Bruised, not Broken

Boldly, yet shyly
Flinging myself
Out into the void
Hoping he might catch me
Only to fall
Hard against the
Brick wall of his intent.
Enticing me
With false desire
But not for me.
Not the real me.
Pressing me
To fit
His image
His ideal
His perfect mold
But I cannot
Will not
Surrender myself
And so he sends me back
Into the mix.

To Fly at Night

Exhilarating
Rising up into the darkness
Over patterns of light
Small pairs of beams
Showing the way
For toy vehicles
On the ribbons of black licorice
Brightened momentarily
By their miniature lamps.
It does not seem as high
My stomach does not shift
No fear of falling
Just the patterns
Soft glow
Muted light
Midnight quilts
With tiny dots of life
That trail away to fewer rays
Until the darkness overtakes
And nothing can be seen
From our portholes in the air.

instruction

He calls me
Teacher
Not schoolmarm
Taskmaster
Scholar
Or disciplinarian
But assistant
Encourager
And guide
Across
The geography
Of me.
Speed zones
Established
Points of interests
Designated
Favorite
Hangouts
Plotted.
An attentive
Student
One on one
Eager
To learn
Anxious
To explore
Paradise
In the classroom.

What's Showing at the Drive In?

He was dark as I was pale. His eyes blue to my brown. He loved to laugh as much as I did and he was a great kisser. Brad was a junior and I was a senior. Long and lanky, his dark shock of hair falling across his clear blue eyes, he made me catch my breath each time he turned that radiant smile on me and took my fair hand in his large tan one. We were both middle children from large families that owned the then popular station wagon. My family had a monster coral color Chevy with large fins and cateye brake lights. Brad’s dad owned a squarish Ford Fairlane model that Brad had dubbed the “Black Bomb.” Neither of our families had enough money to provide a car for each new driver, so we traded off borrowing the family car. Brad liked to drive and we almost always took the Bomb to the drive in. It didn’t matter what was currently screening; that’s not why we went to the drive-in. I always wondered why Daddy smiled at my mother when he asked what was showing at the picture show the previous night and I had to think about what had actually been flashing up on that big movie screen. I miss the drive-in theatre. I could go, hang out with my honey and make out to my heart’s content. It was both public and private. Private enough to scrunch down in the seat so no one could see exactly what was going on, but also public enough to prevent me from going too far knowing anyone could walk by the car and peek in. It was especially nice on cold nights because the windows fogged up quickly and we could cover up under a blanket adding an extra note of discretion. One night when Brad came to pick me up, he asked if we could take my family’s car. I started to ask my mother but before I had the question formed, my mom answered from the other room. She was going to need the car that night. I sighed, rolled my eyes and we left. When I slid across the roomy bench seat, I asked why he wanted to take my parent’s car instead of the Bomb. Brad laughed and said that when his sister returned in the Bomb that afternoon, she informed everyone that the “stupid car” wouldn’t go into reverse. Brad had to put the Bomb in neutral and let her roll down the driveway. I didn’t realize the implications of this revelation until we got to the drive-in. A drive-in consists of several parallel rows of mounds with evenly spaced posts which held a speaker on a cord long enough to reach into the car and be rolled up in the window on the driver’s side. There was a skill to picking the correct space in the giant lot. You didn’t want to be too close to the screen, the kid’s playground, or the concession stand. You didn’t want a lot of foot traffic passing by your car giving the passersby a look into your car’s interior. It usually took a couple of tries to get correctly positioned between posts. We drove down the row we selected and turned into a slot. After Brad pulled the car up over the mound, he tried to put her into reverse. Oh, yeah, the Bomb won’t go backwards. Sighing, Brad pulled up to the next row and stopped a little too late, putting us too far over the bump and we couldn’t back up. There was already a car in the spot directly ahead so Brad tried to cut around and that put us at an awkward angle on that row. All this time, we were getting closer and closer to the screen and more cars were pouring into the lot filling up potential spots. We began to laugh as we realized that the other patrons were wondering what the hell we were doing, driving over the mounds, bounding up and down the mini-mountains, moving closer to the screen. Brad decided to try once more and we moved ahead another row. Now we couldn’t even see the top of the screen without craning our necks and we were awfully close to the playground. Brad pulled out onto the drive around and tried to scoot back a few rows to try again. We were met with headlights and honking horns, as most people were driving toward us. We just hunkered down in the seats to avoid the blinding headlights and waved at the oncoming traffic. Brad finally got us turned up a promising looking row and began searching for a space. He slowed the Bomb to a snail’s pace as he spotted a prime spot up ahead. Brad turned out in a broad arc and brought the Bomb perfectly into the space. He turned and smiled at me triumphantly, putting the car in park and rolling down the window. We both started laughing again when we realized why no one had taken this perfect view. The post was missing its speaker. Oh, well, we knew what Charlton Heston said to that planet full of apes. We could make up our own dialogue.

The Rain Dance

Her hills
And valleys
Neglected
Yet fertile
Dry
But not barren
From
Much wanted
Drops of
His rain.
A longing
Wind
Blew through
The depressions
And earth
Called out
To the sky
For showers
To dampen
Her hollows
Her mounds
Her foliage.
At last
He heard
Her cries
And saw
The careless
Disregard
For her
Survival.
He hurried
To bathe
Her
Glistening
Drops
Sliding down
Crevices
Rushing
Into the basin
Of her being.
She stretched
Renewed
Refreshed
And shimmered
Beneath
The deluge
He bestowed.
Flowering
Tenderly
She turned
Her face
To his sky
Willing the
Clouds
To stay.

Sweetly Addicted

In that daily routine
Of rising
And working
And resting
Your image
Brushes past
Touching
The edges
Leaving me
With
An imprint
A warm feeling
A tiny shiver
Of memory.

battered heart

Wrapped
In protective
Gauze
My heart
Beats
Limping jaggedly
Hesitantly
And telling
Spots of blood
Dot
It’s snow-white
Covering.
Every day
The sound
Is less muffled
Less chaotic
Less irregular
And the binding
Grows looser
With
Each pulse.
The red
No longer
Fresh
No new
Scarlet blooms
Appear.
Cradled gently
Cupped protectively
Within my chest
Reassuring
It with
A tender
Touch.
Reluctant
To unwrap
Expose
And bare
The tender
New skin
Beneath
The layers
Of fabric armor.
Susceptible
To new
Contact
Raw
Consciousness
Unexpected
Passion.

DEAD ZONE

I touch
The walls
Of the
Empty hallway.
A mime
Trying
To escape
Groping for
Clues
Textures
Shapes
The fragrance
Of a memory.
A spoke of
Light
Peeping through
A break
In the wall
The light
Is pure
Blank
Stark
Empty
White
Missing
The spectrum
Of color
I can
Usually tap
And release
Upon paper
Painting
Images
Emotions
Interior essentials
I need
To surrender
For my
Own sanity.

Which is witch?

This simple girl
From Kansas
Following
The golden road
Has never reached
The Emerald City.
Flying monkeys
And poppy fields
Stood in her way
And yet
She trekked on
Looking for a way home
Looking for
The end of the rainbow
Looking for
Scarecrow
Tinman
And Cowardly Lion.
Her faithful dog
Is her companion
But offers
No advice
Or uses any scent
To guide her
On her way.
A kindly scarecrow
Spent some time
She thought
He was the one
But alas
His straw caught fire
And he was gone.
And now
A stately Tinman
Has revealed his heart
And she hesitantly
Takes his hand
And walks the road
Again.
Traveling and
Talking with
This tender heart
Inside the
Steely frame
She reveals
Herself
Her dreams
Looks down
Not seeing
Ruby slippers
And thinks
That maybe
She is not
Dorothy
But the
Wicked Witch
After all.

Weak in the Knees

Admitting
Weakness
Can be tough
But then
Admission
Could snowball
Into unexpected
Volumes
Speaking
To your
Secret heart.
Opulent
Rocky road
Ice cream.
Frosty green
Margaritas
Salt encrusted rims.
Soft and warm
Insistent kisses.
Quickened
Hot breath
Upon my neck.
Barely there
Silken underwear
And high count
Cotton sheets
On freshly shaven
Legs.
Toasted sugar
Scent
Of cotton candy
Wafting over
The fairgrounds
A small, sweaty
Hand resting
In mine.
These things
Belong
To me.
To hold
And savor
Deep within.
Not weakness
But
Strengthening
My inner
Retreat.

Smitten

Eros is said
To pierce
The heart
With his arrows
of love.
But what
About
The dart
Whose shaft
Is driven
Deep
Within your core
Causing not
Desire
And affection
For another
But severing
That bond
Once fiery
With passion
And now
Gone underground
Scorched
And spent
Still precious
Though shriveled
To crumble
When you are gone.

She Wanted

She wanted
Independence
Standing on her own
In the strange new light
Of singularity
Alone again
Not wanting
Loneliness.
She wanted
Friendship
To be a couple
Within the frenzy
Of her continuously
Tilting swirly world
Looking for
Connections
Not rings
Or chains
But loosely
Looped ribbons
Of passionate
Affection.
She wanted
Safety
Within the circle
Of his arms
And he
Provided this
Without stifling
Or smothering
Simply saying
Just call me
And I will come to you.

disconnecting

Again I soften my heart
And let you inside
Echoing the hurt
Felt even more
By the turn of a word
A twist of the knife
With a bland look
Or a small smile
Makes me doubt
My inner voice
My deepest instinct
Brushed aside
Leaving my heart
Exposed
Unguarded
For another nick
Or bruise
And so I learn
To shield myself
My heart
Still wounded
Healing
But scarred
And becoming hard
Maybe hiding
From another
Seeking love.

Art as Playsure

Running through color
Splashing in streets
Of paint
Rolling in the texture
Of my soul.
Pulling out markers
Leaving their trail
On paper
Blindingly
White as snow.
Crushing the charcoal
Between my fingers
And leaving
Smudgy trails
To follow later
With our eyes.
Sniffing the fragrance
Of crayon wax
And listening to
The bristle
Of the paintbrush
Upon the rough tooth
Of the artist's pad.
Feeling each pigment
Every stroke
Course through my blood
As it spills across
The pages.
I delight to see
My work
At end of play.

Loom of Life

You've stepped into
The weaving
Of my threads
With yours
Multicolors
Of fiber
That touch
And coil together
Filaments of feeling
Woven loosely
At first
And then
With permanence
Strengthening
My tapestry
With varied hues
And texture
New strands
Expanding to include
Your life
With mine
In a beautiful
Carpet ride.

Eat Me

I’ve heard people referred to as sweet before. Not me, mind you. This is usually after the sweet one has performed some selfless act or perhaps they are always sweet, with a perpetual sticky grin upon their faces. I have been called sweet on occasion, but I don’t think that is the flavor that even those that don’t know me very well would permanently bestow. I think I have a much broader range of characteristics than just one. I’d like to keep my dry humor without it being moisturized or dampened down. I have been bitter when I cannot seem to find my way and others don’t share my frustration or even sense that something is wrong, but this only seems to be temporary and not a taste I carry with me all the time. I am sour when I don’t get enough sleep or I cannot seem to gather my students’ attention at the end of a dreary day. I try not to be sour for too long because I think I might turn out looking like some of those older women with pinched and puckered mouths. I inspect my mouth nightly for telltale lemon lines. My favorite innate taste is that of a nut. Nuttiness can crop up at the most inopportune times. Sitting in a serious faculty meeting and casually recording the inordinate number of times the speaker uses a word until it almost becomes meaningless and having to stifle the giggles. Or being handed an acronym that I cannot remember the original meaning of and making up my own new and special one, usually with some dirty words included. I can even change my temperature from chiller cold to spicy hot. I am cold when I withdraw to protect myself or hide my true feelings. I would rather be thought of as something hot. Hot and steamy, liquid and vibrant. Like hot chocolate on an icy day, warming my way to the chilly core. Some food words we might want to avoid. What would someone be like if they were crispy? Would they tend to break if you weren’t careful with them? If you referred to someone as chunky, would that mean they were overweight or just lumpy? If you were light and fluffy, people might think you were empty with no substance. I’ve heard people labeled cheesy, meaning they were cheap and tacky. And I think that fruity already has some bad connotations. When I think about myself from now on, I think I will try and connect to one of my favorite flavors, rich dark chocolate. I’m deep and sweet, smooth and creamy, but not sweet.

Summer to Winter and Back Again

Today I read on a friend’s Facebook page that she was happily cutting and stacking wood getting ready for winter. I could only groan inside. There are so many things I don’t like about winter. I don’t like being cold. I feel like all of my muscles are tight and flexed at the same time. I don’t like long sleeves, long pants, turtlenecks, scratchy sweaters, shoes and socks, and layer upon layer of bulky clothing to make me fat. No one can see my color coordinated toenails that I paid someone else to file and polish. My feet will become neglected Neanderthals with rough patches and pinched digits. I will let the hair grow back on the tops of my toes because I will forget about them. My daughters will be horrified that I have revealed this family secret. We have hair growing on the tops of our toes and fingers. No one should ever know this hideous fact. We might be ostracized by the society of hairless people. I’ll have to collect the menagerie of colorful flip flops scattered through the house, match them up and file them away for next summer when I’ll take them out and wonder that I wore such mashed and deformed, faded and dirty rubber shoes upon my feet. I’ll put a bottle of sunscreen in my bedside table for the sharpest coldest day when I don’t want to get out of my bed. I can take out the bronze bottle, flip up the lid and breathe in the smell of summer. I can leave my favorite pair of flip flops by my bed and use them for slippers. When the first signs of spring appear I will be tempted to wear short sleeves and capris to expose my pale white skin that has missed the summer sun. I will be tempted to go to the tanning salon and get a head start on summer color. I will long to awaken in the morning to hear happy birds and hot nights with cricket sounds and honeysuckle smell. Then, I can post how happy I am about the glorious approaching summer on my Facebook page.

Into the Blue

My first instinct
Is to fly
But my wings
Have grown stiff
And unpracticed.
I hesitate
Having let my guard down
In the protected circle
Of woven twigs and fiber
Bound together
By two
And unexpectedly
Coming unraveled
In the coarse wind.
At first
I cannot fly
I huddle
In the decomposing arc
Protecting the soft
Underbelly of my feelings
Ruffling my feathers
To appear
More fearsome
And not fearful.
I imagine
I am strong
And simply wait
Flexing and preening
Folding and unfolding
To rush
To the edge
And push away
Gaining altitude
Soaring
Leaving
The ruined nest behind.

dried up

Just when I think
All my tears
Are dried
I have no more to give
One escapes
And then another
And another.
Following the leader
Down the slope
And racing into valleys.
The deluge continues
Until my face is slick
And shiny.
Tears drip from my chin
Or if I’m lying down
They run into my ears
Tickling
But not in a funny way.
The single tissue I pulled
Now a sodden ball.
I could use the whole box
Transforming each soft square
Into a salty lump.
My throat aches from trying to hold it in
And I wonder
How ugly my face has become.
Distorted
And splotched with red.
My eyes feel puffy
And squinched
So I splash cold water
On my swollen facade
Hoping to wash
This semblance of sorrow
Down the drain.

Realization

I was startled when I realized
I didn’t think about him today.
I only noticed because
His name
No longer mine
Was on an envelope in the junk mail.
I was hungry when I realized
The food I was preparing
In my smallest skillet
Was my favorite
Not his
And it didn’t have to linger in the oven.
I was drowsy when I realized
I could lie on all the pillows
Or push them off the bed
To make me
And my doggie
Comfy cozy in our nest to fall asleep.

Hope Chest

When swimsuit season rolls around, I start thinking I might like to get me a set of boobs. I'd like to have a little more swell over the crest of my bra top. It'd be nice to turn a few heads to look at my rack. I don't really have a rack. In grade school, I was like all the other girls; I assumed I would grow some boobs. When I entered junior high and had to change clothes in the locker room, I soon realized that I was lagging behind. First of all, I didn't have a bra, which I remedied immediately that afternoon when I returned home from school. Mom had to take me to the store to get a "training bra" that day. It was stretchy and sort of like a workout bra today. My chest apparently wasn't up for training. I had bumps, but my God, some of those girls looked like Marilyn Monroe to my eyes. One weekend, I was at a sleepover with about six other teens. We put on our pajamas to eat, play games and tell ghost stories. Jeri, the hostess, kept her bra on under her baby dolls. I didn't really think anything about it. At one point in the evening, Jeri's mother came in to check on us and reminded her to take her bra off before she went to sleep. I suddenly realized why she had not removed her bra before. When she took off her bra, she took off her boobs. Eureka, I could fake my chest, too! Mom was again dispatched to help me find an appropriate faux bosom. This was okay for awhile. In high school, I purchased a contraption that looked like pink clamshells with a strong spring in between. I was supposed to press it in and out between my palms numerous times while holding it out in front of me for a few minutes every night. I used it for awhile but after my brother found it and I suffered the humiliation of having to explain its purpose, he gently told me that it would not work. My brother worked out daily with weights and knew what he ws talking about. At least he didn't laugh. I guess I would remain a member of the itty bitty titty committee forever. College was pretty cool. No one wore a bra and frankly, I looked pretty good. I pretended it was in honor of the women's movement which was in its infancy. If I had burned my bra, it wouldn't have made a very large flame. Boys seemed to like the braless look. My mother, however, was not a big fan. She assured me that I would regret it one day as my breasts would sag. Okay, Mom, first you have to have something to sag. I don't think I'll ever go under the knife and add to my chest dimensions. It gives me nightmares with Anna Nicole Smith, Pamela Anderson and that weird kissing bandit woman from Atlanta baseball games bouncing through them. I'm not greedy, but I'd just like to add a little more to my hood ornaments. In eighth grade, a friend asked me if I had a hope chest. Yes, I thought, I really, really, really hope I get a chest, but you know, I've never had any complaints.

(this is from this summer's writing project, but someone asked me to post it here)

These Things I Miss

I miss him seeing me how pretty I am
Fresh from the shower.
My hair piled atop my head
Damp tendrils trailing down my neck
My body
Pink and newborn
From the brisk massage
Of the thick terrycloth
Drinking in the
Excess moisture.
I stand at the mirror
Admiring
My curves
And select a sweet-smelling balm
To caress each slope
And slide
Along familiar trails.
Shaking loose my hair
From its elastic prison
And strolling serenely
To select
Delicate underthings
He will not see.
These things I miss.
And I wonder
Does he miss it, too?

Release Me

I looked at the text message and decided to let him go. He'd been on the line long enough. I wasn't really interested. I remembered my first serious breakup in college and how many guys I cruised through. I didn't sleep with them, but I did go as far as I dared, leaving myself on a sexual high and the guy limping back to his car after dropping me at home. I was a selfish bitch. I was looking for something. Or someone. One night I went to a bar with a few friends and I met a young man that one of my group was acquainted with. He attended another local college. He was drinking alone while watching the dance floor. He said his girlfriend was out of town or working or something. Then he asked me to dance. I was surprised but stood and took his hand. I figured he just liked the song but when a slow number began, he took me in his arms and pulled me to his chest. I leaned into him as hard as I dared without knocking him down. I felt like we were having sex on the dance floor. We all went back to his apartment and drank some cheap wine that college students can afford. Couples began to drift together, leaving and pretty soon I was alone with him. I can't remember his name. I knew he smelled good and had soft, curly blonde hair. We began to make out and I thought I might go too far with this handsome stranger. He pulled back a few times but then seemed to change his mind and kissed me harder. He started to reach under my shirt and I leaned into him when he suddenly pulled away and said, "I can't do this." I was embarrassed and wondered if I wasn't pretty enough or if my breath was bad, but he said, "I'm engaged and my girlfriend trusts me." I instantly melted and wanted him more. But, I let him go. We wield a lot of power in a kiss, a glance, a touch, a teasing tone or word. He could have taken advantage of the moment and didn't and I am glad. Glad that he let me go. I'm more careful now with my power. I try not to abuse it. I let some of them go.

Turn Your Radio On

My dad always drove a beat up pickup truck as I was growing up. I learned how to drive a stick shift in that old truck. It was green and he always had the radio tuned to KFDI, a local yokel country station. My siblings and I would always laugh about his choice of music when we were out of earshot. Daddy liked to listen to country music. Really, really country music. Music about lost love, rumbly pickup trucks and losin' your dog. It was easy to sing along, but as teenagers we knew we were supposed to ridicule and shun country music and only punish our ears with rock and roll. There was always a station that all the local teens tuned to on their car radios. Today I listen to a moderate rock station. In fact, they play what are now referred to as oldies mixed in with some new stuff. I like the patter of the DJ's in the mornings. Sometimes I call in with a story or try to win tickets with my witty answers. When my own teenagers get into my car, their hands immediately head for the radio tuner. My daughter likes to cruise through, not pausing long enough for me to figure out what the heck the station's genre is. If a commercial is playing, she glides by looking for just the right sound. She is the same with the TV remote and has been banned from the controller when I am in the room. It makes my head hurt and I don't like watching bits and pieces of various shows. My son, however, (if he ever gets to ride up front instead of his bossy twin) will simply tune it to the closest Christian screamo station. I can bear this for about half a song. It makes me feel so old. Isn't church music supposed to soothe the soul? Do we have to shout and strain our vocal chords professing our love for Jesus? I remember fighting with my mother over the radio choice when I was a teen. I changed the station whenever I drove the lumbering station wagon, but not if I was a passenger. Mama liked Elvis but not those "new ones" from England. My mother drives in silence now. I think she feels the need to concentrate on her driving as she gets older. the music distracts her, there aren't any stations that play swing music from her era, and she no longer has a cassette player in her car. My daddy, however, is a different sort of geezer. He still hums along with his new favorite country song. He likes all the sweet young things that sing country. If you asked him who his favorite singer is, he would probably say Hank Williams as my mother rolls her eyes. Geez, Dad, he's been dead for quite some time. Still a classic, he'll say. I used to groan and roll my eyes, but now I simply shake my head and smile when he asks that same old question, "Have you heard this one?" Oh, Dad!

Celebrate the Day

Today
On this our anti-anniversary
I say celebrate the day.
That it happens to fall
So close to your birthday
Makes me wonder
Was this a gift you gave yourself?

Celebrate that you have shed the old
And donned the new
But still it remains an illusion.
Would it be mean-spirited
To hope you feel the same way I felt
One year ago
On this our anti-anniversary?

I celebrate that my fear and longing
Have finally become your own regret.
Too late you wonder
If your choice was really that
Or just a silly
Momentary lapse in judgement.

I celebrate my heart
As it begins to reinflate
Making room for another.
You cannot pierce it anymore
It floats joyously
Above your head
On this our anti-anniversary.

I celebrate that you are gone
And I am free
To eat all of the cake
On this our anti-anniversary.

What I Learned While Coloring

Some things I can change
In my spectrum wide world
Inhabited by the stick people that I love.

I can have curly hair
and the longest eyelashes in the world.
I can make my sisters smaller than me
And give my brother a crew cut that he hates.

I can grow monstrous flowers in brilliant tints
To wave along the curving sidewalks
Of my imaginary castle house.

I can hang colorful curtains
To fly in every window
And a smiling dog sits patiently by my side.

But the best lesson I learned
With a rank of rainbow soldiers
Clutched in my hand
Is the world doesn't have
A lonely strip of sky across the top above me.

But the calm azure heavens
With marshmallow clouds
And a dazzling sun
Reaches down
Surrounds it all
And goes all the way to the ground.

Online Dating

Finding yourself on the dating scene after 30 years with the same man is frightening. A few friends have asked if I am dating and I wonder who they think I would be dating in this small everybody-knows-your-business town. Some men have feigned interest but are already attached, think that I am desperate for sex, or are what I consider to be creepy. One suitor has proven to be sincerely interested and I am seeing him occasionally. Workplace romances are very touchy and I don’t want to lose his friendship. In a moment of desperation (why does that word keep cropping up?), I signed on to one of the most popular online dating services. Their commercials flood the television with ecstatically happy young couples. I have not seen any of the senior set appear in any of the cheerful spots. At first, I tried the free route but couldn’t see my matches pictures and could not communicate except by way of an “icebreaker”, which were really lame comments addressed to liking their picture or that their profile had “caught my eye.” Yeek. I eventually signed on for 3 months so I could see and communicate with some of these perfect matches. After looking them over and sending out a few tentative “first questions”, I received only one response for my money. I soon realized that maybe these members had not paid their fees and could not reciprocate my attentions. This was very frustrating. Are you in or are you out? This takes me back to my high school years when I finally asked the young man of my dreams on a date as he was too shy or hesitant or nervous to make the first move. Step up to the plate, dammit. Take a chance on me. Eventually, I became weary of signing in to find that no one had replied to my emails or daringly sent an email out on their own. In a moment of anger one evening, I signed onto the second most popular online matchmaker, again for 3 months as this was the most economical. I could immediately see pictures, profiles, and this part makes me laugh, send “winks” out to those I was interested in. This site had even more levels of communicating including a “fast track.” I received hundreds of winks. It was a little overwhelming. I looked at every profile. I wondered briefly why men hundreds of miles away from me were sending me winks. I didn’t really want to fly 3 hours to go on a date. I returned a few winks to those that could actually spell, expressed themselves well in their profiles, and weren't looking for a "soulmate." Puh-leeze. I edited my own profile soon after as I thought some parts were too demanding, misleading or uninviting. I didn’t really notice any change in the men that were matched with me or the number of responses. I did notice, however, some very interesting things about a large number of the men in the age group I had specified. They all love the outdoors, work out 3-4 times a week (really?), ride motorcycles, like cuddling (omg, I could not believe this), wear hats in their photos if they are balding, have only headshots if they are fat, don’t want women who play games, and (I was blown away by this frequently mentioned factoid) love ballroom dancing! Ballroom dancing? Get out of here! I can line dance and disco dance. But ballroom dance? I guess I need to sign up for classes. Would we go on a date to ballroom dance on his motorcycle while cuddling? Now, my date site surfing is mostly for amusement. These men seem as timid as on the other dating site. I guess I’m just too scary. I like to read. I like to go to the movies. I like stimulating conversation. I'm a great cook but a lousy housekeeper. I don’t like to shop and I love a great kisser, but I didn’t put that in my profile. And, my picture is current and I think I look pretty damn good for a chick my age. Maybe, I should lower the age of the men I’m looking for. Would that qualify me as a cougar?

Flying Shards

The glass grew cloudy through the years
Secrets and distrust colored the pane
Tiny glints of light occasionally shone through
But the original sparkle was forever dimmed.
A spider web of cracks began in a corner
Unnoticed at first
Ignored later on
Making the plate too fragile to hold to the frame
We'd constructed long ago.
The fragmented pane eventually shattered
The sharp edges cutting my heart, head and hands.
We didn't try to replace what used to be
But worked the open casement as an excuse
To distance ourselves from the pain.
Backing away from the razor's edge
I began to heal
And eventually turning, I realized
That flying shards had
Pierced our children
Opening fresh wounds
Leaving scars
And the exposed window had permitted
A fierce cold wind to cut them, too.

Memories of Me

Photographs lay in packets and sliding stacks on the spare closet floor. She curses silently to herself and bends to retrieve the suspended memories. Thinking she only wanted to find that extra head shot, she starts to stuff them back into the overflowing boxes and portable drawers that are supposed to organize her life. She pauses at a picture she had forgotten. A happy, golden moment in a graduation gown. My God, I was so young. And thin. Her smile is frozen in a wide white crescent on her face. A lanky boy stands gazing at her instead of the camera. Here's one where he's smiling at the lens instead of her. What was his name? Jim. He wanted to date her but she was in love with someone else. She still is. Here are her three little goblins on a Halloween long past. I made those costumes, she thought with pride. Look at his hair. Damp ringlets curl out of her son's pirate hat. She cried when she decided to cut it so people wouldn't think she had three beautiful girls. Now pretty young things covet his curls and he is never mistaken for a female. Here is her oldest in a silly dance costume, her face peeking from underneath an overstuffed hippo head. She laughs at a picture of her youngest daughter sitting on a tiny lawn chair in a baby bikini poking a curious finger into her belly button. Her own fingers touch an image of a young couple in matching sweaters. The young bride leans in over his shoulder and rests her cheek against the curly hair her son has inherited. The man's hand curves protectively around her wrist as they gaze into the camera. Their body language speaks a story of trust and commitment and love. A tear slides down her face as she tucks the photo into the open box and closes the lid. The picture is just a memory now.