If 82-year-old Paul Anka can sing Imagine live from times square a few minutes before midnight, then I can imagine getting up every morning this year and fathoming doing things for myself that make me feel grateful, purposeful, and contented. Remember the times of our lives. This is it the only rodeo that we can confirm, so why not face it courageously and with good humor? Seems like a good enough plan to me. My goals for this year: 1) Accept myself 2) Love myself 3) Forgive myself 4) challenge myself 5) make space for myself. Each of these can be explained in practical terms: Smile at myself in the mirror. Floss. Show grace. Don’t call myself stupid or judge my past behaviors with my current knowledge and understanding. Take on new roles and responsibilities. Learn a new skill. (Adobe cloud I’m looking at you.) Make my home comfortable and clean. Allow time for creativity. I think if I can imagine doing all of these 2024 we’ll have proven to be a good year, well-spent. Happy New Year!

Nearly two weeks ago the anniversary of my divorce came and went and I didn’t even notice. Perhaps that was the day that his email landed in my spam folder, perhaps that came later. Doesn’t matter. I won’t reply. He wrote to tell me that he’d hit a road block in his recovery and that I could help. By voluntarily repaying the dollars he’d laid out (during our marriage) toward my massage training. He said, that acknowledging his financial support of what he seems to have been the gateway to my “acting out,” is keeping him from healing. Poor soul! He can’t recover, but he’s maintained a three-year relationship with a curvy blonde do-gooder. He can’t recover, but he’s launched his third business venture. He can’t recover, but he spends every day on the pickle ball court, and eating lunches out with fellow men of leisure. Poor baby! I am so sorry that he suffers so at the hands of my evil past. I am so sorry that he feels entitled to restitution from supporting his wife’s dream of becoming a healer. (May it be known that I never allowed him on my table. I am so proud of myself for that, for keeping my work sacred, and safe, and protected against his criticism.) Poor poor Papa, who is so frozen in the past that he cannot move ahead. And I, I do not look back. Not ever. Not even the 30th of November.

Almost Elvis

Marriage is a strange thing. Commiting yourself to one and only one other, Forsaking all others, forever until forever is no more.

And it’s meant to be perfect, fresh daisies in the springtime, raking leaves in the fall, season after glorious season

But how can we be someone’s everything, all of the time, how can we be giving and kind and supportive and sexy 

After so many summers spent dragging kids to the pool, losing pairs of goggles after goggles?

Or winter coats, on top of winter boots, on top of winter hats, and mittens covered in frost, and snot?

After a time, you look up at your beloved and you see 

He is no longer a rock star

You no longer feel right in heels

It was good for enough for awhile, now it’s only good enough for Vegas. A close facsimile to the real thing. 

If you squint you can almost see him–almost–Elvis 

looking back at you. Glancing up from the newspaper 

he reads on the toilet.

Corner of Raymond and nowhere, Newark big dog station. Haitian Creole, American jive. Dude with the Doobie spouting spot on parenting psychology. How in the duck do you expect your kid to feel loved if his father doesn’t love his mother? No matter how hard you try to keep that shit from your kid, he gonna hear it, he gonna feel it. How in the duck he gonna love himself if he ain’t raised in a house of love? Brother, preach. This, as I stand on the opposite edge of the sidewalk with my hypervigilant, beautiful daughter. The one who I tried so hard to blanket with nothing but love and security, grew up disbelievingly that what was right before her eyes was deserving of her trust. We do our best, but it is not enough. It can never be enough.

Blue Moon

Black dog

Golden Bourbon

Hollow log

Open door

Quiet room

Too much things

Gone too soon

Scary doll

On the chair

Signs of life

Everywhere

Calligraphied prints

Painted walls

Pictures, tchotchkes

All of the all

So much of you

No longer here

Before that day, I’ll take a chance

To build a bridge

Where there is none

Long washed away

When the summer’d come

No one watching

No one home

No mama listening

On the phone

Three little orphans

Looking for crumbs

Could’ve fed each other

But then we’d have none

Instead we fought

Built fortresses tall

And stood behind

Garrisoned walls

No room for love

No vulnerable hearts

Each of us stood

Prepped with darts

I’ll shoot you first

Before you see me bleed

And never will I ever

Reveal my need

For sisterly protection

Sisterly love

That’s way too scary

I am too young

Mid ’50s now

But with you,

It’s as if it’s  

1972.

I am six

And you’re much older

And yet I’m parenting

Perhaps I’m bolder?

Bold enough

To want more

Then these bits

On the floor

I want serenity

I want peace

I knew even then

It wasn’t in reach

But only if I stuck out my hand

And took not yours,

But my own.

The only one

Who’d lead me home. 

The only way I’d be okay

Was being strong 

enough to hold

My own

You offer me the top of your head to kiss, same as you always do, and I try to say no, I don’t want the top of your head. I want your cheek, your forehead, the tip of your nose. But, then, I flash back and remember that glorious and intense, sweet and concerning moment, minutes after your birth, when I kissed the crown of your head for the very first time. Breathed in the brand new, bloodied scent of you that would imprint on my heart for as long as I will live. Tonight you are leaving, again. You’re a sophomore now, so this shouldn’t sting, the sight of you pulling away in your Honda Civic, gray as the August clouds after this rain, a somber colored car, a serious color, for a vehicle filled with such light – and such love – my youngest daughter. You are nearly firmly planted outside of this nest, creating a life and a home of your own with your friends who are your family of choice. There is room for me, still. Though I know my place is not an everyday one. It is a sometimes, though, when you’re hungry, or cold, or just want a warm smile or hug. You know you can always come to me, my beautiful baby girl. The one who brings me so much joy and laughter, who understands dogs and humans and who fights for justice and won’t tolerate nonsense. Unless it’s if your own creation–sings, dances, silly words and phrases, terms of endearment, or caricatures performed out of love and keen observation. The world is your oyster. Crack it open, drink the juice, wear the pearl on a string. It’s as perfectly created and unique as you. 

The pony car barrels down the street I said hey what’s going on blaring out of the stereo. It’s Saturday night and the firepit is lit and so are the neighbors.

I wasn’t feeling well tonight and Annie Rose offered to pick me up some soup. She dropped it off on her way to go grocery shopping with her father. Aka HE took her to chik filet to get me soup. And HE drove her here to give it to me. (I don’t know if he paid for it). I caught my brain getting all mushy and thinking, awww, that was a really kind gesture. I should be nicer. I should thank him…I should forgive him…I should make an effort…and then, my brain was like —– scratchhhhh needle across and LP —– wtf?!?? No! No! No!! He’s a dick! He’s a monster!! He stole your money and shamed you to your kids!!!! No, no, no, no!!! Don’t you ever forget!!! And then I ate my soup.

Headlights lead 

’round curvy

canyons’ bends

I know not to ask

where, how, or when

I search for dark skies 

and pinholes of light

a billion years old

yet shining so bright

I care not the travel 

through dust-time and distance

Learned long ago 

not to question resistance

Though gravity pulls 

we can’t keep feet grounded

when red clay and roadways 

give way to hot magma

Earth 

(you sweet mother fucker)

Spinning and spinning til nothing’s

in focus

All that we know, no longer ahead,

all that we knew

no longer behind us.

But! 

I am Quaesitor Luminis! I will find

the lights God put there to guide us

I’ll drive through the night, 

my trailer in tow

headlights and starlights 

the tools that will show

The way to the heavens where each one of us

Someday…

Someday…

Someday…

Will go. 

Semi-transparent moon in the pale blue sky the same color as the butterflies on my flare pants that flounce when I walk just the same way my heart did the first time my eyes landed on you.