I can feel it, honest

night returns
okay, that's a bit dramatic
but close

sunday was the last game
for my team
they played ‘til the end
the crowd was into it
i watched from home
wishing i was there
they won that one
but not enough along the way

playoffs start tomorrow
yankees, cardinals, red sox,
no surprise,
and some other teams will play
play hard
play as if it may never
happen again
because it might not

i will watch bits
here and there
check the web
talk it up
with the guys

but i've already moved on
already thinking of
spring beginnings
because next year
we'll still be playing
it's worth waiting for
i can feel it
honest
i can

That one was answered

They said that God loved me and that I should talk to him. He’d listen and care. I asked him to make my grandma better; she died. I wanted him to help my dad make more money; he got fired. I prayed for Momma to love Daddy better; they divorced. I asked for help with my schoolwork and failed two classes. I begged for friends and spent the summer alone. I cried out to understand God and how this stuff works and I waited in the unending silence. Finally, I asked to be left alone. Seems like that prayer was answered.

The Tipping Point

He’d come through Ellis Island with his parents in ’05, nineteen not twenty. Family settled in Cleveland. Seven kids plus New World equaled struggles. Food, clothes, shelter. Nothing came easy. Soon a war stirred in Europe.

Not yet twenty he left home, moved west, worked a ranch in Montana before drifting on to Oregon. Soon marriage, three kids followed.

Then the Big One. Market crashed, people jumped. He always had work, a house and a car. He read the news, watched his neighbors. Folks said he cared, tried to help others. “Generous to a fault.” They’d say. “Everybody needs a little kindness.” He’d say.


Her parents left the Deep South looking for a new life. Dad was a teacher, a professor of college math. Small college, but still something to respect. Watched her older brothers move out and move on. Both into business, both successful. Her marriage was something less than she hoped for. A hard worker, but lacked the drive she desired. His accent could be socially embarrassing. Not to mention his general lack of couth.

Then it came. October ’29, people went crazy. They survived; she survived, on the edge, always afraid. “There’s no guarantee we won’t be next.” She’d say if anyone would listen.


The second war in Europe had come and gone, their sons had grown and gone. They had their routine. There was the weekly dinner, at their favorite Chinese restaurant. Same place, same conversation. Same meal, for him. He’d order Combination Number Two; sweet and sour pork, egg foo yung and chicken chow mien.

“You’re so stuck in a rut. Will you ever try something new?” She’d chide.

“I always get it because I always like it. You can get whatever you want.” He’d reply.

Their order arrived; he’d savor the familiar flavors. She’d chatter while picking at her dish. He’d nod and grunt agreement. Kept the conversation going, avoided actual involvement. They’d finish with fortune cookies. She’d read aloud, made him do the same.

He’d rise, putting on his hat, glancing one last time at the check. Did the math in his head to count out a tip, always more than expected. Placed it on the table, next to his plate, not too obvious but easy to find.

He’d start toward the door. She’d hesitate. Made sure he was focused on going and quietly scooped up most of what he’d left, slipped it silently into her purse

Like an old western

A humid summer evening, at least by Portland standards. He stands in the neighbor’s yard, calling out insults that morph into threats. The streets have cleared like an old western. Eyes peer out of windows, hoping to see but not be seen. He demands justice for his offended child; someone must pay. Like a bull anxious to charge, he looks to find his enemy. He snorts and paces. The sun settles behind roofs and trees. Onlookers lose interest and fade away into the night. Darkness overwhelms the neighborhood. He slips home and downs a few before falling asleep on the couch.

expectations

This isn’t what I expected. First, I was sure it wouldn’t happen to me. I’ve always been sharp, quick witted. Second, by its own nature this should blind me to the reality. Ignorance is supposed to be bliss. Wrong again. It’s here and I know it. What do I do? Skirt the edges and "fake it" as long as I can? Go to the doc and seek treatment? Tell someone, everyone?

What if they already know? What if I’m some fool, the last to know. What if they’ve been graciously whispering behind my back, kindly letting me live in my dreams?

Before mid-terms

Called a genius, he skipped middle school and breezed through high school. Got straight As, of course, and a perfect SAT score.

Began college at fifteen; St. Andrew’s, a previously religious school, not too far from home. His goofy glasses and greasy hair only overemphasized his inability to fit in. The first week, he missed half his meals and classes. He was usually lost in the library. Couldn’t find his dorm room on Friday night, so he wandered in the rain. He was taken to the infirmary the next day and diagnosed with pneumonia. He died and was buried before mid-terms.

Hatred Owned My Brother

The divide was as deep and perilous as any I’ve seen. Hatred owned my brother’s soul. He burned to make our mother pay for the pain she’d sent his way. We never knew what evil drove him to obsessively plot his revenge. On Christmas Eve, days after turning eighteen, he announced he was joining the Army and going to war. That holy night was our parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He knew this was the perfect day for betrayal. And he was almost right; yet it paled to the anguish she felt fifteen months later meeting his flag-draped coffin at the airport.