Archive for April, 2010

Easter, No Matter

April 7, 2010

No matter what, there were daffodils. No matter four and a half hours: All My Children, General Hospital, Oprah and American Idol.  My dog, socks.  Running like a herding dog, with nothing to lasso but the wind.  His eyes narrow. His socks brown.  White.  No matter eating from 3:00 until crackers and cheese, then chicken, then chicken and soy with bladder-bleeding ketchup. Leftover crème fraiche with granola and almonds. What was I trying to do the with soy sausage with chili-Chinese.  No matter, no matter. Pre-lief and Advil.  No matter what, there was you.  Your voice, a sonata wall-papering the kitchen, yielding and melodious.  Jelly beans in a golden dish. Different flavored eggs. Christ—rising again. For some. Despite ulcered-disillusion.  These days.  Finding the elastic of spittle on my lips.  Like scorched milk-skin on my lips. Memories of grandma, smiling delight over spatula and fried potatoes—her Irish, in the black skillet. Drool spilling a small puddle on the back of her hand. Her black eye darting to mine.  Wiping in the dishtowel. Turning from me. No matter. Her slim form and dimples.  Thirty years ago or a weekend.  Three days.  A resurrection or down strum on a guitar.



April 6, 2010

Rosedale Elementary School, to me, equaled Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.  I get the same silly smile on my face as Snoopy, whenever I think about my old school.  The granite floors were shiny, the banisters I ran my hands over as hall monitor were polished oak, and the bathroom stalls were either slabs of limestone or marble.  Hall monitors, in that era, had little to do, but read the occasional timed hall pass of the rare student that was always going to an important appointment, such as the dentist.

The front was reminiscent of Hogwarts, in a good way. A sheltered patio graced the front under an ancient tree, where we lined up in front of the steps entering the school, after we said the pledge. Cognizant of natural beauty, I remember the autumn leaves swirling down over our heads and feeling the consecration of September.

At lunch time, boys and girls blacktopped with tetherball or four square.  I excelled in both.  Park-like grounds or private ones curved around our tar patch, and once being very naughty, I with a few other girls and boys tiptoed past the no trespassing sign.  Living out in the suburban condominiums for divorcees and old folks, this was paradise to me.  My romatic heart thrilled at the idea that one of the boys would kiss me or even hold hands.  It did not happen.  But once in sixth grade, after school, a truck driver gave me an ice cold bottle of Coca-cola out of the back of his delivery van in front of my admiring friend. Because I asked him.  I felt so grown up, or worse, powerful. (More to come.)

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