again.

foot speak love

beneath you

my naked foot

reminds me

it's time.

your beauty 

eclipses the moon gaze

and i awake embraced -

full of shameless hope.

midnight jazz 

we wander through

pages unscripted.

write with me.