Rock my Peace

She was so excited. Her chubby little 10 year old cheeks exploding in the "Mimi" grin...



Tiny chicklet "I'm gonna need braces" teeth on parade...
She was smiling....
This was what she picked out...
wrapped in newspaper....
A rusty ole word...

Peace....

She couldn't have been prouder....

And her smile was infectious. And I knew then what peace was. My blonde haired grandaughter with the hippie soul....whispering in my cobwebbed hair....."It's for you, Mimi! Peace......"

On the day after New Year's I came home to the front door wide open. The door we haven't opened in 17 years. Strangers ring that bell.

And the rusty little letters on my porch... splayed in half...

"Must have been the wind" they told me....

But I knew....

It's the year of ghosts....
And they've barged right in....
rocking my peace and rearranging it....

Sometimes we have to remember,
even in chaos....

Peace is spelled the same....

99 bottles of beer and a Butterfly, too!

I rolled out of five o'clock traffic, Stones blaring, and scooched into the faded little parking lot. No beer in the fridge and two cigarettes to my name. Stopping on my way home to stock up on a little peace and my everyday addictions. I thought about leaving my sunglasses on. Not to hide my identity, but because I looked so bad. Old. Tired. It happened overnight.

Instead, I followed the construction worker with the beautiful blue bandana on his head through the double doors and smiled as we clinked cooler doors together. He nodded. Five thirty etiquette at the corner store.

I was third in line. Right behind the man with the baseball cap. And the blue eyes.

He turned. We've met here before. In pajamas. I groaned. And laughed. Couldn't look any worse than the first time. He laughed, too, and then inched his way closer to being "next " in line.

He paid for my beer. Kissed me on the cheek and walked out the double doors.

The six people in line behind me and the girl behind the counter watched as he never looked back.

"A carton of Winston Ultra Light 100's, please" I asked as I balanced my Michs on the popsicle cooler. "Your neighbor?" she asks, pointing her head and every squiggly hair on her noggin' towards the door. "Nah".....

A murmer began behind me. And I smiled.

When I walked through the double doors, I smiled at the sunset. Seven people touched by the butterfly. Everyone making up different stories. Talking out loud....

"Her ex" the hippie in the blue bandana grumbled.

"Dude, wanna buy my beer?" the kid behind him asked.....

"I don't think she knows him" Leyla replied.....ringing up the hippie's beer....

And then I was out the door.....I didn't hear the telephone tag that passed through the line, but I smiled even bigger at the sunset.

The man who thinks he doesn't make a difference, doesn't have a clue. Seven people went home with a story. All different. All painted to match their imagination.

And imaginations grow....

Letters from Where We Left Off....

I remember as if it were yesterday, those fateful blue eyes.

Standing in my Sunday pajamas in the cold February wind....I slid the credit card through the "fill her up at the pump" slot. Nothing happened. I turned the card upside down and tried again. Nothing. I imagined the "E" glowing brighter on the dashboard. "Damn"!

I looked once. Both ways. No one else was in the parking lot or at the pumps. I bolted for the double doors. This is a really small town. Please God don't let anyone see me in my pajamas, with my "I've been up all night" face on! I'm not vain, but I had a hangover and it had been a long and sad 36 hours leading up to this moment....this I can't even coast home on hope moment.

Kimbies and Papa and I had spent the day before cleaning out Nadine's house. Selling a lifetime of love at a garage sale to benefit her children. Smiling at strangers while our hearts broke. And then we went out drinking. Big time. We laughed. We cried. We made new best friends. We kissed the nicotine stained Sky. Waved at Nadine up there! Over us, watching. And now it was the morning after.....

And I just wanted to go home.

I didn't see him bop through the side door. Full of himself, and Sunday Spirit. But I felt those eyes, those fateful blue eyes from heaven.....rap,tap,tapping on my new day. And so I turned just in time to catch his smile. His Mick Jagger smile.

And I laughed.

For the first time in forever.

And it wasn't long before I danced. For the first time in forever.

And lived. For the first time in forever.

Endings are sometimes beginnings. Beginnings are sometimes endings.

And sometimes the circle goes on and on and on.....

I should have known if I was going to be late for work this morning, I was going to be really late.

I felt that rap,tap,tapping on my new day....
Just before I saw those fateful blue eyes again.....

Ballad to Bobby Brown....

I saw you there. Inside out and backwards. 17 or 21, ID flicked, flipped, flashed.... you were a natural. I've imagined a million times what you would look like, walk like, talk like ten years, twenty, a lifetime from now. And then I saw you. In yesterday.

Toothy grin, crooked and upward, my favorite "I just had a shot" smile...Skinny legs, jeans too short, but frayed, worn, loved..."In case I meet a hippie".....Mind racing, writing Country Top 10 songs on legal pads, eyes dancing....rock and roll and punk...strobe lights flashing.....And that f'n grin....that gun it grin...race, tumble, roll....Gun it, grin...

I don't dream about you anymore. Wonder what you're doing. Tink you. But I miss you. And I saw you in yesterday. 20 years younger. Before you were you. And just so you know, I laughed....And danced ....

And when I came home,
jeans crumpled in a pile,
key in the door,
memories plopped on the kitchen counter,
I slept....
and thanked God I wasn't there in the beginning....

but was there for the end....

Deja Vue...

The last hello.....

It's just a driveway....fifty feet of fifty year old gravel, limestone, river rocks lining the lane. Flattened pennies, heads down, are crunched into the mix, a poor man's coquina. There are no signs here. "Keep out" or "welcome" either. It's not one-way only. You're free to come and go. And welcome is a given....

But there comes a time.

I opened the window, the kiss of freedom, planted like a forever tattoo on his cheek, tracing-paper thin, and should have known......

He'd be back. Crunching the gravel....

Breaking up is hard to, letting go is harder.....

And I don't believe in the last dance, the last kiss, the last good-bye.....but rather the good film, the best movie ever, snapped, broken in the middle of the reel, and the ending never known, but imagined in everyway. And the story frozen. Just so and perfect. Not tainted by cliche's and punchlines. Destroyed by the very act of salvaging. And I told him so....

There at the river. Skinny legs dangling over the side of the makeshift embankment. Blue eyes and brown eyes together in the quiet, dragonflies dancing on the muddy water the only sound. And we smiled. At the enchanted ballet they played for us. Periwinkle and lavender girls, fluttering by in transluscent petticoats, shimmery sugary tu-tus, buzzing, splashing, on the rheumy dancefloor. They circled above us, waltz of the flowers, a halo of dragonflies.....and followed us to the car. I paused, with the door open, before climbing into the seat, as they passed in a pastel parade, and waited for their kiss....

The engine, as throaty and scratchy as our left over voices from the night before, took over the silence. Engulfed it. And we drove here, to the painted house, to the poor man's driveway where the engine idled, hovered, hot breath on the miles beneath us.

"Say the words" I whispered....climbing out , unfolding.

I watched him through the dusky swirls of lime, as he backed out. First gear. Almost second.
Right hands to our own lips,
the kiss...
right hands raised to the sky,
stretching,
fingers in a V.........

peace~love
we whispered to the wind....

Wild horses and other love songs

The very first ever kiss. A 5th grade feather on the cheek. Double-eye winking, looking away. Feathers falling everywhere. Down our arms, down our legs, in a heap on the dusty playground. I laugh and run. Gangly arms doing the breast-stroke in the lunchtime wind, running faster….toward the girls….away from Ronnie-freckled-McCartney.

Eskimo kisses. My father’s broad Indian nose touching mine. His black eyes, small and shining, locking mine. He lifts me up into the air, nose to nose and I flail...kick my skinny legs in every direction, giant Ked sneakers banging his shins, and shriek in laughter. Eskimo kisses on a hot summer night.

At the Bayou….I’m in the eighth grade and I’m not allowed. My Father said so. I’m all dressed up in borrowed shoes and a chopped up make-shift dream-come-true dress and he scooches in closer and kisses me hard. I love it. “Take me home” I obediently mutter ….. It’s midnight, now…..

“Have you ever been French kissed before?”
“Yesssssss” I whisper, eyes closed …….
“Oh my God, this is it” my heart screams…….

Chubby little cheese curl toes. I touch them. Marvel at their perfect imperfections. Smooch! I pucker up and kiss the little pink soles hard. “You’ll never ever be too old for Mama to love you”…….

Grimy glass covered in hand swipes, nose prints. Snot. Standing like a barbed wire fence between us. They lift the steps up and the engines roar. I search frantically for his face in the little oval windows. I kiss my own fingers and lift them up… blow. Praying he sees me. Praying it reaches him. Praying for an end to war…..

I’m next to her now. Trying hard to breath in rhythm. Counting in between her sudden gasps for air, for life.
1, a million, 2, a million, 3, a million……15, a million, 16.…….
I don’t want to stop her going. I don’t want to save her now. I want nothing more than peace so I’m trying to be very, very quiet. We’re breathing in labored sync. I can’t stand it. Roll over and kiss her fragile little forehead, “it’s okay. You can go now”…..
And we start again…..
1, a million….2, a million, 3.…..
“I’ve loved you for a million years”……. My sweet, sweet, Nadine…….

My hands cupped around his sweaty block-head. Holding on. Grasping at the real live HIM! I squeeze. Lean in and kiss him, Italian style, on both cheeks. Muah! Muah! My fingers, shaking, trace his nose,His I-just-recently-could-grow-this-stuff chin. My son. Free. I hold on to him for dear life.

Floating in the lazy round river. It’s hot and his eyes are blue. Then teal and green and yellow… an endless ocean… frothy beer suds on laughing waves.
Without ever touching…..without ever letting go…….

The kiss goes on and on….

The long, long week-end

"Ooooooh.......ice..........cream...... " the chic in black leather purred from the table. Her eyes steadied, locked with ours, as we ambled by. We nodded hello's, southern style, and raised our beers. Clink! She didn't blink. She purred. Stretched her legs out, siamese cat style, from under the shadow of the umbrella...

"She likes you, baby" ...I laughed

"She likes you, baby".... he laughed.


Two more steps and we were lost in a sea of bikers. Beer and leather everywhere. No Tequila Sunrises , Bloody Marys, Gin and Tonics.....just a sea of leather boots, stub-nosed, at the best....bottled beers ....and tainted tattoos.

I swam in it. Bask in their Cher and Sam Elliott ambience. They stared at us. Him with his groomed "he's such a nice boy" looks and me, hippiesque and smiling. But there was something Woodstocky here. The way they all bonded together, swayed together, drank together, clanking empty bottles. The way they smiled. The way their laughter rose like smoke rings over the orchestra of revving engines. I liked it.

Hours later we wandered back through the blue-jeaned, black booted crowd, hugging our last beers. She stretched her leg out one more time on our way back..... " ice cream" she whispered.


Pinching my belt loops and leaning in...his words brushed my Sunday afternoon cheek..... "I'm your ice cream man, baby"...


It's Friday.



I'm standing in the drive-way, rolling the crumpled dollar....listening for the rinky dink music..... waiting on the ice cream truck...

Trust me......

It's my favorite movie. "A chic flick" he said, lazily swooshing the margarita in the oversized, salted glass. Mmmmmmmm.

"We're watching it" I purred, flopping on the leopard skin rug just behind him. The first afternoon of the Long Hot Summer had arrived and after floating in the hammock and lolling around in the pool, it wasn't quite time to throw the steaks on. "We're watching it" I whispered, reaching around him to hit play.

Sometime during the can-can, boredom left his eyes and without an audience to notice him, he drifted into the story. Margarita in his right hand, absentmindly swished just every now and then. He didn't notice when I topped it off again.

Mmmmmmmmmmm.....

I scooched the markers closer. Snuck them into my space behind him. NOW, I thought. I traced a word on his back with my finger. "Know what that says?" Mmmmmmm, noooooo"...blue eyes following Satine's every move.

The markers followed her every word......

Saturday afternoon at the movies.
Trust me, you're gonna like it.

Tink me once, Tink me twice.....

Tink. The art of touching someone, drenching them actually, by thinking of them. O.K., I made up the word, but I checked. Webster hasn’t gotten there yet. Tink.

Angels do it all the time. Lovers do it often. Twins invented it. I believe in it.

A cigar smell that creeps into the hallway without explanation and suddenly you’re 7 years old and riding in a Thunderbird, pushing the Bobby Vinton tape into the 8 track. Dad-O reaches over and says” You wanna drive , don’t you?” And you leap off of the garnet plethora seat and into his lap to guide the steering wheel toward the Pak-n-Sac. No seat belts, no rules. Just the dotted lined highway and the cigar simmering in the ashtray.
40 years later. Tink. You’re Daddy’s thinking’ about you…..

The sound of the magnolia leaves rustling. Wet. Night rain dripping off their fat paper-plate shaped selves. I heard them Saturday and knew. I was 10 and had just climbed up the seven 2 x 4 wooden levers to the heart of the tree. We were monkeys. You had to stretch your arms, and lank your legs to make it in seven steps. Adults would’ve needed 23 resting spots. My bare feet cradled the soggy soul of the old tree. Dark leaves lined her heart like a bird’s nest, drenched in May rain. My skinny little arms jiggled out into the open air, standing on tip toes, waiting for the swing to fly high enough to catch. Brad swung it once, I reached and teetered, its wooden seat and hemp rope teasing me. He swung it hard this time. The rope swooped and then danced in front of me, I curled and lunged, almost fell, but couldn’t’ catch it, soft wet bark scraping my shins. The third time, I snatched it, and Brad backed away. “She’s flying now” ……

I’ve never parachuted or sky-dived, but God, I’ve jumped from that tree. You plummet to the dirty earth, FAST! The silly frayed rope saving you at the last minute, a make-shift bungy cord, and you bounce for just a second. And then you swing. So high your underpants show. And all you can feel and all you can see is the magnolia leaves rustling. In Nana’s backyard.

43 years later…It’s spring now. And I’m explaining love bugs on a sun-peeled deck, in the middle of an “It’s so HOT” day, in the middle of an “I’ve loved you forever” conversation and I hear that sound. The magnolia leaves rustling. Nana. Tink. She’s nudging me.

I grab the rope and jump.


To be continued…..

It's good, It's all good

OK. My hair is falling out. Those spaghetti straight golden tendrils that I used to twirl between my fingers when in thought, that I used to plop up on top of my head, held securely by a pencil, when it was hot. It’s all falling out! Breaking off in obscene places and just leaving my head. “Must be the stress” my girlfriend Sheila said. “It looks like you were ironing it and fell asleep” she added. Thanks, girlfriend! I do not iron my hair and when was the last time I "fell" asleep? I fight it, baby!

I first noticed it in July. Woke up one morning with this tuft of crimped hair just sort of static-like at the back of my crown. Damn! Did someone CUT a chunk of my hair while I was sleeping? And then, uggggh, it kind of spread. Like I was going for the bangs look all the way around my head . Check the chemicals in the pool. I must be baking out here in the lazy round river. No, no, it’s good.

Geez….what’s a girl to do?

In August I noticed that the blow dryer was spitting little electric flames out at my face, burning my earlobes.... and was overcome with relief….. Shhhhhwwwweewwww…. Close one! I’ve been frying it every morning and just didn’t realize it. Pitched the blow dryer and replaced it with a new “better” version….only blows cool air. Heal me, please.

Uh, no. It’s still falling out. Skinny fetched me hot oil treatments, ummm, to no avail. OK, it’s good. It’s sympathy pains. I’m sure that’s it. Our beautiful sib, Kimmilee is going through chemo and losing her hair in chunks. Like every thing else in our lives, we’re just doing it together. It’s good. I can do this. But, somehow, I know….. No…this isn’t it.

I wake up one night tossing and turning and there is Deja, my blue eyed wild child Siamese dancing in my bedhead hair, swatting up a storm! That’s it! She’s been thinning it all along and I’ve slept through it! But, no….I stayed awake for 7 nights in a row, and she never once again, offered to come and pull out my hair in my sleep. I even tried to bribe her.

So now it’s November. I’ve changed shampoos, pillowcases, chlorine, blow-dryers, brushes, and boyfriends.

I woke up this morning and it was fixed.

Must have been the boyfriend thing.

Those Fateful Blue Eyes...

It happens sometimes. I’m parked in sweaty -bumper- to -vibrating -bumper traffic and the license tag in front of me reads….3J9 SEA….and my feet are scooped out from under me, and I’m getting road rash from the rush of crushed shells swirling under me as I try to stop myself from giving into the …

Undertow.

One tiny word embedded in a bent up license tag and I’ve left the five o’clock traffic and I’m drifting into a never forever land where the seaweed is wadded up in my hair, and the sticky yicky surface under my toes is an oriental rug of dancing jellyfish, and I’m bouncing madly in a sea I have no control over. My elbows bounce over thousand year old conchs and I flip and swallow water and spew at the sky like a hump back whale. I’m floating now…..

And then we move.

The Toyota in front of me shifts lanes abruptly.
I pound the brakes. And we are frozen again.

Bored, I hit the scan button on the radio. Search for the traffic report. The digital monitor blurs past a dozen channels. No news is good news. It stops.. Flashes.

Jethro Tull is on the radio.

This is news? The traffic report? I’m standing in a dirt driveway, skint knees and peasant blouse, leaning on a BF flyer, smoking a cigarette. “ Don’t mind me crashing at all. Nice to meet you”. I’m 17 again, and in the tainted sunlight of the bumper in front of me, I see Chris smiling. And I hear him saying “Nice to meet you, too”. I’m watching him, his face on the tailgate, distorted by the slowly rolling UPS truck in the lane next to me.

The light changes and he disappears.

It happens sometimes. I’m in the damndest places and I feel it. It’s not deja vue, it’s not a memory, it’s an umbilical cord…..tethering me back to where I belong, where I came from…it’s a cord cut short in an instant . A moment suspended by circumstance, left standing at the alter, waiting…for ressurrection or reincarnation or as a just reminder that life goes on…

I saw her that day at the corner store. My dear missed Nadine. Clicking her tiny high heels in front of me, faster than I could ever keep up. Flicking her ashes in the wind. Eating black eyed peas on New Year’s day. Reminding me over a static filled phone line that she would call me when she needed me. I saw her that day in your fateful blue eyes. I hope it’s not too much of a burden.