Nana

When I was 14, she was 66....
Blonde banana curls cascading down her back , dread locked ahead of her time. Skinny little legs and Blue Mascara. Patent leather pocket book exactly the color of The Yellow Submarine. My Nana. Skinny's Nana. Kimbies Nana. She was wild.

She laughed with no reserve, head tilted back, guzzling the wine of stolen moments from a long fluted glass.
She danced with the abandon of a Ballerina in red slippers, with the wind up wings of a Go-Go dancer, with the free spirit of a magpie faerie.
She told stories in a whispered language only those in cahoots would ever understand or remember in the morning.

She was tickled pink when women burned their bras, but believed in keeping the sexiest ones, the ones in ice cream colors and wicked lace, for the night time....
She rubbed elbows with everyone....catching their magic, and savoring it....
She Loved scary movies, patent leather boots, mini skirts, red lipstick, smokey bars, storytellers, rock and roll, Liberace, romance novels, and her handsome hubby....
She was wild....

She taught us secrets we'll pass on to our daughters and nieces....

I felt her,
heard her,
hugged her...
on Saturday night.....

And I know when she peeked down,
eyes sparkling,
head thrown back ready to laugh,
she was thrilled.

You taught me well, Nana.
I wore fishnets with the combat boots.....

Pixies for peace

His little fingers open and close, the tissue paper soft wings of a newborn butterfly resting for just a moment, on the knotty limbs of an oak tree. He traces my veins and wrinkles, smiles, and holds on tight. Sighs and closes his eyes. For just a moment, I close mine, too. And I pray I'll live long enough, laugh often enough, to become a hundred year old pixie in his memories.



I'm standing at the ocean wall. And I feel her. Rising up in my heart. Hear her. See her. I spin around and know they feel her, too. Nana. She's at the bar playing Cahoot's with strangers. She's in patent leather knee high boots dancing with her new best friends. She has little lady fingernail shells stuffed in her yellow pocketbook. Magic potions in her carpetbag. She tossles my hair, runs her finger down my sunburnt nose, and throws her head back. Laughs and shoos me off...."Have fun, be free, little ones..."



Her face is scribbled. A thousand wrinkles swimming in every direction. Blonde hair piled on her head in banana curls. She's beautiful. The band drags their cords and amps, speakers, guitars, drums across the deck. "Testing one, two, three, testing".....and then she's gone. We're on our own. The man across the bar, with the Bon Jovi hair, rises and walks toward us. Giant fuscia hibiscus blooms in his hands. "For the flower children" he smiles....



And I look up at the sky and thank her.