manicbliss-blog

[manicbliss-blog]

Collecting Memories

The residents of Shadow Park were friendly, but private. We went to work, some of us from home, and minded our own business. It was the beauty of the buildings that attracted us, not the people. Few knew their next-door neighbors, unless there had been a reason for such an introduction, like a power outage, noise pollution, or mail incorrectly delivered. The restored, row-style homes, were elegant still with characteristics reminiscent of a simpler time.

Every year, when the flowers started to bloom, they came, one or two at a time, walking through the neighborhood, collecting memories. Their faces were bright with awe, their steps light as they inched along. We sat near our kitchen windows in front of our delivered meals, watching the strangers point out what was once theirs…that was our door; we sat outside in the evenings…the Glendale’s lived there; they had a rice farm, and during the holidays they gave everyone a twenty-pound bag of rice…the smell of food was always in the air, rich spices and sauces that made us all want to get home fast.

Dressed in suits and shawls, hats and hair scarves, the strangers laughed and cried, recounted favorite moments, losses, and things they’d like to do over. While they strolled down memory lane, we checked our devices, episodes of a show we’d seen at least a hundred times playing in the background. It was the most we could do with tomorrow looming, but in the back of my mind I wondered if I’d one day want to reclaim this time, if I’d think my life mattered enough to return.

[manicbliss-blog]

The Search

Detective Riley gave me a cold bottle of water and sat down in the chair across from me. The room was dim, at my request, and empty except for the table and chairs. I sniffled and my body shook, the aftermath of a hard cry. I gulped the water, with each swallow my head pounding. I closed my eyes; they were puffy, tired.

“You’re not in trouble, Lauren,” he leaned forward in his chair. “I just want you to tell me what happened.”

“I want my backpack,” I said, tears forming again.

“What’s so important about this backpack, Lauren? Why do you need it?” Detective Riley’s voice was firm.

“It has my things in it, and I like things to be a certain way because it helps me remember what to do each day, and now my whole schedule is messed up because I’m here, and I didn’t get to fix dinner or put my clothes out for tomorrow…and I didn’t get to call my mother to tell her about the picnic… she wanted me to call her, but she called me when I was already on the phone with the 911 operator, and I didn’t know what to do.”

“Give me a second,” Detective Riley left the room.

I drank more water and then put the bottle on the table. The dirt from my hand mixed with the condensation marking the bottle brown. I slid my hands under my legs and rocked back and forth. “It’s okay…it’s okay…it’s okay…it’s okay,” I whispered.

Detective Riley returned with a vending machine ham sandwich and my backpack. I started to stand when he motioned for me to stay seated. He put the sandwich in front of me and the backpack at the end of the table.

“I just want my bag,” I said, pushing the sandwich to the side.

“Tell me what’s inside your bag.” Detective Riley sat down and adjusted his tie.

“My notebook…the cover is a picture of garden flowers…I had it personalized.”

“You like flowers?”

“I like flowers, plants, trees, some shrubs. My friend Kate and I meet every Saturday to discuss a new plant species…except this Saturday.”

“I see…what do you write in your notebook?”

“I write my schedule every day. I write about the flowers I see at work on my lunch break. I like to take a walk around the complex. They plant new flowers all the time. Sometimes I draw them.”

“What else is in the pack?”

“My pens. I have a pack of pens, the only pens I use in my notebook. There should be 5,” I looked at my backpack, wondering if there were still 5 pens there.

“What else?”

“Two slices of bread in a sandwich bag, a small container with tuna fish, an apple, and…I think that’s all.”

That’s all?”

“In the front pocket is a small pack with tampons and pads. I check it two days before my period starts to make sure it’s full.”

Detective Riley cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. “Anything else?”

I looked at my backpack, imagining its contents. “Open it,” I said.

He took out the notebook, 5 pens still in their plastic holder, two slices of bread in a sandwich bag, and the tuna. He unzipped the front pocket and pulled out a floral printed pouch.

“Look familiar?”

“Yes…minus the plastic, evidence bag you’ve got them in.” I felt my shoulders relax. “Do you think the tuna is still good?”

“Uh…no,” Detective Riley said, reaching into the bag again. “What is this?” he held up a small, pink journal.

“That’s Selah’s,” my heart was racing again.

“And this?” he held up a small pair of white sandals, a reddish-brown smudge on top of the left one.

“They’re Selah’s, minus the plastic, evidence bags.”

“How did Selah’s things get into your backpack?” Detective Riley squinted and then crossed his arms, stretching the seams of his blue, cotton suit.

“I don’t know.” I slid my hands back under my legs. “Where is Selah?”

“You don’t know how Selah’s things got in your backpack?”

“No.”

“Why don’t you walk me through your day…when did you get to the picnic?”

“I got to the picnic at 12pm, when it started. I was first in line to check in and get my t-shirt.”

“And that’s the one you’re wearing on top of your dress, correct?”

“Yes,” I looked down at my shirt. It was dirty, with the same reddish-brown stains as Selah’s sandal.

“What did you do next?”

“I found Mary and Isaac.”

“Who are they?”

“They are my coworkers…in the mailroom.”

“What did you do when you found them?”

“I found a spot for my blanket close to where they were sitting.”

“And then?”

“I sat on my blanket and pulled out my notebook.”

“What did you write in your notebook?”

“With my red pen, I crossed off Go to the picnic in my schedule. And with my blue pen I circled Go to the Arboretum at 1pm.”

“And then?”

“I closed my notebook and put it back into my backpack. Mary asked if I wanted to go and get something to drink.”

“What did you say?”

“I said yes, and we went to get ice cold lemonade. She sat on my blanket, and we drank our lemonade.”

“What did you talk about with Mary?”

“We didn’t talk.”

“What happened after you finished your lemonade?”

“Mary left, and I sat by myself.”

“What happened next?”

“I just sat there and watched everybody…that’s when I saw Selah. She was waiting for her mom at the entrance.”

“Where was her mom?”

“Not too far behind. She was pushing Selah’s baby brother in the stroller.”

“What did you do then?”

“Just watched…”

“What did you see?”

“Selah had a pink journal under her arm, the kind with a place for the pen right there on the side,” I demonstrated with my hands. “I have that kind at home.”

“What did you do next?”

“I saw Jack, my boss; he was waving at them. Selah saw him and ran towards him.”

“People said they saw Selah come and sit on your blanket…is this true?”

“Yes, she came and sat down and started touching my stuff.”

“What did you do?”

“I watched her, and then I grabbed my stuff and left because it was 1pm.”

“Where did you go?”

“I went to the arboretum.”

“Lauren, how did Selah get to the arboretum…with you?” Detective Riley stood up and put his hands on the back of his chair.

“I don’t know.”

Darkness entered the room, its weight massive, like rocks crashing down from the sky.

[manicbliss-blog]

Back at the Beginning

Creative enzymes join together in a silky web that hangs in the corner of the mind. Pen meets paper with the purpose of exposing the web, untangling its thread. But hesitation grips the pen and infuses it with fright, its soluble form. Words bleed onto the page, calculated and contrived. They are crossed out, cursed for their roots in expectation.

Minutes pass but the poverty of words continues along a scale of anxiety and regret. A briefing occurs and composure ebbs, loosens its hold on the pen. Reason is pushed to the edge. And hope detaches from its ephemeral object. Again the pen presses into the paper, between the printed lines, this time not with the promise of perfection, but with the desire to be unbridled, surprised, fascinated by the layers yet to be unveiled.

[manicbliss-blog]

Wish You Were Here

[manicbliss-blog]

Remember Me

Lois and Ed sat on their porch in old iron patio chairs. The chairs were rusted and the paint chipped. Ed rocked in his. The frame was bent but sturdy. Lois sat with her feet crossed and a glass of iced tea in her hand.  She took a sip, smacked her lips, and then looked over at Ed who was lost in the forming class.

“Looks like it’s going to rain,” Ed said.

“You know what, Ed?” Lois said.

Huh?”

“I think I left the stove on.” Lois put her tea on the wicker table between them.

“No, you didn’t,” Eddie offered.

“I think so, Ed.” Lois shifted in her seat to get up and go check.

“I’m telling you that you didn’t.”

“But I don’t remember turning it off.”

“I sat there and watched you turn it off.”

“Oh…okay then. I just don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember anything,” Ed chuckled.

“That’s not true, Ed. I remember a lot of things you don’t.”

“Name one,” Ed challenged.

“I will…” Lois paused and sipped her tea while fumbling through her memory. “I bet you don’t remember the time we went fishing down at Lotus Creek.”

“Which time? We went to that creek lots of times.”

“Not me. I went just once.”

“You went every time I did,” Ed insisted.

“I don’t remember that.”

“Well, I do.”

“I just remember the one time. I told you to go out by the willow because that’s where all the fish were.”

“Huh?”

“You don’t remember that?”

“No.”

“I did. I told you about the fish.”

“I don’t remember catching many fish in that creek. You’re thinking of the river…what’s the name of it?”

“Charleston—it’s a lake.”

“That’s it.”

“But that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Ed scratched his head and leaned back again, rocking in the squeaking chair.”

“Well, that day I told you where the fish were,” Lois took another sip of her tea. “You stepped on a hook and I took it out for you.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“I told you to be careful. You didn’t pay me any attention. You never do,” Lois looked up at the same clouds Ed had gotten lost in.

“I’m paying attention to you now. What makes you think I don’t pay you any attention?”

“You don’t remember.”

“I don’t know what I don’t remember. I just don’t.” Ed shrugged and looked down at his feet.

“Hmmm.”

“Do you remember when you fell from that ladder at Harry’s place?”

“What do you think?” Ed looked at her with discontent. “Of course I remember. I broke my back. I had to lay in that bed for I don’t know how long.”

“Four months.”

“And the pain was so bad I cried for my mother.”

“I remember,” Lois sympathized.

“And that brace…talk about uncomfortable.”

“I remember strapping you in.”

“I unstrapped it when you left the room.”

“That’s right, you did,” Lois laughed.

“You brought me lemonade.”

“I did?”

“Every day,” Ed raised his voice for emphasis.

“I don’t remember that.”

“You had to squeeze the lemons because the juicer was broken.”

“That sounds like something I’d do,” Lois chuckled to herself.

“Your hands were raw from the juice.”

“Were they?”

“I always grabbed your hand when you brought me the glass of lemonade. A thin slice of lemon hung on the edge.”

“That’s fancy.”

“Yes it is,” Ed smiled. “That’s you.

“Do you remember when I got the fever?”

“You had it twice.”

“I had it once.”

“Twice.”

“Ed! I had it once. We were at the other house on Baxter Street.”

“Yes, I remember. You stayed in the room without a window.”

“Whoever heard of a room without a window?”

“You wanted me to tell you what was going on outside.”

“It was raining.”

“I told you it was sunny and beautiful.”

They both laughed.

“See, that’s when I had the fever.”

“The second time was when we moved into this house.”

“I don’t remember that.”

“You were up all night unpacking boxes, trying to make everything perfect. I told you to go to sleep. You were dripping in sweat.”

“Hmmm.”

“I gave you a cold bath.”

“I don’t remember.”

“Of course not. You were delirious with fever.”

“I was?”

“I wrapped you in a blanket and put ice packs inside it. I held you until you stopped shaking.”

“Why don’t I remember that?”

“I sang to you too.”

“You always had a nice voice.”

“That’s just what you say.”

“I wish you sang to me more.”

“Do you remember when Junior was born?”

“Of course…our only son.”

“I sang to you then.”

“You sang to him.”

“I was singing to you.”

“You were?”

“You fell asleep with him in your arms. I lay next to you on the edge of the bed and watched both of you sleep,” Ed smiled.

“My face was so swollen.”

“You were beautiful.”

“And my hair was wild because I went into labor before I could get to the beauty shop.”

“You were already beautiful. I’m not just saying that.”

“Do you remember the…cancer?” Lois’ voice cracked.

“The diagnosis was five years ago, today.”

“You remember?”

“Why wouldn’t I remember?”

“I just thought…”

“That I wasn’t paying attention?” Ed leaned in and grabbed her hand. “I’m paying attention to you.”

Lois smiled.

“I remember you…in ways you don’t remember yourself.”

[manicbliss-blog]

Restless

It's no great mystery that life has a way of changing: events line up along a winding path with pit stops and side streets that lead to a place called nowhere or somewhere depending on our viewpoint when we arrive; experiences transform us and birth a new person who sees the world as a moldable enigma; loss leads to sorrow and then brings us something or someone new when we stop expecting it to.

  Holly Benson was no stranger to these truths. She knew quite well how life could turn. The past six weeks were a testament to this. A two-month vacation was all she could think about after working nonstop for three years straight. Her excuse was “I’m sacrificing now so that I can enjoy life later.” There were so many things she was going to do now that she had the time—take a trip, organize her office, go out, meet some new people, enjoy who she was and where she was in the climb to success.

  Her first few weeks off were relaxing. She took walks downtown and gazed up at the old Victorians preserved as museums or converted into apartments, offices; she ventured out to the ocean to feel its waves, caught up on movies she meant to see but couldn’t find the time for, read books she could crawl inside and exist vicariously through protagonists she sympathized with, and slept in until her body said enough.

  Each day when she awoke, motivation waned so spontaneity could surface and have its way. To get away from the part of herself obligated to becoming more than what she was, she dabbled in things that tickled her mind just to keep it occupied, but soon the urge for more threatened to expose this masquerade. Her mood shifted. She awoke restless, over-stimulated with thoughts jostling in the milky spaces between cognition and instinct. She mulled around the house like an aimless wanderer, trying to find her footing, her way back to a linear world where everything fits neatly, and thought is deconstructed and packaged inside vessels labeled reason.

  She felt every dream she had unraveling at the seam. In her mind she recounted her accomplishments but they didn’t measure up to the end goal—a fleeting mass of fantasy fueled by optimism and uncertainty.

  Charged with determination to regain control, she closed herself in her office and faced a long and detailed To Do list.  She pulled her daily planner from the top drawer of her desk, and started filling it with tasks. Each day was filled from 5 a.m. to 11p.m. when the activities would be completed from her bed in a last attempt to end the evening with the words, “I did it.” A reminder of the mental exhaustion she’d experience made her pause. She put her pen down and stared at the calendar. And for a moment she wondered if the two worlds she found herself between would ever collide; if she’d ever know the kind of bliss promised at the end of success. Or if she’d continue to propel herself along its path while it remained hidden by the language that created it.

[manicbliss-blog]

Bah. I just asked you a question but my server timed out, so i'm not so sure if you got it or not. basically i said that i loved your writing, and since i was reading your art, would like to know a bit more about the person behind it all! so yeah, tell us a bit about yourself? :D

I'm glad to hear you are enjoying my work. A little about myself--I always find it hard to talk about myself. :-) I'm a teacher, writer. I like to read and write texts that explore and expose aspects of the human condition. The vignettes I post here are exercises I use to practice capturing my ideas and observations in language. Thanks again for reading my work!  :-)

[manicbliss-blog]

San Francisco

By midday Grace had found her way into the city. She parked on a street already lined with cars and began a five block trek to Golden Gate Park. The streets were packed with people, some who belonged, and others who did not. Shop doors were wide open. Owners stood in the entryway enticing patrons with coupons and specials. Cashiers punched codes into registers and filled paper, plastic, or reusable bags with goods. They sent buyers off with a smile and a “come again.” Servers carried hot plates on large round trays to hungry customers waiting to taste something new. The air was mixed with smells of frying beef, grease, and garbage.

Grace walked amongst the visitors who stopped every few feet to peer up at signs and check with their group mates to see if they should go in. Regulars moved through them with confidence, certain of their destinations, numb to the outsiders idealizing window displays and the easygoing “feel” of the streets. But they met again on the corners, waiting for red hands to turn into green pedestrians so they could take their place between the white lines leading to the other side. For many it was a race back into isolation where their thoughts were louder than the chit chat of those who had arrived for the day to immerse themselves in beauty and ponder the ugly.

Hundred year old trees marked the west entrance of the park. Their missing limbs a sign of weathered storms, age, or an inconvenient relationship between nature and humanity. A breezy 68 degree wind pressed against Grace’s skin and rushed through her tangled locks.  She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk to pull her hair back and stuff it into a brown knitted cap. And as she continued down the path she untied her jacket from her waist and slipped her arms through the green polyester sleeves. People passed on the right and left. Their conversations were loud, filled with plans and explanations for the plans as they decided what to do first.

Grace followed the first sign on her right to a garden packed with plants, vines, and flowers. Sweet and pungent smells rode on the back of the wind and stung the insides of their noses. Benches secured to the ground with bolts formed a border along the old cobblestone path. Grace sat on a bench next to a woman with a grocery bag of acorns and other mementos she held for her grandchildren running through the garden touching, and sometimes destroying leaves, flowers, and the bulbs of plants foreign to the region. Green tags with scientific names labeled each flower. Men and women pairs strolled along in their Birkenstocks, Hush Puppies, and pale-colored slip ons, speaking the names on the green tags out loud to each other. They smiled in awe, their remarks appeasing, gentle. And before turning to leave, they glanced back with stares that revealed a rush of sentiment, an urge to own the beauty they were leaving behind.

The museum to the right of the garden was next. Grace followed the dim path through the trees, squirrels darting out to analyze the scene then run back to their hideouts. As she approached the museum its light colored paint was illuminated by the sun. The temperature increased and families in khaki shorts and polo shirts stood in line, their hands in their pockets or at their sides as they waited for their chance to buy tickets and walk the halls of preserved artifacts. Grace climbed the steps and marveled at the pictures of exhibits patrons could see up close once inside. She looked back at the growing line and decided against entering.

The wind picked up again blowing museum brochures across the courtyard. Grace moved on, choosing to go in the direction of the breeze tickling her eardrums. She found a dirt trail winding through the park’s vegetation with points of interest strategically planted along its edge. There in the space where natural and synthetic meet she replayed the week’s events, relishing in the residue of missed opportunity.

But when self-loathing was at its height, redwoods and ferns jostled her back inside hope.  She was reminded of the purpose of her travels—to return to the thing that could ease the unrest in her mind, solve the puzzle of incomplete thoughts and emotional interruptions. Remove roots of despair and in their place lay seeds of promise whose purpose would be to grow happiness from blossoms native to her psyche.

[manicbliss-blog]

The News

After a visit with her mother, Selah decided to walk down to the marsh a few miles from the house. As a child she followed her brothers through the woods, copying their actions in hopes of being included in the fun. She now stood at its edge steadied by an overgrown tree branch.  Weeds tickled her ankles when a muggy breeze made its way through the dense trees. Mosquitoes and gnats hovered in large spheres. A hint of sweetness filtered through the pungent smell of moss and fish. She watched the gentle ripple of the water and let her mind turn to the news she had received.

Wishful thoughts faded to blue and splattered thickly against hardened Willow roots. Her mind jumped straight into the chaos of loss. The diagnosis was in and life expectancy set at four to six months.

“The cancer spread to my lungs…and my pancreas.”

 Walls scaled with vines started to rise and close in. Memories of childhood joy and a mother’s love arrived in snippets that scattered meaning before her eyes. And her mind, now pliable and removed from its center, grasped at yearning, its edge, in hopes of preserving itself in emotion.

[manicbliss-blog]

In a Flash

Natasha and Merritt were home alone again. A midsummer storm seethed outside against the houses, the trees, the people caught in it. The girls ran through the house in their damp school dresses giggling to themselves as thoughts about the day ran through their heads and out their mouths.

“Sue-Ellen got a new backpack, and she brought it to school today.”

“Who cares,” Natasha scoffed. The three year age difference was a momentary impasse until Merritt hit on a topic Natasha was interested in.

“Emily said that Tanya E. and Holly both liked Brandon Jenkins.”

“Really…what else did she say?”

“That he liked Holly better because she gave him a kiss on the wall.”

“No she didn’t,” Natasha replied defensively.

“Emily saw them!”

“I don’t believe you,” Natasha turned their father’s stereo on and started dancing to a jazz composition set to a rock beat. A woman with a deep and raspy voice came on between saxophone and piano instrumentals. Together they bled familiar notes in a foreign arrangement--a long scale of emotion where sound dips, shouts, and pairs unexpectedly with silence.

Rain slid down the long windows in thick zigzags. Merritt walked over to the sofa, kneeled on the long leather pillow, and put her hands against the cold, framed glass.

“You’ll leave fingerprints and mother will be furious,” Natasha yelled.

“She won’t notice,” Merritt said.

“Okay… but don’t come crying to me when she gets home as sees the smudges you left.”

Natasha sat next to her and laughed.

“Stop laughing,” Merritt whined.

“It’s raining harder,” Natasha ignored her.

They stared out at the rain hitting the ground like darts, leaving hundreds of tiny holes in the dirt that flooded quickly with brown liquid. And the flowers now slumped over, beaten by the sting of the rain’s terror. A gust of wind picked up rattling the chimney fluke and sending the maple trees that line the street into convulsions. Leaves rustled and detached prematurely from their limbs. Thick branches snapped and fell into the street or hung loosely at the trunk, screaming out in pain as its center lay exposed to the wind’s rage.

A loud, rumbling erupted in the sky, its source untraceable. Merritt stared out, amusing herself with the storm when the power shut off and sunk them inside stillness. Their ears ached as sound was stripped from the room and darkness covered them like an old quilt with moth-eaten holes and tears in the fabric created by time.

Natasha stood up, her mind racing as she tried to remember where their father kept the candles and matches. She wasn’t keen on lighting the candles herself but knew she had no choice.

“Are you scared?” Merritt asked. Her eyes were lit by the gloomy storm light coming through the window.

“No, but I’ve got to find the candles.”

“Do you know how to light candles?”

“Uh…no, but I have to try.”

“No,” Merritt cried. “I don’t want you to.”

“Maybe I can find a flashlight,” Natasha reconsidered.

“Okay.” Merritt turned back to face the window as Natasha searched the kitchen drawers for a flashlight.

The rumbling returned. It sent a shiver through Natasha’s bones as she bent down to open the last drawer. A loud thud in the living room startled her.

“Merritt, what are you doing?”

When she didn’t answer, Natasha poked her head around the cabinet and looked into the living room. The sofa was empty.

“Merritt?” she screamed as she ran into the room and found her sprawled on the floor.

Half of her face and arm were burnt, edged by what looked like flattened blisters.

“Get up,” Natasha cried, shaking Merritt’s shoulder.

She looked at her sister’s chest to see if it mirrored her own subtle rise and fall. But there was nothing. And in the moment it took her eyes to relay the message to her brain, their father’s key was in the door and the power was back on. The jazz melody picked up, diving into sound unbridled by the longing that created it, undeterred by an imposed end where all notes come together smoothly, forced to fade into memory, recollected at a later time as only an approximation of what it once was.

[manicbliss-blog]

The Wait

“I will definitely be there this time…I promise.”

Liz could hardly sleep that night. Thoughts of meeting up with her long time friend filled her head. She smiled and pulled the covers to her neck. All the things they would talk about��job, house, kids, men, and whatever else came up. And the times they’d reminisce and laugh at. There would be solidarity as their minds traveled back in time and pulled from it memories they both enjoyed, the ones that meant something and always would.

The next morning she hurried through her morning routine and prepared a space at the kitchen table for their get together. She wiped it down, polished the wood until it shined, and adorned it with a centerpiece.  Ice tea chilled in the refrigerator, cookies were still in the oven browning, and turkey sandwiches on sourdough were cut into rectangles and laid on a see-through tray with a saran wrap cover. She looked around the kitchen to make sure every container, every towel, and every dish was in order. She ran her fingers across the countertop as she paced. The clock on the stove read 12:00. She double checked her watch and it matched.

Besides a few creaks and the intermittent chirps and roaring mowers coming from outside, the house was quiet. Liz moved to the living room and peeked out the window. The street was empty of cars. She let the curtain fall back in place and grabbed the phone to see if she had missed any calls. No calls. The ringer was set to “On” And the battery was fully charged. So she sat down again, this time in the chair designated for her friend. The smell of the cookies was filling the room, now with a pre-burnt tinge rising to the ceiling. She got up and removed the cookies. The tin pan rested on top of the stove, three rows of five cookies steaming. Their meeting time was now expired by 45 minutes, so she began to wonder if her friend was really coming as promised, if she had forgotten, or if something terrible had happened. When the phone rang Liz just knew it was her friend. She pushed “Talk” before the phone finished the first ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi. Can I speak with Ms. Remington?

“Speaking,” Liz slumped her shoulders and exhaled into the phone.

“I’m Carole Jones, and I’m calling today to offer you a free trip to Jamaica, all expenses paid. How does that sound?” the woman said in her most cheerful and scripted voice.

“No thank you,” Liz said and hung up the phone.

She stood to go put the phone away but decided to give her friend a call instead. She dialed the number from memory and waited for the sharp tone of each number to turn into a slow, persistent ring. After the fourth ring, the voicemail came on. It was her friend’s voice, charming and welcoming: “I’m unable to take your call right now, but if you leave a detailed message I will get back to you at my earliest convenience. Thank you, and have a blessed day.”

“Hi, Sammy. It’s me. Just calling to see where you are. Give me a call,” Liz said as she walked over to the window and checked again to see if her friend had arrived.

This time she left the curtain open and sat in the chair facing the window. A young man in a white t-shirt and khakis held up by a belt just below his waist was putting flyers on each door. His step was swift. He had a song on his lips he echoed down the street. Liz watched him cross, and when he was out of sight, she turned her gaze back to the phone. Still nothing.

Hunger gripped the sides of her stomach so she got up and went back into the kitchen, took three sandwiches from the platter, poured some tea, and grabbed one chocolate chip cookie now darkened around the edges the way her friend likes them. As she took her first bite of the cookie’s edge, the worry she held close melted. Anticipation waned. And sadness was diminished by the rich flavor of the creamy chocolate center. But when she looked over at the empty glass her blood pressure dipped; her heart stuttered the words, “I miss you.”

She pulled herself together, wrapped memory back in its casing and waited for her life to resume. Anger and abandonment took their cue and joined to create a sheath she could wear to protect herself from future disappointment.

[manicbliss-blog]

Release

The woman had one bag packed with the clothes she arrived in, a few self-help books she planned to read when the time was right, and a flashlight she used to scare away the darkness when it became too thick. On a plaid couch she sat with a nurse named Caroline who explained her meds, the importance of taking them at specific times, some with food, others without.

Words flowed, bouncing off the sterile walls. They inhaled the rising vapors coming from the mop and bucket a man from housekeeping pushed down the hall.  The smell reminded the woman of what she hated about this place, the absence of fresh air. Some of the residents walked around them all on the same aimless mission down the hall, to the recreation room or group where they would talk for an hour about what brought them there. Other residents sat in their wheelchairs or arm chairs; their bodies succumbed, for the moment, to catatonia, their minds racing through memory in search of the part lost to the journey called “cured.”

The woman stared up at the framed paintings of country-style homes and landscapes. They added stiffness and staleness, a peaceful perception of the world they had never known, or could no longer remember. These framed works hung straight, creating an imaginary line across the wall, a desire for order, perfection—the unachievable kind. Sleepless residents, with their disheveled hair, bald spots, or hoods for hiding, stared into these paintings wondering why their own lives were not reflected on the wall.

Caroline stood up to leave, wishing the woman a safe trip home. She walked into the nurse’s station and came out with a tray of crinkled, white cups. The woman smiled as she watched her pass.

With release papers in hand, she stood and moved outside the double sliding doors. The sun greeted her with its afternoon glare. She found a bench and sat there hugging her bag. And when the four-dour Lincoln Town Car rounded the loading and unloading zone, she knew the driver had come for her. The car was the same pearl she remembered. The driver poked her head out of the window.

“You ready?” she yelled, but the woman didn’t respond. She didn’t move.

The driver, an elderly woman with a crooked grey wig, parked and then stepped out.

“Savannah,” she called out.

Instead of answering her, Savannah held out her release papers.

“I know. You get to go home. Let’s go. I made your favorite—chicken and dumplings.”

The space between them filled with familiarity as they both got into the car. Savannah smiled at the thought of returning home a new woman, but in the corner of her mind was the ghost of the monster that had once plagued her.

[manicbliss-blog]

I Want to Know…

When will absence plant its roots permanently in solace?

When will the idea of some future perfect moment no longer be idealized and cherishing the moment become more powerful?

When will the word “I” cease to weaken the bond between humanity and the individual?

When will daily thoughts reflect deeper thinking and not signs of the mind turning against itself?

When will our meeting with the “other” not be an attempt to merge with it completely until the “self” disappears? And when will the “self” look as appealing as the “other”?

When will distraction no longer serve as an obstruction to life? And when will awareness meet presence and not be diluted by outside attempts to weaken the conscious and invade the subconscious?

When will all aspects of life come together—a quilt where all patches represent the beauty in just being?

[manicbliss-blog]

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[manicbliss-blog]

The Stranger

Everyone was there for the same reason, with the same intentions: to meet the person they admired, the person they loved as much as anyone could love a stranger who touched their hearts so deeply and reshaped their minds to see the world differently.  

The stranger appeared before them in a white flowing dress. She smiled out at the crowd and offered a quick wave, a gesture of acknowledgement. Everyone—the sick, the poor, the healthy, the rich, the giving, the greedy, and the otherwise living-- hung on to this exchange as an offering, a silent pact no one hesitated to accept.

They waited for her voice, her words, the power they believed she had to free them from the parts of their souls they despised.

[manicbliss-blog]

Black and White Photos

Black and white photos scattered on the floor:  

A birthday boy with a crooked, cone-shaped hat knows how precious the moment is so he lives it, becomes it, undisturbed by thoughts belonging to yesterday or tomorrow.

Grandma sits on her porch, in the rocking chair Grandpa built for her with his own two hands, resting inside memories of happiness. A kind of melancholy, a bittersweet feeling only living, loving, and losing can elicit.

A blemished Victorian giant with stained bay windows rests on its plot, haunted by the outline of a lonely woman staring out, waiting for her muse to return and fill her again with a reason to live. She has sunk inside desire, its alter ego where longing replaces fulfillment and misery destroys hope.

Black and white photos scattered on the floor:

Faces filled with laughter. Firsts captured with a flash.  History preserved in the absence of itself.

Black and white photos. They mean something to someone, somewhere.