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Big Chance

2012-02-16T12:41:00.000-08:00

The Craig’s List ad forwarded to me by a friend said, Attention getting sneezes for TV. We are looking for a woman 18-50 for a dual position as a spokesperson and commercial work. Must be outgoing, well-spoken, physically fit and the ability to sneeze on camera. Allergies are a plus. The commercial pays a minimum of $5200. Looking for funny/dramatic/loud or attention-getting sneezes. Contact us for guidelines.

I flashed to the front steps of my aunt’s house. I was seven, watching my cousins somersault on the grass while I sneezed, still writhing from the grass-induced itch up and down my back and rubbing my eyes to a state we called “jelly eye.” I remembered the spring I visited a friend just outside Eugene, OR in the hills, surrounded by farms. I arrived Friday afternoon for a weekend gathering of friends and food. They were mowing the four-foot tall grass when I arrived. I sneezed like I would never stop; I sneezed until my chest caved in, my stomach nauseous from the convulsion and my nose red and raw from wiping and blowing. My puffy eyes and wheezing lungs spent the weekend sleeping off the allergy hangover. Boy can I sneeze.

Visions of a Flexible Flyer

2012-01-16T18:35:00.000-08:00

People in Western Oregon and Washington are so manic about snow that forecasts trigger rumblings about impending storms that become THE topic of discussion. Because it is so rare, we love snow. We just don't know what to do when it falls. The forecast for the past weekend promised flurries at least by Sunday, likely Monday. And we commenced the great countdown. We hunger to rescue the Flexible Flyer from the rafters in the garage to slice down the snow covered hill in front of the house. To put this in perspective Valdez, Alaska has more than 322 inches of snow and continues business as usual while people here who MAY see a flurry refuse invitations to go out and have been released from work tomorrow because it might snow.

A different perspective

2012-01-04T11:23:00.000-08:00

Exhalations from the lips of bundled athletes discharge and then disappear beneath bare branches wearing mossy sweaters while birds practice jungle gym tricks and pretend it's spring.

Don't let the holidays bum you out

2011-11-23T22:24:00.000-08:00

There's a new year around the curve

Sunday hugging is for believers

2011-10-15T12:01:00.001-07:00

The unpredictable urge to hug strangers perplexed him, and grew little by little. It had been weeks since he’d been out, and something told him it was time. While it was hard to think of hugging as an addiction, the thought had crossed his mind. He rolled and secured, then packed two signs in his backpack, the tired but trusted original he handmade some months before, and a brand new manufactured one his daughter had commissioned for him for Christmas. He hadn’t been able to tell her, but he wasn’t sure he could use it. He worried it might appear too official, make him less approachable. He had a cross-town errand to run, and on his way home a bright spot on the waterfront esplanade caught his eye. As he parked Grace, his VW van and headed toward the river he had no clue that Sunday hugging is for believers.

Lovely pears

2011-10-12T19:52:00.000-07:00

Knowing

there is a pantry full

of sweetness

relaxes muscles

tensed by uncertainty

and half-completed dreams.

Free hugs

2011-10-08T13:24:00.000-07:00

He cleared off his cluttered desk, reached for a piece of blank paper and a marker the color and smell of licorice, giving no thought to whether or not it was weather-proof. Outlining large block letters to fill the page, he wrote, “FREE HUGS” and saturated the white space with the pungent ink. He could feel the adrenalin surge like he used to feel painting charcoal under his eyes or getting his ankles taped before a big game.

But he didn’t go that day. He didn’t go the next day either. On the third day he knew it was time. He put on his helmet, fired up his midnight blue Vespa and heeded the call of the urban university campus buzzing with the anticipation of fall quarter. It was a safe place, a friendly place where he might find huggers. His thoughts occasionally veered from the twelve miles of sunny road to worst case scenario. Rather than concern himself with being mugged or robbed, he worried no one would hug him.

Ansel's Yosemite

2011-09-28T18:35:00.000-07:00

An accomplished musician, Ansel Adams used photographs to communicate what he felt about the landscape around him. Most of the rest of us snap photos.

The home movies of Ansel and his well-known companions climbing gear-poor at the top of ice-topped mountains were filmed by his wife Virginia, an energetic athlete who was in good enough shape to do what the climbers were doing while lugging heavy equipment.

Travel light

2011-08-15T17:54:00.000-07:00

Down time

2011-08-03T21:40:00.000-07:00

Go hang out.

Stop, look and

2011-08-01T21:16:00.000-07:00

see what's lovely right in front of your nose.

Take a hike

2011-07-29T19:55:00.000-07:00

Chill

2011-07-28T20:32:00.000-07:00

Don't be so serious

2011-07-27T19:25:00.000-07:00

you forget how to have fun.

Daily commute

2011-07-25T21:35:00.000-07:00

Alternative energy

2011-07-24T20:31:00.000-07:00

There's magic

2011-07-04T20:35:00.001-07:00

just outside your window.

2011-06-25T13:24:00.001-07:00

Some things are worth waiting for.

Everyone has an opinion

2011-06-23T07:43:00.000-07:00

2011-06-22T07:57:00.000-07:00

When imagination and talent intersects with need.

Walk to work

2011-06-21T19:46:00.000-07:00

Stop traffic and kiss

2011-06-19T20:56:00.000-07:00

Look for

2011-06-13T11:59:00.000-07:00

beauty in the rain.

Giddy over camas and brambles

2011-04-30T13:04:00.001-07:00

The exquisite world of native plants.

A true friend

2011-04-28T17:04:00.000-07:00

looks good no matter how long it's been.

Don't be afraid

2011-04-21T16:17:00.000-07:00

get up close.

Make it a great day

2011-04-20T09:47:00.000-07:00

Find something that tickles you pink.

2011-04-19T15:01:00.001-07:00

May you have someone who stands beside you and supports your growth.

Peg's tulips

2011-04-07T17:24:00.000-07:00

No wonder Peg's tulips are radiant, she nourishes the soil each year with her hands and her heart.

Count your blessings

2011-03-21T20:43:00.000-07:00

Imagine how difficult life would be if your first name was Skunk, your last name was Cabbage and you smelled like both, especially in the sun.

Let go Winter

2011-03-13T17:47:00.000-07:00

Your resistance is futile.

Something happening here

2011-02-23T21:30:00.000-08:00

The cat asked to go out after showing patience for a good part of the winter. "Time to chew on some weeds," he stared, the grassy remnants of last year's crop reflecting from the deck pot through the glass door into his face. A gift of sorts because had I not opened the door I might have missed the cacophony of birds filling the green way, beyond excited because . . .

Sue's crocus are back, old friends with golden hearts who show up no matter what.

And there's trilliums unfurling along the river, calling me to their christening.

Peg's pansies can't be too far off.

Happy Valentines Day

2011-02-14T16:41:00.000-08:00

To my hero.

Memorable Michoacan

2011-02-11T20:22:00.000-08:00

"Everything is for sale in Mexico," someone told me before I headed for Michoacan. What I noticed is everyone works to contribute. Young alongside old, families sell things from shops and booths; street vendors offer maps and trinkets, specialty food items and assistance (a hand with your luggage perhaps), even a song.

Clowns impress motorists during red lights at large intersections to earn a few pesos.

Those who dance, dance, and then they pass the hat.

Those who make sopas and tamales sell them face to face on the street and table-side at outdoor restaurants. Those who shine shoes line the city streets or carry mobile units available on call.

And they start very young.

2010-12-28T17:50:00.000-08:00

on Earth

2010-11-29T09:42:00.000-08:00

Illuminated fronds
Stand with sentry stiffness,
Ladders for pixies
Lingering in the sun.

2010-11-21T18:07:00.000-08:00

There you lay
Skinny fingers stretching
Across the creek
Like a goblin reaching for a small child.
I never said thank you
For being the perch for
the speckled breast
and orange throat of the flicker
I learned to love.
Or for being the cupboard
Where squirrels scrambled
In and out of their winter stash.
The tenor crack before you fell
Called me from the second floor;
I wondered from above how quickly
The beaver will skin your hide
Transform you in the landscape
To a pile of sticks.

Signs of change

2010-11-11T18:51:00.000-08:00

There are kids back in the neighborhood, the last ones grew up and moved away. Except one who rides around in a broken down Honda carting the kid she birthed at 14. These kids have braces and blemishes and roam the street in packs, one part charming, one part suspicious and
two parts just plain kid. They navigate the attention from the neighbor lady walking past them toward the store. "There's kids back in the neighborhood," she greets them, gratefully. "I just moved in down the street," boasts one pony-tailed brunette. "My kids were your age when we moved in. Glad you're here." The promise of change swirls just above their heads marking their sacred crossing.

Manzanita beach creatures

2010-10-22T20:20:00.002-07:00

sunset-breasted love birds

black-tipped swallow sail

red-crested fly-by

Bridge of the Gods

2010-09-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

The Bridge of the Gods in Cascade Locks sits exquisitely between conifer forests in Oregon and Washington about 50 miles east of Portland.

Rivals Burlington Northern Sante Fe (BNSF) and Union Pacific (UP) run opposite each other, the BNSF tracks on the Washington shore and the UP in Oregon. On both sides Native American fishing platforms dot the river east of Bonneville Dam; gifted to the local tribes, they were restitution for the seizure and demise of sacred fishing grounds at Celilo Falls.

Teach children to dance for peace

2010-09-27T13:43:00.000-07:00

and then dance alongside them.

2010-09-19T17:12:00.001-07:00

I am grateful for sunrise draping Mt. Rainer in a pink nightgown, hugging her buxom crevaces, and for the man some miles away who misses me as I miss him. I am grateful to sit warm amongst clinking glasses and marinated satay while the toothless man without language begs food on the corner outside; and that even though the hungry man is gone as I exit, I am the kind of person who takes him dinner.

Flowing with nature

2010-09-04T15:38:00.000-07:00

Without regret or resistance she plucks brown and sticky blossoms with her own thirsty fingers, aware of the harvest tint replacing summer green around the deck and at her core. She inhales the spicy smell of fall and bolsters for the not-to-distant winter ahead.

Bring me a darling

2010-08-29T15:37:00.000-07:00

Bring me a darling whose gift for silliness makes me laugh till I cry, jaws and belly aching until I beg him to stop before I pee myself. Whisk us to the ocean to leave footprints in the sand while we breathe salt air, dodge the surf, search for keepsakes, then trade our shoes for boots and a horse named Charlie whose massive body, sweaty from the ride, thunders us down the beach scattering seagulls in his path. Plant us in the kitchen with spinach and dough and the good knife, tomato sauce bubbling in the iron skillet, noses full of garlic and a big red wine. Allow us to taste the creamy pudding, dense and chocolate. Make sure he stays into the night when our drowsy bodies turn over beneath blankets like twins in the womb, front to back spoons in a pillow-top drawer; skin to skin, legs intertwined, breath synchronized. We'll heave a sigh in praise of rest and surrender every fiber into stillness.

If you look close enough there's beauty in all things

2010-08-14T10:05:00.000-07:00

Because of budget cuts in the building of The Sellwood Bridge in Portland, Oregon, it has always been the ugly duckling of the city's ten main crossings. But if you get up close in morning light, its quiet beauty shines through.

Play with light

2010-08-04T08:42:00.003-07:00

Expect the light

Behold the light

Stand in the light

Be the light

Spread the light

2010-07-28T17:12:00.000-07:00

Be still and the universe will send you a gift.

Just add water

2010-07-23T15:07:00.000-07:00

2010-06-13T21:10:00.000-07:00

Blessed be the creatures. May they be free of the ravages of our arrogance and greed.

Voices in the greenway

2010-06-12T15:33:00.000-07:00

Mischievous voices in the greenway chatter and chirp, match pitch and tempo with the resident song.

The WOW factor--Oregon's Wallowa Mountains

2010-06-11T15:00:00.000-07:00

Looming as giants above the high desert on the northeast tip of Oregon, the Wallowa Mountains stand guard . . .

. . . over red barns overflowing with hay bundles and fields in Crayon colors--burnt sienna and raw umber.

Seventeen of the state’s 29 peaks over 9,000 feet are located here separating 50 glacial lakes.

Watchful hikers may see bighorn sheep, mountain goats, elk or mule deer and wander through meadows filled with dazzling wildflowers.

Longing for Italia

2010-06-07T15:25:00.000-07:00

The slow boat from Bardolino’s main square offers an unhurried trip to Malcesine on Lake Garda in the N.W. corner of Italy. Bardolino is on the south end of the lake where the terrain is quite flat. Northbound the land steps up and up, eventually connecting with the Alps some distance from the north end of the lake.

There is a beautiful castle on the shoreline, but the funivia ride up Mt. Baldo is the main attraction. The summit can be windy and chilly, but it’s difficult to care when the view is so spectacular.

Para-sailors dropping with jaws along the edge, a small village nestled in the crevices of the mountain, courageous little wildflowers huddled, smiling.

2010-05-02T13:27:00.000-07:00

Feed your soul . . .

in the sanctuary of your choice.

Mabel's grave

2009-05-25T19:41:00.000-07:00

After his death when we were preschoolers, my cousins and I heard nothing but loving tales about “Papa.” According to lore Papa adored us girls, bought us glazed and sugar donuts, sat us on his knee and let us dunk them in his coffee. He kept colorful wrapped candies in a round glass jar and a daily newspaper to read us “the funnies.” On special occasions Papa drove us around in his land yacht, a 1948 Plymouth, the three of us standing, holding on behind the front seat bench. His job as conductor made every train we saw “Papa’s train,” and kept Papa away from home in his younger years.

Grandma was a different story. Instead of an endearing pet name like they gave their father, they referred to her only as “Mabel.” My memories of her are scant, unmoved by scenes from old photos. I don’t remember ever hugging her, though that seems impossible. She was an old-looking 69 when she died. I was 11. My only real memory of Mabel is what she left behind in her bedroom.

Her single bed was covered by a floral spread, and pushed into the corner of the gabled roof line by the time we went “through her things.” Papa had been dead for years. Grey light whispered into two small windows and we were hit with the sweet smell of cold cream and bath powder. I remember some vague tension among the adults downstairs.

Our inspection of Mabel’s built-in tile vanity required a boost from her padded brocade bench. Our hungry fingers found the grey plastic organizer with its bobbie pins in one section, jeweled clip-on earrings and pieces in another, perfume bottles, buttons, two old garters. The clip-ons were too big for our little ears.

Her connecting bathroom was rectangular, with a waist-to-ceiling cupboard in the corner, at the head of the bathtub, its shelves as deep as we were tall. When there were no adults near, we climbed from the edge of the tub around into the cupboard, little monkeys looking for treasures; instead we found towels, toilet tissue, and some weird women things made of a soft pink plastic, well-beyond our understanding. When we played hide-and-go-seek during the week of Mabel’s estate liquidation, one of us inevitably chose the cupboard filled with Mabel’s sweet, powdery fragrance as our hiding place.

According to my Mom and Aunt, Mabel was sick a lot when they were growing up. No one ever talked about illness, so they didn’t know why she often stayed in bed. They just remember, with Mabel in bed and Papa at work, the eight of them grew up on their own, taking care of each other, with the explicit expectation that their actions made Papa proud.

“Pack your things; I gave you to Mrs. Kinney,” Mabel is supposed to have told my Mom when she was 15. The only backing for this claim is my Aunt’s sworn testimony. I can imagine my mother being a handful as a teenager. “Smart mouth,” I’ve heard my aunt say.

By the time my Mom and Aunt were in high school Mabel worked at a downtown hotel. One time they found Papa setting a trap for her with some elaborate toilet paper web attached to the front door, designed to expose her clandestine comings and goings with a rip of a sheet; an event that launched their campaign to discredit their mother and finally expose her as a “floozy.”

Many years later they even dug up an old man alleged to have been one of her boyfriends, a poor sap they called “Old Dad Tom”; who was as I recall, an incoherent old guy unable or unwilling to give them any dirt on Mabel. But it didn’t stop them from forever teasing their youngest sister that she was Old Dad Tom’s love child.

Considering these opinionated, depression-era women are not easily detracted by facts, we are left with only revisionist history. But legend remains, and as inheritors of the legacy, my cousins and I have been known to take advantage of a toddy-too-many at holiday celebrations to incite yet another rendition of their favorite story, the one about following Mabel downtown on the bus. “She’d throw that fox stole of hers around her shoulder and strut off to the bus stop, her hips swaying, bouncing the head and feet of that long-dead fox, her nose in the air, like she was somethin’ special. And then we followed her,” they’d cackle.

I had no idea the great depths of the feud with their mother, however, until I agreed to chauffeur them to their annual ritual of grave decorating almost fifty years after Mabel’s demise.

My aunt cradled flowers wrapped in paper as she climbed into my back seat. With Mom in the front, the three of us set out across town to the mausoleum where Papa and Mabel are buried. I vaguely remembered a macabre place, hall after hall, row after row of floor-to-ceiling marble tombs simply engraved with names, birth and death dates, and brackets holding vases-in-waiting. I remembered halls almost too dark to navigate and filled with a rotting smell.

As it turned out the place wasn’t as bad as I remembered, in fact, some exterior lighting had been coaxed inside by strategically placed stained-glass windows spilling color onto the walls and floor. Ahead of me the two of them descended the two flights of circular stairs, zeroing into the catacomb like homing pigeons. My Aunt beat us into the prep room at the end of the hall where families fashion garlands for loved ones. She emerged as we approached with the long handled “vase fetcher” and said something to my Mom like, “Neener, neener,” as if it had been a long-standing competition.

She pushed one of the two bouquets at me, directed us into the prep area and set the other bundle by the second sink. I obeyed. My Mom ignored her and headed off. I removed the wrapper and placed the paper and band into the under-counter garbage and noticed the clippers chained to each faucet. My Aunt returned in a flash, plunked a container in the holder above my sink and left again. I took this as a signal and pulled apart the stems as she called my Mom back from a chat with Papa in which she was conversing about the status of my uncle, the latest arrival to the “pearly gates.”

When she reappeared, my Aunt directed her to the sink closest to the door. They stuffed posies with the gentleness of garbage haulers. It’s about here I realized the bunch I was trimming and carefully placing were old and decrepit. I figured she had saved some money by buying day-old (whose gonna see ‘em, right) and said nothing.

At the same moment my Mom wailed, “Aren’t the flowers beautiful?” I figured she either couldn’t see well without her glasses or was doing an overboard gush when I looked and saw, in fact, it was big and gorgeous with bright and colorful lilies, daisies, carnations and a couple of red roses. They scurried out with the abundant gift to the tomb of their beloved father, while I attempted to make a decent arrangement—out of junk.

One of the stems of yellow lilies was translucent, wrinkled and brown on the edges. The bent petals on the two gerbera daisies alternated forward and backward like a plastic Hawaiian lei just unpacked. The two stems of white mums were acceptable and at least took up some real estate in the large jug. But the two Queen Anne’s lace were bent like candy canes and wilted like carrot tops left in the sun. They curled pathetically over the edge. Luckily there were three of those leafed stems used as filler, but because the finished work looked so empty and sad looking I told my Aunt when she returned to transport my contribution, “The red ones go in front.” She scooped up the bedraggled offering and disappeared—to Mabel’s grave.

I cleaned up the room and made my way to Papa’s side in the well-lit large hall where they had placed the remembrance, adding a small American flag for homage. They followed and stood beaming at their Father.

“Where’s Mabel?” I asked. A scan of the names around Papa didn’t include her. I followed them to the left and then right, down a lesser corridor to a dark corner where, above our heads, next to a fake window with a velvet drape, she rests behind a tomb decorated with tired old posies.

“Why aren’t Papa and Mabel together?” I asked no one in particular.

“We didn’t want her next to him because she wasn’t very good to him. She had boyfriends, you know,” my Aunt hissed.

Whole body celebration

2009-05-20T21:24:00.000-07:00

It’s a whole body celebration, even her hair follicles beam in the evening light. She began at sunrise with a cup of fresh ground coffee, berries and cream, wheat toast and a Google search for the answers to life’s questions. On the sun-filled upper deck she talked on the phone with forgiveness and compassion for the parent who calls too much, wants too much and struggles with life; and then connected at a distance with the child who seeks counsel, creates her own destiny. They laughed. She arranged a jamboree of information on the page with care and style in the comfort of her well-organized, south-facing office; added a coat of off-white paint to the cabinet that will grace the remodeled bathroom upstairs. She unwound along the river, matched tempo with the black and yellow bumble bees, inhaled their favorite nectar; stopped to look upward at the dignified flight of the heron, the erratic chase of the hawk. Now, on the flower-filled lower deck, hand effortless on the page, she waxes poetic beneath her glowing scalp.

Distraction

2009-04-01T10:39:00.000-07:00

My list is complete and my path is clear. But the kitty wanders in to my 3rd floor office, demands to be scratched, and I obey, taking time to comb his orange and white fur soft. My list catches my eye, but just as it comes into focus sweaty sox from the pile in the hall call to me to be laundered. After starting the load and running a rag around the grimy machine opening and across the dusty top of the dryer I return to my waiting list. I ready myself to dig in to the first “A1” when the doorbell rings and I run down the stairs to find the neighbor who has locked herself out and needs me to help boost her into the open bathroom window. Which I do, but she insists on making me a cup of tea and we talk longer than I really want because by now I hear my list beckoning me home. When I enter the door and pass the kitchen I realize my stomach is growling and cannot wait another minute for food. It takes some time to thaw out the soup I remove from the freezer and place into the microwave, but no worries because the newspaper sitting on the counter has an intriguing front-page story about a shady character that’s turned up missing with too many suspects to narrow, and no evidence there’s been foul play. My reverie with the mystery is interrupted by my list insisting from the upstairs office. "Egad," I think, as I look at the clock on the stove, and pour the hot soup in a cup. I carry it back to my desk and my list only to remember the clean clothes need to be transferred to the dryer, which I do, but there are several pieces that must be hung and no hangers in sight. I head to the basement for the extra stash and find that kitty has thrown up on the stairs. So I get some paper towels and a warm rag and clean up his mess, forgetting my original mission. On my way back upstairs to my list I discover the wet pile of clothes and descend, again, into the dark basement this time where I stumble on the stack of boxes meant for recycling and I remember about tomorrow’s pick-up. So I forget the hangers, dismantle three large and two small well-glued and stapled boxes and take them out to the bin, and take the bin to the top of the street. Feeling accomplished I head back upstairs to begin on my list, but run into the wet clothes. I abandon further hanger search and settle for laying the clothes on a variety of towels draped on racks and surfaces, which I do carefully to avoid those creases caused by uneven drying. And then I return to my list, only to find a text message from my unemployed daughter which reminds me I haven’t yet checked craigslist to make my daily contribution to her job search. I score a couple of leads and send them off to her and figure while I’m there I might as well check the furniture ads for the hard-to-find cabinet for the bathroom. While I’m online, a couple of emails arrive in my inbox, and as it turns out, require immediate attention. So I read and answer each, one requiring an attachment of a document I haven’t seen for more than a year. So I perform a document search under a couple of headings and finally scare it out of the archive and send it off. As I turn back to my list at last I notice the clock and the late hour. I realize that if I don’t put on the rice to cook now, dinner will be very late. And then there’s all that chopping that must be done for the meal. So I put my list front and center on my desk and figure I’ll start first thing in the morning, when I’m fresh and focused.

Undo

2009-03-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

I want an undo option on the keyboard of my life. Not for big stuff, but for small, mindless typos dotting my page. When I scrape my knuckle on the bathroom drawer it will unfold the warped flap of skin and before my eyes lay it back down healed. When I blurt out words that should be kept to myself, it will suck them back as if through a straw to the moment just before their utterance. When I drop a capless permanent marker that skids across my pant leg and lands tip down on my shoe it will rewind the action, leaving the surfaces clean and the pen back in my hand in time for me to add the cap. When I turn too sharply in the spiraling parking structure and scrape my van on an interior wall, it will replay the action with me two inches in the clear. My undo key must be hidden and safe; perhaps my armpit so I don't accidentally undo the undo, and break my nail in the frenzy.

Brain Drain

2009-03-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

At the instant your words reach my ears, inviting me to listen, the audible stream washes me from your side, hoses me like heavy rain down a storm drain, bound for the sewer of my brain. I struggle to hold on to the grate, to hear you through the chaos. Your voice fades to the background as a bubble encircles my head, fills with my own story of a time I felt exactly like you, which competes with a list of objections to your viewpoint and your tone, and is followed by a clear picture of what you should do next. Out of context, out of nowhere pops an inspiration for my next poem and the realization that you’re wearing new glasses. The cacophony ricochets from wall to wall, reduces your voice to a distant plea to be heard.

Leaving her brain behind

2009-02-19T21:44:00.001-08:00

Leaving her brain near the door, she steps into her body, penetrates the thick steam. Filtered sunlight casts the landscape outside onto the cool textured floor. For the first time in weeks she feels the warm water circle the top of her head, surrenders to the crown, leans in to the silky spray tapping like rain on her skull. Droplets into stream rush down her scalp . . . encircle her shoulders . . . caress her backside and inner thigh, rounding to the outside of her legs just below the knees. She smiles and verbalizes her exhalation . . . inhales the spicy shampoo oozing a glossy pink ribbon into her palm . . . massages it into her scalp with all ten fingers. Squeezing grainy face scrub out of an almost-empty tube using two hands, she notices the diminishing supply. Cat’s tongue roughness, applied in circular motion on cheeks and forehead, urges layers of skin down the drain. Scrubber, frosted in pearly strands, explodes jasmine and rosemary up her nose and onto her skin; scratches her body’s itch. She reaches for the razor, sunken to the bottom of the basket of toiletries on the floor. It glides through the shampoo she substitutes for shaving cream, leaves a path of bare skin. In the middle of winter shaving her legs is an intention to initiate sex. Surely God stands near, back to the cold tiles, regards her with loving eyes and makes sure she rinses thoroughly.

The Witness

2009-02-19T21:36:00.000-08:00

The soft light filled the Sunday morning little by little. Winter had arrived and the trees below the upstairs bedroom window were bare and moving slightly in the wind, urging daylight into the neighborhood. The mother and her suckling child were perched in the oversize upstairs window, sleepily enjoying each other’s company and rocking in the wooden chair. It was their morning ritual. The hungry swallows of the baby girl matched the rocking rhythm of the chair.

The neighborhood was still asleep—most for several hours yet. The quiet comfort of mother and child was the only event on the deserted street. The mother alternated her gaze between the sweet face of her feeding child—long, dark eyelashes brushing her pink cheeks--and the view of the yard and alley below. She cherished this intimate relationship with her second and last child. No one was the wiser for their presence she thought. No viewers to watch the bare breast breakfast bar. No one could feel the effects of the bond sealed by mother’s milk.

But a movement caught the mother’s eye from the house across the yard and alley below. She switched her gaze to the back of the neighbor’s house. The glass door that opened onto the deck slid open a few inches and a nose and then face appeared. The head glanced to the left and to the right, up and down the alley. The door closed again momentarily. The mother puzzled and kept watch.

The door opened again and the full head of the neighbor poked out for a second look. She looked around her yard and the alley as if to see if anyone were looking. Her gaze stayed at street level. She did not see the mother and baby watching from the second story window. She seemed satisfied she was alone in the neighborhood when her shoulder and then naked body emerged from behind the curtained door. The cold of the winter morning broadsided her skin as evidenced by a shocked grimace and brief self-hug. The mother’s attention riveted on the bare body. Like Wiley Coyote avoiding the Roadrunner, the neighbor continued to look around to assure herself she was alone and undetected.

The naked neighbor, slender and athletic looking half-crouched and half jogging, sprinted diagonally across the platform deck, reaching her arm toward a stack of firewood laying in wait. Still looking up and down the alley to make sure she was alone, she grabbed with one hand a piece of quartered oak. With one last look around the alley she sprinted for the door, like a scared child running up the dark basement stairs. Once inside, she peeked out again, as if to make sure she went unnoticed. The glass door closed.

The mother smiled, and then laughed out loud, startling the child whose arm reached out for balance. She chuckled throughout the day and smirked every time she ran into the neighbor in the following weeks. She wondered if she should tell her. Instead she filed the delightful image between the pages of secret sweetness left behind by a nursing baby.