I feel you come up behind me while I look out side the window.
Your arms around my waist, your lips hot upon my nape.
my legs buckle a little at the first contact of flesh to flesh.
Your kiss moves around my neck now and suddenly I am facing you.
Eye to eye, forehead to forehead
Hips pressed hard together
You kiss my mouth with dizzying greed,
your hands on either side of my head, holding me steady.
My legs buckle again,
lightning thru my soul,
arcing thru my flesh.
You lead me away from the window
and into the next room.
My heart pounds, my body throbs.
I absolutely ache for you.
Exquisite ache.
You lay on top of me and
I am breathless with desire.
Your skin on mine is like fire to fire
We both begin to burn and
our movements become faster,
our kisses more heated
Our touches more brazen.
Your fingers leave trails of
gently throbbing fire upon my skin.
The unnecessary clothes come off.
And just before,
Just before,
you gaze down at me.
I meet your eyes and I am lost.
I am melted into the bedspread, and I am held
captive by your eyes
even as my body is held willing
captive by yours.
You bring your lips to mine slowly
As our bodies meld together.
Face to face,
Heart to heart,
Hip to hip.
This time I am gone, far away
Sent spinning into the air and away from everything but
the sight sound scent feel of you.
I grasp your shoulders
I scratch your back.
You pin my hands above my head
with yours.
We are the only two souls in the universe right now.
its only us and the magic
the friction
the lightning.
This bed is our kingdom
This moment our salvation.
Sweet surrender and exquisite ache
building with such pressure
moving faster now and gaining momentum
surrender is required now and I
give myself over to it.
I will the release to come, and it does
with gasping
clutching clenching expansion
universes of light inside my head
explosions in my body;
white lightning between our
salt-stained skin
and anywhere that we
touch.
After,
when its over,
and I lay with my head on your chest,
I feel aftershocks of lightning
and I press my legs together and smile.
He asked me once, right before he left, what would I do
If I could do anything.
Right now, right this very minute.
I had to stop
and think a minute.
His foot tapped impatiently
“this isn’t how you play the game, you know”
He said with furrowed brow.
“You always take so long”
I swallowed and took a deep breath
and let it out slow.
Anything right now? I wondered.
What would I do…
And I watched him watch me, his eyes questioning, his mouth
tight
and drawn.
Of course, I thought without speaking.
And snapped my fingers.
And all at once
He was gone.
He couldn’t believe his eyes when he opened the door.
The first time he told me he loved me, he had a gun to his head; the second time, he held the gun to my head.
“Grandmother,” the small one asked, “tell me how the world began.”
It wasn’t just that the body had disappeared, it was more just that no one remembered seeing it in the first place.
He told me once, long ago, that the darkness was like that for him; it would well up and overflow out his eyes, leaving a trail of tears and blood that he could never wipe dry.
Try not to think she told me, gently wiping my sweaty brow with a rag soaked in the fresh cold water of the nearby river.
I’m not sure how exactly it started—probably with some stupid comment or dumb-ass remark–but I know exactly how it ended.
Sing me the songs of your heart, man, and know that I listen with my own.
It is said that long ago and far away, there lived a race of people unlike any that walk the earth today and if you listen very carefully on warm summer nights, you can still hear their laughter.
What price love and what cost a heart?
He told me once that the only difference between laughter and tears was about fifteen muscles in your face; I didn’t believe him at first but now, after all this, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I stopped running and leaned against a tree, the rough bark cutting into my back and my heart beating as if it were about to wrench itself out of my chest.
The doorbell rang and I threw my pillow at it.
His voice whisptered across my dream that first night, like oil on water or silk on skin, causing shivers of fear and desire to run up my spine; his exact words were not comprehensible but the images left to my now waking mind spoke of passion and greed.
He comes creeping around the corner when he thinks I am not looking. I feel his eyes on the back of my neck and the tiny hairs at the crown of my head stand up on end. His darkness is echoed in the thud of my heart.
His breath is cool like melted peppermint and I feel it carress my shoulders as he dances behind me. I stare into my mirror, hairbrush lying forgotten on the dresser stand as I search the reflection of my own eyes. He ducks and hides just behind me, out of sight.
I absently touch the sharp letter opener that sits incongruously beside the clutter of perfume bottles and powder puffs. An uncapped lipstick falls over and stains the edge of the opener a blood red. I take this as my omen, my sign, my time.
I turn quickly but in the space between breaths he has slid out of sight; Hiding perhaps in another dark corner, or in the darkness behind the windowshades.
I am able only to see the shadow of his exit in the periphery of my vision. The cold that is his calling card recedes, and I imagine wrapping myself in his cloak of shadows, warmed forever by the failed dreams of those who have gone before me.
I sigh, and begin to brush my hair again.
He will return. He always does.
Imagine this.
You are sick but trying so very hard to beat it. You go to the hospital for a stomach ache.
You are told that you have an intestinal blockage and its a tumor recurrance.
Furthermore, there is nothing more they can do.
Imagine it
“Im sorry, there is nothing more I can do. I can make you comfortable, and keep your pain to a minimum…but there is nothing medically I can do to stop the progression of your disease. You most likely have about 2 weeks left.”
Oh my god. What if that were you? What if you only had two freaking weeks left and you are too sick to go home, too sick to do much but well enough to be aware and to understand. Well enough to realize
“Damn. The writer’s strike doesn’t matter to me because I am not going to be around to see the new episodes of The Office”
“Damn, the Christmas ads mean nothing to me because I won’t be home for Christmas this year.”
“Damn, I won’t see my cat or dog again. Ever.”
It just goes on.
No more summer corn on the cob.
No more valentine’s day candy.
No more fireworks.
You don’t need to worry about taking next year’s summer clothes out of storage and trying them on to see if they still fit.
You can cancel your dental checkup and your next haircut.
To know that all those things will continue on. But they will continue on without you.
Because you won’t be there.
You will be…..wherever.
How would you feel? How would you handle it? You can talk, eat, drink, and have minimal pain. You are tired but not exhausted. You are alert, you are in your right mind.
But within 2 weeks—FOURTEEN DAYS–You will become progressively more and more ill. And then you. will. die.
Nothing we can do about it….
How would you act? Would you cry? Complain? Retreat inwards?
Would you change anything? Would you mend relationships? Would you rebuild bridges knowing that your particular bridge is going into the great unknown?
Would you confess your love for someone whom you’ve never told? Would you confess your hate for someone whom you’ve never told?
Seriously. Think about it. Any appointments you have in the next month…you aren’t keeping them.
You don’t have to go in for your teeth cleaning.
You don’t have to take the car for the oil change.
You don’t even have to pay the freaking bills.
Who cares if the bill collectors call you in a few weeks…
You won’t be around.
Put yourself there.
Its a scary place.
*
It just never gets easier. Every situation is different, but every outcome the same.
I hate those stupid surveys that float around that always ask “Have you ever seen a dead person”
Dammit I have, and I have seen more than I wish. Its not some thrilling bit of info for an assinine survey. Its a real event, with real people and real emotions.
You want to know what its REALLY like? Think of this:
The family sobbing in the hallway, the person to whom you spoke a day ago and is now a discarded shell, the actual person having escaped to places Other.
The feeling of shutting off an IV and taking out the IV port from a vein that does not have any blood pressure.
The sound of the ‘death rattle’ when the dying person loses their gag reflex.
The feeling of utter helplessness when you know you can’ t do anything to make anyone feel better.
The fleeting feeling of fear when you give the dying person just a little more morphine because even tho they are non verbal, they are grimacing, and the hope that you didn’t give enough to kill them but just enough to comfort them.
And then the rational thought that even if you DID give them enough to suppress their respirations, your INTENT is to provide pain relief, and therefore you did nothing wrong so you give the morphine.
The sound of the shroud when you unfold it from the bag.
The fear in the families faces when they come to say “I think you’d better come….” and can’t finish the sentence.
The sadness in your own voice when you tell them that you cannot hear their loved ones heart beat, and that you cannot hear their loved one breathing.
The difficulty in watching other grownups cry.
Having to call a doc and say “I need you to come pronounce my patient”
And after all their pain…all their tears….they thank you. The family who loses a cherished loved one thanks you.
And you go home, and hug your children and cuddle up to your spouse, trying not to remember the sounds of grief that echoed down the hallway as you punched out and left work.
So here we all are. R is putting together the new shelf for the living room, with various bits and pieces placed strategically all over the living room floor. N and I are hanging around.
Wondercat comes tearing down the stairs (the litterbox is upstairs). He tends to come down the stairs fast, simply due to the physics. One fat cat + 14 steep steps = avalanche effect.
Anyway, he parks himself just behind R and proceeds to heave a whopping huge gutful of half digested dinner all over R’s screwdriver, barely missing R by maybe a half inch. I did try to get to him, but low and behold I actually cleaned today, thus no handy bit of newspaper around to grab and stick under his face to catch the vomit.
As I navagate around the pieces of wood and shelves to go get to the papertowels and Fantastik, Wondercat strides forcefully across the room to the hearth, where Jazzy’s dog bed is.
With what can only be described as purposeful dignity, Wondercat squats on the bed and proceeds to shit on it.
N is about hysterical with laughter now.
R is just kind of going “Oh! Oh! Oh!” And I have abandoned my attempts at cleaning the puke and am instead just staring at the cat.
In fact, we all three just stared in horrified disbelief as Wondercat studiously did his business on the dog bed.
Finally he finished, after attempting to bury his present by scratching up the dog bed. As I went to clean it, Wondercat walks a few feet away from the dog’s bed and then sits, but doesn’t really sit.
No, Wondercat sits with with back feet up in front of him,and proceeds to paddle himself around with his front feet, effectively scootching himself on his butt across my nice blue rug.
ARRRGGH.
So I go into the bathroom to get the Woolite carpet cleaner scrubby thing which is a miracle in and of itself. While attempting to open the bathroom cabinet, I somehow manage to knock over the shelves in the bathroom, spilling toothbrushes, toothpaste, hair brushes and makeup onto the floor, and shattering the brand new glass bottle of $12 foundation I’d just bought.
So now I have cat shit on the dog bed, cat vomit on the carpet, (I did manage to clean the screwdriver) and broken glass all over my bathroom floor.
As I am painstakingly picking up miniscule pieces of glass from the floor, R calls out to me.
“Hey I don’t know about this shelving unit. I think its got some water damage or something. Maybe you oughta take it back”
If you come to the ED, get diagnosed with strep throat and are eating doritoes while I am discharging you, please don’t borrow my pen to sign your papers. And if you do, please don’t lick your fingers to clean them first and then try to give me the pen back. No, really, you can keep it.
**
I believe that YOU believe that there are bugs flying out of your skin. However, that piece of lint that you picked off your sock and put in your glass of water to show me is not a bug. Really. And that piece of skin you peeled off your arm is not a wing from a bug. Really.
**
If you have been coughing for ten months, what makes it urgent today that you had to come out at eight in the evening to be seen?
**
No, the doctor said that you don’t need vicodin for your stubbed toe.
**
No honey, the doctor wants you to take motrin, not morphine.
**
No, really, I can’t just give you a few vicodin to take home to get you through the night.
**
I am sorry that you feel that way about your care here, but I cannot just give you a shot of morphine. The doctor said tylenol and that’s what I have for you.
**
If you come in and claim to be allergic to tylenol, motrin, advil, percocet, darvocet, and morphine…chances are that I won’t be giving you the 4mg of dilauded that you ask me for either.
Don’t snowboard.
Don’t walk on icy sidewalks.
Don’t get hit by a truck.
Don’t trip on anything.
Don’t come in higher than a kite with a positive tox screen and then swear to me that you’ve never done any illegal drugs in your life.
Don’t bother complaining to me about the wait to be seen for the ankle that you twisted four days ago. We take people in order of severity, and your ankle that you twisted four days ago and just now decided to get looked at is not life threatening enough. Frankly, the fact that you walked in here in high heeled sandals and not limping is telling me that your ankle is a lot better than you think it is. And if you keep bothering me everytime I come out to the waiting room, you might end up waiting a little longer.
Don’t stand in you room and look at me thru the window while you whip it out and pee on the floor. I am not impressed.
Today I woke up early and the sun was shining.
Daffodils standing at attention in the
neat rows that I planted last fall.
Another winter behind
another spring upon us.
I sat on the front step and I drank my coffee,
Listening to the birds singing to each other
Watching the school buses up and down the street.
Even the garbage truck couldn’t ruin the mood.
The sun was warm on my face and my head.
The air was fresh with the clean scent of cut grass.
Sometimes in moments like this
I get sad for what I’ve lost, or
What I don’t, didn’t, or never will have.
Today though, I feel good.
I have the sunlight and I have my coffee.
I have my family and my friends and
Even if not everything is perfect
its okay.
In the older days, the Quakers would always leave
something small left not quite right on each project.
Maybe a dropped stitch in a sampler or
A slight mar in a piece of furniture.
It was a way of remembering that we are not perfect, but
we can still be
beautiful.
Maybe today
I have just a little of that imperfect beauty in me.
so all of this has felt like a feast of dreams.
a purging of the inner heat the inner demons the inner thoughts
and I am somehow free of burden
yet
buried under yet more questions.
is there more to this self-discovery
yet to unfold?
are there more secret stories
that are yet untold?
I sigh and turn in my bed at night and
dreams are broken into shards
I remember bits and pieces
things I don’t want to relive
things I never did
things I wish I did
things I did
Things I’ll never now get to do….
This feast of dreams both
waking and sleeping
I spent the last few days wandering between
the real life activities and responsibilities
and
the half-hidden thoughts ideas dreams
that dance on the periphery of awareness.
I pray my thoughts don’t mirror in my eyes.
The flush on my face is evident to all.
Just sunburn I say.
If they only knew.
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