Peace or darkness

Note: This was a dream I had. My subconscious might be a little creepy. I was told by friends that it was too sci-fi and weird not to write down, but you'll have to figure out the symbolism for yourself. In the dream, the last thought I had was "wake up, this is enough."

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I was led to a building that resembled a mall, but I sensed more of an encapsulated community-space - there were multiple floors and long corridors. Glass and emptiness as far as the eye could see. I saw my reflection. I was a man wearing all black. Looking around there were frozen, life-like shapes. The people that should have been bustling and chatting around me were still and lifeless, but they appeared to be at peace. I had no memory of how I had gotten here. 

I lost my breath. 

I was somewhere forbidden; somewhere I shouldn't have seen or known to be. This was the afterlife, but I was still alive. 

I panicked. I had to get out. I wasn't ready to be stationary, stagnant, confined. I saw a girl near my age coming toward me from the stairway. I wasn't sure of who she was but she seemed familiar and I knew she needed my help if we were going to make it out and back to life. The floors were made of an opaque glass, as were the walls. She looked hurried and concerned. I could tell that she hadn't figured out where we were. 

Instinctively we both knew that we couldn't go out the front door. It was a certain death. The only way out was up. Without speaking, we ran to the elevator. We could see the people dressed all in black outside of the building; they were becoming rattled and watchful. As the elevator continued up, my mind was blank. I had no ability to think ahead. I'd never felt this before. I was only able to deal with what was presenting itself at that moment. 

The elevator doors opened. We were faced with more opaque glass walls. My only thought was to get to the outside of the building and climb, but I couldn't decide if we should go up or down. We broke a pane of glass with a marbled trash can and climbed out together. I took my eyes off of my friend only to plan my next step forward but when I looked back to my right, she was gone. She hadn't fallen. I would have heard or seen that. She had simply disappeared. 

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the glass, pleading with my mind to allow me to think of what I should do next. 

I lost my breath.

I was no longer outside. I no longer felt my forehead leaning against the glass and I no longer heard or felt the whistling wind. When I opened my eyes, I was back on the ground floor, opaque glass walls, stirring people dressed all in black surrounding the building, still and lifeless human forms peacefully standing all around me. I began to search for my friend. I had to confirm that this place was what I thought it was. I began scanning faces and moved from floor to floor. Finally, there she was. I saw her motionless black hair. I saw her reflection in the window. She no longer looked restless or worried. She looked at peace.  

I lost my breath. My throat felt like it fully closed this time. I felt the urge to cry but my brain couldn't place the proper reaction to the lump in my throat. 

I didn't want to be here.

I knew I would have to fight and face the men waiting outside of the front doors. I turned and ran. I was confident that I could make it far enough at a fast enough pace that I could break free from them and from this place. I wasn't ready for this. Not yet. And maybe never.

I burst through the doors and bodies immediately began to fight me. I was pushing and clawing my way. I was only able to hold onto one thought. "Get away from the building." It seemed there were only 2 men, then 4, then 10. I was making ground. But then men were multiplying infinitely and I could only think, "You've lost. Give up. This will never end until you give up."

I was swallowed by a crowd of a 100 men dressed all in black. 

***

I had a general feeling that could only be described of as at peace. I was surrounded by satisfied people. They were bustling and chatting. The building that we were in was made of opalescent glass floors and walls. Outside the sun was shining and the clouds floated by at a pace that signified it was a windy but clear day. I wasn't really looking for anything in particular, I was just letting some time pass. I saw her face. Her black hair made me lose my breath. I had a clear memory of something unsettling. I remembered the still lives, the almost cardboard cutouts. I began walking faster, searching for the stillness but there was none. I realized, I was dead. I was in the afterlife. I was now one of them. I was supposed to be at peace. But I knew more than they did. I knew that this was just space where we were all trapped. I wanted to scream out, to tell them they were all being fooled. I tried to open my mouth but internally I felt the ability to think come back to my mind. As much as I didn't want to be here, I didn't have to ruin everyone else's peace. My friend with the black hair, she looked peaceful after all. If they knew though, maybe they would want something different. I decided to escape. If I could show them what was possible, maybe they would realize there was a choice to me made. 

I walked down two flights of stairs and calmly walked out the front door. I looked over my shoulder to see if anyone was coming to stop me, but it seemed as though no one had noticed that I was gone. This was my choice to make. The men dressed all in black were no longer outside of the building, no one was looking to fight me to go back in. 

There was a weathered pine shack that was off in the distance. I felt that since it was the only thing I could see on the horizon that I should try to talk with anyone that might be there. When I neared the wooden shelter, I turned back to see the reflective glass structure that lay behind me, as I faced forward two large men dressed in black stepped out of the empty interior of the shed. There was no point in running. I knew how many like them were just inside. I might have smiled just as my jaw was being broken. I heard my teeth shatter, but I felt nothing. I saw blood, but I didn't scream or writhe in pain. The second man stepped toward me and pulled out a samurai sword. With one motion I was beheaded. My eyes, however, were still open and I could still see. I could see that my body was being taken away and my head was being placed into a Styrofoam container as though I was today's catch, fresh from the sea. As the lid was being fastened I had my last thought. "This is the final death. Instead of peace there is darkness here."

Wasting time

“…I wish I could waste my time without wasting all yourrrrr tiiiiiiime.” She sang along to the lyric, windows down, while it was just starting to rain.

Her arm was stretched out the window, like always. She had an odd habit of watching the side mirror’s reflection of her fingers blowing in the wind while she was driving. Now she watched in the mirror as she put her hand up, palm out, fingers extended so that she could catch passing raindrops from the wind. Looking around her car, she checked to make sure nothing critical was getting wet and decided to continue driving, windows down. A red Malibu passed her on the left and she noticed that they had all of their windows open, too. She felt some form of solidarity.

It was raining hard enough to require windshield wipers, but she didn’t feel satisfied. She looked around the car to make sure there wasn’t anything that couldn’t get really wet, and then she slid back the cover to her sunroof and pushed the button marked “Slide.” As it opened, she caught a glimpse of herself in her rear-view mirror and gave a shrug. She slid her sunglasses off her face and over her hair to help keep her hair tamed with the extra wind… and rain.

The red Malibu rolled its windows up. She laughed.

The light was red. She leaned her head back and looked up out of the sunroof. The raindrops were big and she could see them as they were falling, causing her to squint and blink as each drop landed near her eyes. She knew this rain would pass in a matter of minutes, maybe less, and the heat and humidity of a Southern summer afternoon would quickly take its place. As the light turned green, she took the sunglasses off of her head and shook some of the rain out of her hair. She begrudgingly closed the sunroof as if someone was nagging her to do so while she was left unfulfilled and wanting more. She caught another glimpse of herself in her rear-view mirror and raised her eyebrows as drops of rain were still rolling down her face.

She wasn’t angry anymore. She wasn’t heartbroken either. She questioned for a moment if she was happy. She smiled. She looked at her reflection. Yes, that still felt good and looked normal. Happy? Sure, yes.  If not now, soon. She could be happy soon.

Dress up

"Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who's the deadliest of them all?" she asked her reflection. 

She fastened the last few pins and taped her first and third fingers with black mechanical tape. Glancing back in the mirror she decided to add one more band of tape around her forearm. 

"That's going to hurt like a bitch to peel off later," her sister said, walking into the bathroom. 

"Hey, there's money on the line for best costume. You have to admit that this will win. And that is worth a few arm hairs."

"And your top three layers of skin?" Her sister was bemused but teasing. It wasn't the money that she was after. Halloween was like a one woman performance to her sister. This was her only night to shine now that she had matured, or rather, now that she was in her mid-thirties and couldn't play dress up or go to a legal office wearing clothes that she had made for herself. 

"Why don't you ever dress up? It's Halloween. It's the one time of year that normal people like you get to be someone or something else... go wild... have some fun. Be spontaneous!"

"I like looking like me. And if you think about it, as myself I stand out the most in a room filled with costumed people. Did you ever think about that?"

"Ha. That's funny. I think people probably focus more on the sexy nurses and the sluts wrapped in patent leather."

"You know I was being sarcastic," she said, making a "fuck you" face in the mirror and flicking her sister in the back of the neck. 

"I know."

They arrived at the party and one thing was certain: Jess would win best costume. Few people put their heart into Halloween like she did. Of course, the girls at the party were still playing out the horrible trend of Halloween equals Whore-la-ween, which started some time before they were born but had been haunting their generation since the 90s and had no signs of ending anytime soon. They'd just have to wait until the majority of the ladies had babies, got fat and saggy, and stopped showing off the bottom of their ass cheeks to a room half filled with strangers. Lily didn't mind Halloween. She looked forward to the party. The costumes did make her uncomfortable for a number of reasons though. Lily preferred to always look the same, regardless of being on holiday, or a at a baseball game, or on Halloween. She was one of those women that was entirely comfortable in her own skin. Or, maybe it was more like, she was one of those women that looked and portrayed herself as being entirely and effortlessly comfortable in her own skin, but there was more than enough effort involved. Jess was the wild one. Lily was the laid back one. You know the story. Jess became the center of attention at almost any event. Lily found the handful of people that she wanted to talk with and just enjoyed watching the rest of the room interact. 

They parted company early in the evening but Lily was hearing whispers about Jess' costume all night. The number one question was predictable: what is she supposed to be? Lily just laughed. "She's Jess. She's some dark, deadly, wicked character that Jess probably spent months sketching during her down times."

And then, just like that, the night was over. Lily heard someone whistling from the living room. Costume time was wrapping up and it was time to announce this year's winner. Slowly, like a reluctant herd of costumed cattle, everyone headed for the living room. Throughout the night guests voted by writing the best costume, not the costumed person's name, on a piece of paper and placing their vote in a box on the kitchen table. The host, Jonathon, counted up the votes. He got everyone's attention from midway up the staircase and called for Jess and three other guests to come over to the stairs. The group of four looked fatigued. Alcohol mixed with uncomfortable clothing, thick makeup, and ungodly amounts of hair product always led to the Halloween meltdown. Imagine a waning candle, and the puddle of wax surrounding it or Hollywood make-up under hot lights gone really wrong. Lily disliked the end of the night at costume parties for this very reason. Even if a girl started her night out as a sexy waitress, her eye makeup was now running and her blush and lipstick were smeared, someone had spilled something on her, she was limping due to her four-inch heels, nylons had been ripped, and she could now pass for a zombie in the local college production of Dawn of the Dead. 

Lily's focus snapped back to the evening's host. "Biiiig surprise, everyone!" Jonathon said raising an eyebrow to Lily. "The lovely lady in black and red, with the paint, and safety pins, and tape, who was referred to as both scary and sexy, and also a superhero and an assassin... I'm assuming that means Jess... wins best costume. Nice try to everyone else, but you're amateurs at a professional's table tonight."

Jess just bowed and kissed Jonathon on the cheek. She was accepting of the praise, but Lily could tell that she was tired. Playing a character is exhausting. It was time to head home and go to sleep. When she woke up, she would be herself again, until the world demanded another costume.  

Never leave a mark.

She sat in the airport staring at her hands, picking non-existent dirt from under her fingernails, pushing back her cuticles with the tip of her thumb. She had no cuticles left; she had done this so many times – a cover that she had perfected long ago – looking like she wasn’t interested in what was going on around her, pretending that she didn’t have a care in the world. To the others, she was so bored, in fact, that the only thing keeping her awake was how imperfect her nail beds were.  

A young Army Specialist was sitting next to his girlfriend that he hadn’t seen in over 6 months.  He had done his basic at Fort Knox and the ticket sticking out of his bag suggested that they were going back to his hometown in Kentucky. His body language said that he believed in love. The way she ate her Subway, rather than look at him, said she was trying to decide if all this was worth it. A Persian aunt and niece were talking loudly, a conversation that would have looked and sounded like an argument to most. She knew that they were only talking about the niece’s father (the aunt’s brother) and the fact that he absolutely hated Philadelphia. It was funny, really. A lady in her 90s, requiring a wheelchair, snapped at the gentleman trying to assist her, then realizing she was being unfair, even for someone her age, quickly recovered with an, “I’m sorry. Thank you so much for your help, dear.” The father and son that were waiting for the Rochester flight at gate 17 had an unfortunate and dysfunctional relationship. “Pick your shit up and move,” is hardly the way to talk to an 11 year old.

She was one of a kind, yet appeared to be just another sheep in the flock. She walked alone, under the guise of a business traveler without a companion.  She would make all the required phone calls while surrounded by those heading for vacation or those returning from their board meetings; calling her mother to catch up on the week’s news, calling her boyfriend to let him know she had landed, emailing her coworkers that their days would have to be delayed because she wasn’t going to be able to review the report until after 11. Sending and receiving texts from a friend with relationship troubles and her sister who was looking to invest in a new start-up. From the periphery and to the average outsider, she was busy, content, maybe even lucky. But these were all covers, too. She didn’t want to look lonely. She didn’t want her neighbor that was sharing an elbow rest to think of her as someone wanting or willing to partake in small talk. She actually didn’t want anyone to think of her, period. She didn’t want them to know anything about her and she didn’t want them to be able to remember a detail after she was gone. She’d turn her phone on when the plane landed, because that’s what is normal. She’d make a groan when her phone chirped upon receiving signal, indicating that she had yet another email. She’d call her hotel, asking if they could allow her an early check-in because she’d arrived ahead of schedule. That would be the first time the gentleman in seat 12C would hear her voice, and then her name as she confirmed her reservation. She was pleasant. She would smile, help the older lady with her bag, maybe even her seatbelt, but she would not engage in small talk. If she did, they would retain some fragmented memory of her and probably pass it on eventually to a friend or another airport stranger. It was her job to never be recognized, never leave a mark.

The world is a pretty small place. She’s seen thousands of repeaters – strangers that she’s seen before – from one place and then another. Had they noticed her, spoken to her, been able to place having sat, drank, or eaten with her, she would have to remember, too.

The conversation with her mother was real. There was no office job, however, nor reports to read. Her boyfriend believed she was an executive with clients all over the world and was forced to travel, often. The text messages were mostly encrypted instructions for where she was to head next.  When she called the hotel, that was her boss. When she gave her name, that was her new alias, which she was only repeating for confirmation. They said she could only make it 5 years at this; that was when everyone maxed out, they insisted. She was well into year 6…

Southern charm

…

Annie had hired two Mexican day laborers to build a greenhouse behind the servant’s entrance in the back of the house. She had seen them sitting across from the hardware store in the bed of a Ford pickup, and yes they were illegals, but she knew the system only existed because it worked, so she felt no shame in offering them a few days worth of work for a fair wage. Besides that, she was uncomfortable soliciting someone from town, knowing the trip down memory lane that she’d be forced to travel and the unwelcome questions she'd be forced to politely refuse to answer.

Miguel and Mike, as they referred to one another, knew what they were doing.  In two days they were finished building the greenhouse’s frame and structure and were advising Annie on what magazines to buy seed, soil, and fertilizer from. When they asked if they could help with any other work on the house, Annie was actually excited to show them around. So Annie, Miguel, and Mike walked in and out of every room checking off things that needed to be done, with Annie vetoing any suggestions that just seemed beyond her concern. When they were done, Annie had agreed to about 2 weeks more of their time, and she had added 2 additional illegal contractors to her list of laborers – friends of her new friends, of course. She knew that they would be painting, hanging new drywall, and fixing pipes and wires for longer than that though. And after they were done it would be time to fix the roof or clean out the gutters, and maybe they could help her decide what to do with all of her newly reacquired acreage. They agreed to get started on the inside one week later, giving Annie time to unpack and see what else wasn’t working in the old Wilson House.

As Miguel and Mike left the house, Annie followed them out and onto the porch, mentally adding four new acquaintances to her hometown "outsider insider list." She was happy to have the company being that it was a very short list, for the time being. Out of the corner of her eye, she was set aback to see a shadow being cast around the corner of the house of a man rocking in her rocking chair. She was uncomfortable with the thought of who was sitting on her porch, in her chair, how long they had been there, and what they wanted. She'd only been back for a few days, but everyone in town had probably known for weeks that she had bought her parents' house back from her brother. "The girl who had turned her back to travel the world had come back to dig up dirt on her country town," she was sure they thought. Few people were happy to see her, though a true outsider would have thought nothing of the kind. She, as an insider, had always been able to see through the thick and fallacious Southern charm that interlopers mistook as sincere and endearing. She'd seen plenty of it the last few days. With a smile on their faces and an intentionally inquisitive tone to their voices, they'd ask with their shifting eyes, "What are you doin' back home, Hon?" In reality, they were uneasy about her being back. They didn't know why the big city journalist was back in their town. She didn't need trouble sitting on her front porch, hiding and waiting to ruin her night.

Annie turned the corner to see who was there, but the sun was setting and she couldn’t see much more than a black blur. “I’ve gotten five phone calls this week telling me that Annie Wilson moved back to Magnolia,” a familiar voice said. 

Annie relaxed. This wasn't one of them, but she couldn't place the voice. She squinted and almost winced at how bright the sun was. She held her hand up trying to block the violently brilliant orange light, typical of the Southern setting sun, but was still unable to recognize through the spaces in her fingers the dark seated shadow with the familiar voice.

“Did you come back to save this place?” his deep Southern drawl was sincere, and had always been a turn on for Annie.

“I really am sorry, but you’re gonna have to give me a second to…” Annie stopped as the man stood up and she recognized that undeniable and unforgettably wavy hair. “Will?” she whispered. Annie took three quick steps and reached for her friend. Standing on her toes, she gave him a hug, and he greeted her as he had for so many years, “Hi, Sweetheart,” he said with a smile in his voice, kissing her cheek through her hair.

… 

To walk a day on those pads...

"You should stop watching tv. Go outside. Have some fun. Go play on the swing set," his mom said. Her son turned around to look up at her.

"Ok. I'm kinda bored. I don't really want to play on the swings though. I can't decide what I want to do," the little boy said scrunching his face.

"Hmmm... time to use your imagination. If you could do anything you wanted today, what would you want to do?"

After thinking for less than a minute, the boy got up from the spot where he always sat, on the floor, in front of the tv, and declared with a pointed finger in the air, “today I’m going to be the cat!”  

“I’m going to lie around the house and move from place to place following the sun. I’m going to swish my tail ever so slightly for most of the day, and then whip it back and forth whenever the dog walks by. I’m going to lick my paw and lazily clean my ears and whiskers. I’m going to look you in the face with big round eyes, and blink, blink, blink, instead of responding. When you’re out of the room, I’m going to scream, “MMMmmmmeeeeoooowwww?” When you least expect it, I’m going to jump off the chair in the living room, run to the dining room, jump to the table, then to the counter, then to the top of the pantry cupboard. From there I'll tease the dogs. When you go outside, I’m going to stretch up on my hind feet and bat at the door handle. I’m going to scream a slightly different, “MmmmmmEEEooooWWW!!” I'll beg to go outside and when you let me out, I'll eat grass, and attack bugs, and hunt birds. When a car drives by I'll pouf up real big, and when somebody walks past the house, I'll hiss because I hate strangers. When you’re walking up or down stairs, I’ll try to trip you. I’m going to jump up and rub on your knee, run two stairs in front of you, wait, and weave into your legs. Anytime you move, I’m going to follow you. I'll be your shadow. When you go into the bathroom, I'll sit and scream at the door until you let me in. Then I'll sit and watch you 'til I get bored. Then I'll try and knock all of your soaps and creams off of the counter and into the sink. I'll also pull out the sink stoppers because I hate those things. I'll pull some toilet paper off the roll and try to eat it as fast as possible before you can get to me and make me spit it out. At night, I’ll hear you open a bottle of pop. I don’t know what room I’ll be in or how far away I’ll come running from, but I’ll come. If you don’t give me the bottle cap, I’ll rub my face all over the mouth of the bottle. If you walk away from the bottle, I might knock it over… if you don’t give me the cap. After you throw the cap for me to chase, I’ll fetch it and then take it into the laundry room and put it in my food. I’ll eat around it like I haven’t eaten in days. When I’m full, I’ll bring the bottle cap back to you, and you will play with me. If you don’t play with me, if you don’t pay attention to me, I'll dig my claws into your nice leather furniture… or maybe I’ll jump onto your bookshelf and start knocking off all your little knickknacks. I'll make you play with me. While you’re getting ready for bed, I’ll start planning my night. There will be a lot that I need to take care of while everyone in the house is sleeping. I need to throw up somewhere. That will take a bit of time to plan. Should it be in the kitchen where someone will step on it and everyone will see it? Or should it be in a corner somewhere and you won’t see it for days? I’ll also need to knock over your garbage can. I’m sure there is something in there that you’ve been keeping from me. I’ll pull those stoppers out of the sink again because I’m sure you’ve put them back in by now. I also need to jump into bed before you’ve tucked in so that I can make sure I get the best sleeping position.  Around five, I’ll wake you up so you can give me another handful of food. You love that. At some point, I’ll knock something off your desk. It'll fall on the dog. She’ll jump up all scared and stupid. That will make me happy.”

“And just like that you’ve got a busy day planned,” his mother said chuckling and shaking her head.

The little boy just looked his mother in the face. And with big round eyes, he blinked - blink, blink, blink - instead of responding. 

R&R

He sat in the cold watching his breath. It was dark, which meant it was after 3am. He could feel that winter was right around the corner again. He was picturing himself on the gray beaches. He could hear the waves from his front steps. He didn't deserve such beauty, he thought, so he closed his eyes tightly. He shook his head, trying to erase the images of sunsets and elder fishing camps. His son was sitting on the couch, watching his father's shadow through the front window. It was a behavior his family was familiar with. He lived in a permanent haze, afterall. Today it was at its best though. It was payday, which meant he was able to buy the good stuff. 

Every other Thursday, like today, he drinks R&R. By mid-week he's moved to Listerine. When times get desperate he'll settle for gasoline.

Sure he's an addict. He's also just getting by, coping with his life. The village kids walk past him and mutter. The grandmothers shake their heads, hissing and pointing, intending to scold. The troopers know his first, last, and middle names, but they still show proper respect. His wife remembers a better year, and she loves his children harder because of who their father was. When he sobered up, there was always another apology to make. He felt he was always apologizing. He was ready to do what was best for his family. He wasn't afraid to die. They would be better if he was better, but they'd also be better if he was gone, a hard realization for a father, husband, brother, and son. He stumbled out the front door while the sun was peaking over the horizon.

The local bank had two cameras - one for each door - and is open 6 days a week. The distribution center had eleven cameras and a single door and is only open 2 weeks a month. The bank tellers knew everyone in the village by name, but never knew who they'd see on any given day. At the distribution center, the clerk was waiting. He knew who he would see on the second Friday of every month. He knew everyone in the village that still had enough money to buy another bottle of the good stuff.

Duckball

This is Durga and her Duckball...

This is what is on Durga's mind most times...

(Sung to the tune of the 1960s Batman theme song.)

"Duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, DUCKBALL! 

Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury... DUCKBALL!

Duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, DUCKBALL!"

***


She takes the toy away.


***


"Give it back. Why are you taking it? I want it. Give it back. That's my duckball.

(20 mins later) Why did you take duckball? I want it back. Give it back. Did you hide it somewhere? Is it under here? Is it up there on that thingy? Where is it? 

(another 20 mins later) I miss duckball."

***

"Here. Go play upstairs," she says as she tosses the toy.

***

"DUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKBAAAAAAAAALL!

(Still being sung to the tune from the 1960s Batman theme song.)

Duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, duckball, DUCKBALL!

Dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, dig, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury, bury... DUCKBALL!"

She hated herself for thinking it.

She lived in the Portland neighborhood. Her aunt had been murdered; her dad, too. Her mom wouldn’t let her play outside, and the kids on the bus called her fat yet she was one of the smaller kids on her block.  For months, she paid the kids at her newest school in stickers, lunch money, and snacks so that they would be her friends. It never really worked though, and one afternoon, alone in her room, her mom found her clutching a handmade card, rocking back and forth, undefinable tears streaming down her face. Her teacher had made everyone in the class decorate and sign the piece of purple construction paper. It was meant to act as an apology. 

“I’m sorry we say your fat.”

“U R nice.”

“You arn’t ugly. That was mean.”

“I hope that we can play Wii soon.”

Her mom furiously called the school. Yelled at the bus driver. Told the teacher that she should be a better role model. None of this made life better. This wasn’t why her daughter was crying.

Aneysha was 8 years old. She ate because she loved food. She loved thinking about food. She loved the comfort and momentary control that planning a meal gave her over her unreasonably confounding life. Her mom weighed 408 lbs. Every one she knew had diabetes. Aneysha took medication because she was a Type 2 diabetic, too, not to mention asthmatic and arthritic. Her knees hurt all the time. Her uncle lost his leg last spring to diabetes so every time she has knee pain she thinks that her leg is going to need to be amputated. It doesn’t help that her mom constantly tells her she is going to end up just like him.

She prays every day. 

Her mom doesn’t know how to just be a mom. She takes on too much, and feels obligated to say yes to everything, to help everyone.  Child protective services were called to her home because her children are “obese.” She is to blame. Her doctors tell her Aneysha is dangerously obese, even though they went to the doctor for Strep throat. She is to blame. Because he thought it made for a funny picture, her brother used to feed Aneysha Big Macs when she was a chubby cheeked 2-year-old. He now tells her she is to blame. Aneysha just wants to play games with her mom, spend time with her mom, laugh, and be loved by her mom. Her mom doesn’t have time for that.

Can’t there just be some pill that takes away hunger? Why won’t the doctors give her that for Aneysha? She knows there has to be a pill like that.

Aneysha didn’t ask to be part of an extended family of 12. She didn’t ask to be moved from complex to complex whenever “Uncle” ____ no longer wants to be part of the family. Did you know that food stamps only buy you $7 worth of fresh fruits and vegetables a week? Aneysha probably wants more than that.

Her older cousin has a job and makes his own money. He brings McDonalds home every night. He’s got a high metabolism.  Metabolism is one of the only five syllable words that Aneysha knows. She wants to be like her older cousin.  He calls her fat and tells her that he hates her, her mom, this house, and everything else since his mom abandoned him and custody was given to his fat aunt.

One day, Aneysha’s mom never came home. She didn’t abandon her family. She was 42 years old and her youngest was only two. Her heart was big; she was Big Momma, after all. She just couldn’t make it anymore.

Aneysha was sent to her grandmother’s. MeeMee, as she was known, was embarrassed by Aneysha. She did not want to be seen in public where people would associate her with this child. This wasn’t the cute chocolate baby that MeeMee remembered. Her skin had darkened, especially around her neck, a side effect of diabetes, and MeeMee always made Aneysha cover her neck. MeeMee was 70, there were no children in her building, and she was too old for an 8 year old child. As exercise and a meal, MeeMee had Aneysha walk to the corner to pick up her dinners every night. She got what she could with $3.

When Aneysha was 9, her late mother’s self-proclaimed worst fear came true. Aneysha was over 5 feet tall at that time, and could be mistaken for a teenager if a stranger didn’t take the time to talk to her. She wasn’t sexually active, but her body had developed prematurely. On her walk to get dinner, she was raped, her plastic wallet was stolen, and she was knocked unconscious. Her grandmother, too ashamed to see her, had to be forced by a doctor to sit by Aneysha’s bed in the pediatric ICU.

“Aneysha is not pregnant,” the doctor said. Aloud, the doctor quietly informed MeeMee that Aneysha would probably never be able to have children. Silently, the doctor prayed that the cycle of pain would end for this poor child. At least the cycle ends here, the doctor thought, but she hated herself for thinking it.

the bear with the broken ear.

I still have about 20 of them, wrapped neatly in a couple of her old handkerchiefs, tucked safely in the back of the second drawer of an old weathered end table.

…When she died, I found a silk envelope that was my grandfather’s from when he was in the war. It was stuffed beyond its capacity, filled with her linen handkerchiefs. There had to have been hundreds, but being a minimalist, as I still am today, I went through them one by one and selected only those that I considered perfect and pristine. Some had stains and others had deep creases from being folded and hidden away for decades. Yet some were perfect with brightly colored threads in greens, pinks, blues, and purples, stitched in intricate patterns and in the shapes of daisies, posies, and lilies. I didn’t need to keep them all. I would cherish those few, keep them in perfect condition, and hide them away so that each time I saw them they would be new to me, and yet they would bring back so many memories of her…

The two that I have wrapped around the old ceramic figurines appear to be all white and yet, up close, they have paisley details painstakingly stitched around the edges in a cream thread. Years after her death I discovered that the ceramic figurines that I cherished were nothing more than an adult Cracker Jack toy.  Not that it made them any less significant, but the figurines came in every box of RedRose tea.  It’s funny that I never saw her drink tea, but she knew I loved to play with her basket full of colorfully and playfully glazed figurines. My grandmother had nearly a hundred of them, most of them duplicates, but all of them played a role.  There was a family of four bears that could all easily fit in the palm of your hand, all four of which I still have today. They were all slightly different shades of brown and tan, and one had a broken ear.  When I would play with them, I was always the broken-eared bear. I wanted it to know that I liked it the most because I was afraid everyone else liked it the least.

There were giraffes (a family of three), a crash of rhinoceros, a pair of happy turtles, parrots, short-legged horses, horribly shaped monkeys, a pride of lions, a couple of sneaky raccoons, a jaguar, and dozens of others that I have forgotten over the years. But when it came time for me to decide what I wanted to keep, there was no doubt in my mind who was coming with me.  

I never traveled with toys so when I came to my grandparents’ house, I played with what they had to offer.  At home I had a pool and a bike, some neighborhood kids, and an older brother and sister that occasionally allowed me to tag along.  In Michigan, thousands of miles from home, I didn’t know what to do outside on those muggy summer days. My brother and sister were much more outgoing and the few kids that lived in the neighborhood were closer to their age, making me a much younger outcast. I was used to finding my own entertainment though. So I spent entire afternoons creating storylines surrounding my animal figurines. They were a traveling zoo one week and an animal-filled neighborhood the next.  They lived in houses made out of playing cards. They didn’t drive around in cars, but they would take the bus together. The bus just happened to be a child’s size eight.  I wasn’t great at making houses out of playing cards, but at that age it was more about quantity rather than quality and I’d use two decks worth making individual houses for each species, easily covering the carpeted floor of the guest room.

After she died, I would take the group out every once in a while, set them all side by side, and look them all over. But I never played with them again. Maybe it was because I had other, exciting, easy toys when I was at home. I definitely didn’t have anything that required so much of my imagination. Maybe it was because it never felt right. I wanted to keep them, and to remember her, but I couldn’t have as much fun with them and without her.  I still have the playing cards, too.

It’s funny the things that you never forget… like when my mom opened up my Grama’s China cabinet to pack it up, she said, “What the hell am I going to do with all of this tea?!”  There were over three drawers filled with boxes of RedRose tea, all of them opened, none of them missing a single teabag.