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Once upon a time there were twin sisters. One was slim, one was stout. One enjoyed looking at cakes, the other liked eating them. One day a hummingbird appeared, offering a wish for them to share. Share? But they never agreed on anything. A gentleman caller? One wanted blue eyes, the other green. They then argued about a crown. Diamonds? Rubies? No. Frustrated, the hummingbird arranged for a picnic and asked that one sister bring flowers, the other cake. “What if,” the hummingbird asked during lunch, “cake were flowers?” Naturally, the twins argued. The hummingbird smiled. “What if flowers were cake?” Their faces scrunched up. They then said in unison, “Yes that would be lovely.” And off the hummingbird flew, leaving bouquets of wildflowers and not a crumb of cake.
Sunday Sail
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The boy sat at the dock fishing and watching. The old man was a regular on Sundays, like clockwork at seven in the morning, stepping along the pier with computer and paper bag. The boy envied that boat. It would be sweet to take it out, drop anchor, and do some real fishing. But the old man never sailed, so the boy couldn't really ask.
The man went to his boat to get away, leave everything behind. There, he'd drink and listen and feel. Always a comfort - the lapping water against the hull with its gentle sway. At times he'd look out to the expanse of water and think it would be great to set sail again. But by himself? Well, it wouldn't be the same.
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In the soft winter light of late afternoon, a man, alone in a gallery, sits. He walks there on weekdays and rests. It's a mile from his home. The most enjoyable part of his daily constitutional is the looking, the noticing, the seeing and the conclusions he draws. Given the size of the portrait and the woman's blasé stare, the painting may have been a commissioned piece with some liberties taken. The woman does not look happy. Why is that? He thinks of his eighth grade teacher. Yes, the women are similar: slender, taut, uncompromising. On the way home, he continues to remember grammar school, the playground, and the time the ponytailed girl kissed him. It was a fine walk that day.
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Walking the midway, he held her hand. He didn't want to stop. She held on tight. It was the first hand she ever held. He squeezed, she squeezed back. He pulled her toward the shooting gallery and asked which stuffed bear she'd like. She said the pink one. He laid the money down. Three shots taken, three shots missed. She wanted to try. He paid. She aimed. After two shots, the tin duck pinged. After that, he walked with his hands in his pocket.
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She sits, looking at the blank page, and starts a sentence. Before she's finished, she stops. Is it lead or led? And does she really need really? Really? She smiles at her own idiocy. After an hour she has two paragraphs. She's also exhausted and has written too many shes. The working title of her book is River of Lies. It's about all the lies she's been told. It's a friggin' rat's nest.
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She had come a long way through years of heavy rain and foundational shifts. One day, it got to be too much. The decision was easy. She had a couple of notes to write and some cleaning up to do. She left the front door unlocked and headed out. The train would be passing by in fifteen minutes. Waiting along the embankment, she wondered about the African violets. Who would know when to water them? “FU...K,” she screamed. Back home, she locked the door behind her.
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Glori, his model, worked with him for years, following the seasonal light as it passed across the studio walls from east to west. He said her face and body had become remarkably fluid, provocative. Such phrases of deferential kindness often spilled from his mouth. Later, with failing eyesight, he became more inventive, adding paper scraps to abstract portraits of her. After his death, she was given a key to select any painting of her liking. It was the scribbled title on his last canvas that broke her: Goodnight Glori.
SOLD
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No one would guess she's been up since 3 AM with a headache. Hours have been spent on what she'd wear, unsure if a dress was too sexy; pants, too bossy. By morning, she's throwing up. In the car, her blouse is sticky. The glare bouncing off other cars bothers her eyes. Up three flights of stairs, she waits in a hall. Then it's showtime, all prim and proper, sitting straight, ready as she'll ever be.
She Led from the Heart
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She led from the heart ever flowing outward. Sometimes her grace was returned with a gentle caress, a floating leaf, a distant caw. Other times, her heart's river went unanswered. In the silent void, she waited for the smallest response, the slightest echo. Closing her eyes, she freed another intention. As divined a song, not her own, responded. She opened her eyes to meet another's.
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So many rules, regulations. So many rights and wrongs. So many boxes to consider, classify and control. Still she watches her weight, does yoga and smiles for no reason. There's comfort in compliance until society goes off the rails, which of course it has and does and will.
Spring Equinox
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She left the house without a coat. It was an act of rebellion against the months of darkness, chill, cover-up. Her excitement was contagious as sweet breezes danced around her.
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Unable to decide, she continued painting with paper. She wasn't like this pretty woman and couldn't imagine what was going on in her head. Still, she glued her down as the focal point. The papers around the subject were relatable...so many unorganized scraps, lost and found a hundred times over, cluttering her kitchen table, dotting the tiled floor. She decided on a soft color theme. When she found the dress form, she learned the woman was a dancer. It was enough to know. The piece was finished.
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Poetry
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She wasn't a poet. She was a wife, mother, homemaker. She straightened out matters and calmed others down. She was always busy, never idle. Over the years, children left, husband died. Still she worked and her skills grew. From the scent in the air, she knew when it would rain, and if it would be a light mist or cracking thunder. She'd collect weeds for summer arrangements and make ink from black walnuts. Winter was for baking thick plaited breads, pulled apart and served with sweet butter. She wasn't a poet. She lived a poetic life.
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She waits for his car,
his laugh,
eyes,
lips.
She waits for her life to begin.
Uncoupled
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He walked out after Sunday football. No fanfare. She was stuffing shells. By the following week-end, his clothes, golf clubs, and garage full of lumber had been removed. It took another month to rearrange her life with pretty things and a new path.
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Through centuries, the girl is passed around, sold, forgotten, resurrected. An inspiration for many, she smiles sweetly, allowing others to define her, like Vermeer, himself, who was more concerned about the light and how she sat still in the silks he selected. And so time marched on until another cast her in a pose and dressed her in blue papers with butterfly wings. She named her Kimono for longevity and luck.
"Miss Eyre, are you ill?"
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How had she found herself in this position? She wasn't meant to fall in love, not with being so practical, not with having another passion: books. Perhaps it was the sodden, bleakness of the place and his moodiness that was familiar and manageable to her. At the same time, she allowed him to set the rules, parameters. The irony of being both enslaved and in love was exhausting.
Last Ride
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She didn't know it was the last ride. Or the last call. Or the last text. She didn't know it was over. But it was. How happily oblivious the better-half of two lovers can be.
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Look at her. What do you see?
Her name is Phoenix, breaking from the embers, rising from the ash. The boundless distances she's traveled were wrought with lessons, many ignored, luckily not all. There were times she was brave when she stayed; cowardly when she left. She has dealt out abuse, lies, excuses and overdrew on second, third, fourth chances. She forgave herself when no one else did. Still she stands in grace with love in her heart and an outstretched hand.
Look at her. Who do you see?
Curtain of Tears
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She stood at the front door. It had been two years. She turned the knob. The hallway was full of scarves, coats, boots; hanging on hooks, strewn across the floor. She stepped over them. At the dining room, she slumped against the door frame. Her mother was the first to notice. “Lily?” Everyone turned. “Hey,” Lily said through a curtain of tears. Home. She was finally home.
Returning Home
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He returned home after his mother died. Before that it had been five years. Of course he had called her regularly. Of course he had arranged for any help she needed. He was a good son and, well, the longer he felt he didn't come home, the longer he figured she'd hang on, waiting for him. She remained in the house, fiddling around her garden. He had been working late when he got the call. She had fallen and called for help on the alert device he had paid for monthly. By the time he got into town, she had died. He was relieved. And so was she.
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Her mother disliked purple ("cloying", "a whore's color") and slovenly girls with thick ankles who showed no interest in ballet. Secretly, the daughter adored purple, the deep velvety kind, like dark chocolate on the tongue. Years later and no longer a dancer, the daughter gave her mother a painting. “What is this garbage?” her mother asked. The daughter smiled. “It's release.”
Ready to Run Reckless
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He saw her but didn't let on. First from the corner of his eye, then shamelessly. He imagined how she might be. She turned. It was the boy from class, the dreamer who stared out the window. Their gaze connected, lingered. Suddenly, the two felt skittish, like racehorses, ready to run reckless.
