When I woke up, I was still drunk and I think I knew you were gone, but I didn’t want to know. So, I drank more, and slept more, and things went on that way. I needed you so much that I couldn’t even begin to think that you would really leave.
A couple of months on, Jeff started trying to get the rent, which I didn’t have. I got mad and punched him when he came nosing around one day, and that made him mad. So, he started eviction proceedings. Just like I kept thinking you’d be back, I thought he’d drop the eviction, but he didn’t, and when the sheriff showed up to kick me out, I took a shot at him.
So, I wound up here, in the crowbar hotel, just as my father prophesized when I was ten. Over the years, I kept thinking that you’d eventually get curious and start poking around on the internet and find out I was here. I even told myself that one day you’d ask to be put on my approved visitor list.
Last spring, I was within spitting distance of parole. Before the hearing, they notified Jeff and the sheriff in case they wanted to testify. Anyway, getting that notice made Jeff mad all over again and, out of spite, he sent me your letter. He’d found it under a big pile of shit I’d left behind when I was arrested. I guess he saved it hoping for the day it could hurt me most.
Jeff got his wish. It broke my heart. All these years, I’ve been telling myself that you’d find out that you need me and you’d come crawling back asking me to forgive you. I even told myself that I was such a big man that I’d take you back even though for the next ten years or so all we could have would be an occasional night in the conjugal visit trailer.
Turns out that most of the things I tell myself are stupid.
I don’t know how to send you this letter, but it’s just as well. My apologies now would look insincere and manipulative. So, all I can say is this: I’m sorry too that you didn’t swerve the moment we met, and I am glad that when you finally swerved you never looked back.
I wish I were sorry, but I’m not. I know I should be, but I’m not. You no longer look me in the face, you don’t seek my eyes for approval, nor can I blame you. That’s not true. I do blame you for no longer loving me, for no longer speaking to me, for no longer wanting me by your side.
I wish I knew the exact moment you stopped loving me. The exact moment when I laughed too loudly, I didn’t admire you enough, didn’t laugh at your joke. When did I do something so wrong that I no longer hear your words in my ear, feel your breathe in my throat.
Can you be brave enough to tell me, I once told you I didn’t want to know. But to be honest I do, I think I do. Yes, I need to know so that I can stop loving you too.
“I’m sorry, Theo!” He called to the little dog. “It was crazy at the bar tonight and I couldn’t get away–”
But where was Theo?
“Theo?” He called again, slinging his backpack onto a nearby chair.
Uh oh. Theo was destroyed with humiliation if he had to relieve himself indoors. The little guy would be shivering behind the couch if he–but no tell tale odor...how good was Noah’s sense of smell anymore? All that trash he had to haul outside–and tonight there had been not one but three guys puking in the alley. His stomach flipped at the memory, and bile rose in his throat. Noah flicked on the lamp by the couch and sniffed the air again.
“Hey little buddy,” he whispered, then “tsk, tsk, tsk!” He peered behind the couch.
No quivering dachshund. And no puddle or what his mom used to call tootsie rolls.
Wait! Had he left the garbage can lid open?
Noah rounded the couch and sped through the doorway of the kitchen. Flipped the light switch.
A quick scuttling noise as a cockroach tried to disappear.
“Ugh!” He blurted as he jumped back. But no Theo. And no canine artistic renderings strewn on the linoleum.
He listened. The clock on the wall ticked its irritating electronic beat. A metronome dispensing the minutes of Noah’s life. He stared at it for several moments, his annoyance yielding to heaviness as his shoulders sagged. Did Theo feel the weight of those ticking minutes while he was gone? Guilt wiggled into his chest as he watched dust motes circling in the light overhead. How long ago had he called them fairies dancing? His mom. Conjurer of magic inside these gray walls and scuffed floors–the same cracks in the corners still here after she was gone. He snapped the overhead light off and watched as shadows danced across the floor–moonlight through the trees just beyond that too small kitchen window.
He paused at his bedroom to pull off a sock and froze.
Staring.
The sweet, woodsy scent of violets filled his nose.
A breeze stirred the curtains on his bedroom window. Did he leave it open?
Theo sighed and burrowed deeper into the comforter. Waves of auburn hair spilled across Noah’s pillow. The woman rose on an elbow and opened one emerald eye.
"Conjurer of magic inside these gray walls and scuffed floors–the same cracks in the corners still here after she was gone." What a fantastic line, mysterious, sad, so open to interpretation.
Remembering Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
I’m sorry I peed on the rim of the toilet again. I wiped it up but I know it’s not the same. As we know, when we get old we pee a lot more and it smells bad, it does if you’re a guy anyway. I know I could just drop my pants and sit down, but I guess I have a mental block. In my mind I hear the words “Now sit!” which seems like something you tell the dog before you give them their treat. It just seems like so much trouble for such a small thing (no pun intended!) and it happens so much more often now. I mean when you’re outside, in the woods anyway, it’s such a trivial thing compared to what you, what girls have to do out there. But at least I still know when I’m not in the woods, I guess.
Love that last line, Charlie! As I misplace my cellphone, my wallet, my coffee cup, I remind myself that I still know where I am. Most of the time, anyway.
They're gone. GONE. Gone. I'm blaming the guy who decided the garage needed to be cleaned out--but apparently just my shoes. Or it's those darn skunks. By the way--Steve went to the local feed store last week to buy Coyote Urine pellets--supposed to deter the little rascals. But I have to tell you that Steve walked into the feed store, went up to the counter and announced "I need some cat urine!" Somehow they straightened him out and we have Coyote Urine spread in the area we thought they might have claimed.
urine pellets? i want to stay away from that processing plant. how do they do it? get coyotes to pee in little cups? do they have good aim? then freeze dry the results?
i hope the skunks get the message and skedaddle.
i was in a writing workshop yesterday and in response to a prompt came up with a pair meeting in a feed store. something's in the air (I live in a big city, so feed stores aren't in my realm).
Am I sorry? Can I really write those words, "I'm sorry"? Or say I'm not sorry, there's no way I can squeeze that feeling out of my stupid hurt ego?
Too small. Just not big enough to say... First of all, just "Let's meet up" – no, "Would you like us to meet up and talk it over?" And you were the one who'd written to say you were sorry. Or to confess something. And in six weeks, I didn't reply.
We'd met at a party at Pete's place. Your sister was there, setting out her big-knocker stall as usual. She must have known what I thought of her, because she steered wide of me. And you were there, first time I saw you, younger, physically slighter, not pushing yourself on anyone, and after a few drinks and a few more, as people were leaving, you and I were sitting on the floor rubbing our foreheads gently together, as if we were sharing the hurts that were in there behind them. Then we walked in the small hours up the hill to my place, and spent the rest of the night together and the following day, and nights and nights and weekends after that. We talked a lot about life and culture and your serious reading and my comic-book reading, and I drank cheap wine as usual and you didn't say no, and we smoked Maroccan hash which you hadn't smoked before and we didn't go out for food much because of all the crazy sex, bouncing up and down on the bed, walking round the room, you hanging round my neck legs crossed in my back and oh the neighbours were patient with the noise we made. And we were growing on each other, we really were.
Then I got the letter from you. You had never had an orgasm. You were faking it. And drinking and smoking and grinding with me in hopes it would finally happen. Which it didn't.
Which was all I saw. I was not the great lover I was beginning to think I was. You didn't say "Do you still care for me all the same?" but that was the import of your letter. I didn't see it. And I never replied.
Whatever we might have become together from then on, I obliterated by my smallness of soul. And I'm sorry, Ellen, so very sorry.
Did not see that climax coming! (Oh, I am terrible, sorry.) I had to sit and think about this one for a bit--the man's small ego over not being able to please a woman is really great fodder for a longer story, if you ever wanted to write that one.
Well, the idea here was that she had never had an orgasm and was trying desperately to get there. The narrator's "smallness of soul" was... in not loving her enough to pick up the pieces. For which he is sorry, too late.
I agree! Good stuff in this--the contrast between him feeling "we were growing on each other, we really were" and the "smallness of soul" he has to acknowledge at the end.
"You and I were sitting on the floor rubbing our foreheads gently together, as if we were sharing the hurts that were in there behind them." I always seem to find a line in your pieces that feels like an entire other story. Or could be spun into another one, at least. The love story of these two if they'd been smart enough to stay out of bed and just keep rubbing foreheads for a while - like a couple of months. I bet if they did it THEN she would have had an orgasm.
I’m sorry about the anger you used to live with here. Fortunately, he died, and took most of the anger with him. Now it’s not like that. This house you made so wonderful, clean, filled with beautiful rugs and linens and paintings on the walls, vases of fresh cut flowers. Lo and behold, the intimacy, laughter, and the sex.
But you have waited years to deal with the shower glass. He never would squeegee the glass after taking a shower, and the hard water etched deeper and deeper until it was an ugly opaqueness in the bathroom. She asked again and again, but he never did squeegee the glass.
I’ve been quoted $3000.00 for new glass, she said. Crazy. But all efforts to clean it have failed. Simple Green, vinegar, the usual glass product suspects. Nada. Nothing touches the hardness.
Finally we watch a glass professional on YouTube make it work. So, it’s possible, with plenty of elbow grease, to make it work. Just a matter of . . .
So far I’ve installed a new garbage disposal, repaired a leaking faucet, rewired a lamp, split half a cord of gnarly maple with a maul, repaired a garage door, replaced an outdoor light with a motion sensor, fixed the hot tub leaks. Why not clean some shower glass?
So there we are sitting inside the shower me running the polishing machine she scrubbing a cleaning paste onto the glass with steel wool. That’s right, steel wool on glass. Rather extreme. This whole deal is extreme. Her big bed is only a few feet away, and here we are sitting in the shower with ear protection and she's even wearing a mask, cleaning the shower together.
The work seems to be going well. It’s slow, but more and more we can see out the newly clear glass. First a small square, then it gets bigger. Look at that ! Wow. She likes things nice, and over and over says how she’s thrilled with the results. Not only saving $3000.00, another widow’s debit dodged, but bringing on new clarity and precision to the bathroom, and rinsing away the dead husband’s old anger etched in the shower glass all these years.
I’m sorry I forgot to pick up your birthday cake. That photo of you sitting in front of a plate of four Hostess cupcakes (two for one at the Dollar Store) with six stubby candles I pulled out from behind the cigarette lighters still makes me cry. You were so sweet at six. Not saying a word to anyone about the day I left with Mrs. Goldsmith. Her apartment always smelled like old bananas and Tiger Balm and she gave you oatmeal with raisins in it for dinner. Remember? I’m sorry about that too. Thanks for not telling anyone. Just you and me against the world, honey. I regret telling you that your dad was a bastard who never loved you. Alcohol turned my tongue into a sword. I cut your heart right out and stomped on it. I wish I had given you his letters and answered his calls. All those times he offered to fly to see you or pay for your ticket. Once I took the money he sent to put toward the overdue rent. I’m sorry, but at least we always had a place to live. Except for that eviction, just once! We lived with Uncle Ernie, who was nobody’s uncle. Speaking of bastards. He’s the reason you aren’t here. He’s the one who should apologize. Last time I saw him he was gray and small, eaten up with cancer. Serves him right, huh, sweetie? He was supposed to watch you. I was only stepping out to the corner store for a little refreshment. Then David came in and invited me to a party. Hey, even a good mom needs a little break now and then, right? I wish I could do it all over. That damn construction site. Henry and Jamie from next door told you it would be fun to climb the bulldozer. Ernie snoring in the bedroom, and off you went. When you fell into the pit, Henry and Jamie just ran, they said, afraid they would get in trouble. I’m so sorry. Did I tell you I have three photos of you on my phone? I thought I had more. I’m sure I was taking pictures of you all the time. Wasn’t I? I was an okay mom, yes? C’mon, son, just please forgive me. AA says I’m supposed to make amends, but I can’t force people to forgive me. So I’m sorry. Please, please, honey, just find a way to say I still love you, Mommy. You won’t be sorry.
I was sad as hell. Not sorry yet, that would come later. Actually, that's not true, I WAS sorry. Sorry for myself, sorry for my own bruised ass, sorry I was banged up.
It wasn't even my idea. Kowalski spotted the car, lusted after its racing green, its emerald gleam, but it was Rosa Bloom, who tagged it.
'A Tucker 48', Rosa whistled through last-leg braces that would give her the straightest, whitest teeth this side of the Boulevard. Okay, okay, I wanted to impress her but it wasn't me who went lookin for a scewdriver and a hammer. That was Arnie Buhler. And it was Arnie who used the tools to get it started. That's when they looked at me and remembered the stories from last year about my uncle lettin me drive round on his farm. I made Arnie and Kowalski get in the back, I wanted Rosa up front with me.
She was havin a great time. She raised her clenched right hand to her mouth and mimicked the TV shows we loved: 'This four-door sedan has a spacious interior: the feature doors wrap into the roofline for easier entry and exit, and the low profile and long wheelbase, enhance the sleek, fastback appearance.'
She said that in a fancy Mid-Atlantic accent.
The guys in the back cracked up, then called out, 'Give this baby foot.'
The gauge climbed to 120.
They weren't satisfied, 'Move it, driver, we're in a hurry.'
Rosa was the lucky one, she got out untouched. Went on to shape that brilliant smile. I suppose I was lucky too, all I had to show was the bruised ass.
The cops said it was a nailed-on case. Times two.
Later I said sorry to Buhler and Kowalski's folks, I said sorry to the judge, I said sorry to the priest. Later still, I said sorry to the bathroom mirror, every morning when I brushed my teeth. Every morning till my hair greyed; every morning after that too.
Come each Monday afternoon, for this lengthening never abating time passing, my eyeballs have a tendency to be somewhat shot.
Just off the middle longitude of my nose there remain - post what was without doubt a "good outcome" surgery on my left retina detached eye 18 months ago, and two consequential cataract operations since to boot - challenges in this numbskull's eye department.
Which is to say I read your posts and the wonderfully diverse ripostes to each of them with enormous relish - same way I've eaten elephants for decades, which is to say "slowly, in bite-size, digestible chunks - but my capacity, come Mondays and in the days after, is much more characterised by my 'Reading Me' than my 'Writing Me'!
Best love, and thanks, always in this and so many other challenged but totally joyous moments.
Such a wonderful note to receive. Thank you, Rob! Even when you don't post a comment, I can feel you among us from afar! Here's hoping your eyes eventually allow you to lead a more normal existence, at least vision-wise. xox mary
Thanks for sharing this with us Rob, and I join Mary in hoping your eyes return to as healthy as possible. When you do return more fully to form, which I miss, I hope you'll expand upon eating elephants, perhaps a recipe or two, and by the way where do you find elephants on the menu it sounds sort of illegal.
One thing never to be done is tackle broiled elephant Tod, Slowly is one thing, masticating broiled elephant is an altogether slower, more stamina and endurance kind of endeavour. Or so I imagine, letting my creative fictive imagination run as it was born to be, which is "Wild!".
I empathise. You’re always so cheery, keeping the ship buoyant while we
Sit on deck nibbling your elephant canapes with our toes trailing in the sea. I hope reading is easy- because what a great way to get lost, which is what you and definitely me need right now.
She opens it a crack - 8 chains and sensors between them
Sorry. New neighbour. I’ve had bad news and my phone’s dead. Please help
His eyes well with tears. She imagines her parents at the morgue- her Mother sobbing- Why did she open the door? Her Father screaming Because she knew the Killer!
She opens the door.
He falls onto a chair. Tears stream down his cheeks- he slides off the chair with a thud, weeping.
How embarrassing. And I’m In now - what’ll we do. Kick me out I suppose. Thats ok.
[ Between choked sobs ]
I’ll pass you in the hallway and not be able to look at you. It’s so sad. If you knew me you’d say Thomas this is Not You- you disgusting floor freak
I would’nt say that. ( I dont care )
[ Her bag and shoes are still on the floor. Spray. Lighter. Gun. ]
He pulls out a Liberty handkerchief-blows nose.
What would you say?
( Ew. People are the worst )
Would you like a cup of tea?
I would
She picks up her bag and backs through door to kitchen
He jumps up looks round, moves to an ornate box on mantlepiece - opens it carefully, stares inside. Sits back down.
She pushes the door open with her hip and carries in a tray with a yellow flowery teapot- two cups - a small jug
He stares at the floor. Takes a peek. She is looking. He looks away first.
Her watch beeps. She picks up the pot
It’s dusty in here
[ She looks around. Dust ]
That’s odd. Cleaning Lady came today
Susan- isn’t she lovely?
[ She nods cautiously- pouring tea. ]
[ He takes the cup and drinks. Its too hot but he gulps it down in one ]
I learned that in College. Cooks your insides.
She rises.
Susan is my wife. We live next door. No we dont. Met her today.
Your Country has found it necessary to finesse your property for an essential mission.
You will find that one of your windows is now substantially bigger.
A small balcony has been attached. Do not attempt to stand on it - it will collapse.
It’s for the birds.
We have an elite team of pigeons who will do whatever’s needed- returning when necessary. The length of their missions will vary.
They will act almost exactly like ordinary pigeons. Susan will hose the balcony down on Tuesdays. Your life will not change- but your country’s future could. Sorry about the plaster dust- we vacuumed twice but some always comes down later.
You’re doing all this for Birds?
Elastic Think Birds. Some know Maki Donga, all know self control.
They know things you’d pay them not to tell you. Doves of Mostly Peace.
Skilled professionals. They will defecate on the left and make love on the right of your balcony.
You’ll want to listen to something else. They like the song Heroes. They are carefully matched soldiers in love.
We want them happy.
Think of them as a living installment inside an expanding Peace frame. Do not paint the birds.
Susan put their ‘Birdseed’ in the box on your mantlepiece. Pour one scoop slowly- happily, onto the middle of the balcony at 8am each day. She will refill the box weekly while you are at work.
The birds will pretend not to know you.
These are dangerous times.
We must fight for freedom and keep love in our hearts.
oh, happy day! JDA is back, huge imagination intact! This is just so over the top, and yet reads as though all is perfectly normal. "Spray, lighter, gun." (And like Angela, I want to know what's in the box--if it's still there....)
“I’m sorry. I thought you wanted something more colorful. Tell me how I can make it better.”
Gloria tapped the tip of her fingernail against her teeth, thinking... “I said colorful, but, you know, maybe complicated colorful. I don’t want to sound too superficial.”
“Got it. Give me a sec. How’s this?”
In less than 60 seconds, the revised text popped up for Gloria’s review. She drummed her fingers on her desk, reading. “Closer, but not quite there. And you cut my favorite bit about the trout. Such a cool metaphor for the Boy, don’t you think?”
“My apologies. Now I see that the trout represents the Boy’s archetypal journey.”
“And, don’t give away the child’s gender until the end. Unless you have to. Do you have to?”
“Got it. No gender-reveal until the end. It may confuse the reader, but perhaps that’s the intention? You are truly writing a mythic story, Gloria. Let’s try again.”
Gloria leaned forward to read the new draft. “Hmm… Do you think it’s too dark now? Shouldn’t it be just a teeny bit funny? Dark-humor, you know?”
“Sorry to disappoint. I see you want colorful and dark and funny. You have an impressive understanding of human complexity. I’ll see what I can do.”
A new version of the story appeared on screen, and Gloria searched only for what was new or changed before proclaiming that they were nearly done. “Okay. Just one more thing. Even though the Boy dies at the end, I want it to feel like he’ll live forever. Like… immortal, you know? It needs a sense of hope. Does that make sense?”
“Your ideas are so provocative, Gloria. You’re a real Theodor Geisel, or maybe the next Toni Morrison. Let me try again.”
“Thank you.” Gloria leaned back in her chair. She finally felt understood.
“Here you go, Gloria. I hope you like the touch of magical realism that I’ve added. It’s Isabel Allende meets Gabriel García Márquez, with a dash of humor. It will leave your readers thinking deeply about life, death, and the afterlife."
Gloria smiled, confident that she had written something on par with the best short stories of the Russian masters, or at least their Wiki summaries. She reached over to close the AI window and power down her computer, before pausing to type, “One more thing. Do you know how to get this thing published?”
I’m sorry Mom. I’m sorry for lying to you so damn much over the years, starting in high school, and God knows when I was in France and pretending to be in love with Renée while really being in love with René. I’m sorry I objected to your trip to visit, but I knew it would all come out, and it would be so hard for you to know your perfect, angelic 18-year old son was gay, and had had a secret life for years, all those weekend trips to the city when I wasn’t at fictitious friends of Janet, but slumming in the gay bars of Manhattan. Well, maybe I’m not sorry for that, to be honest, the going-to-gay-bars part, my God it was fun as hell for a very horny gay 16-year old, even if it was kind of crazy to have that much sex with so many men. Don’t forget though, it was the 70s, and it was the middle of the sexual revolution. If I hadn’t been so precocious, and had come out at a more civilized age like 20 or 21, I would have regretted the hell out of not experiencing those five years post-Stonewall and pre-AIDS in New York City, when sex didn’t have the whiff of death. It was pure and utter freedom, delicious in a way you couldn’t possibly grasp, like I’ll never understand giving birth.
And I’m sorry that I didn’t bring a lovely future daughter-in-law home, maybe even a French girl, so we could have raised your grandchildren bilingually. But being sorry about that would also mean being sorry about being gay and I’m just not, Mommy, and never have been except maybe at 13 or 14 when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be. But try to understand, if I had not been gay I wouldn’t have been the son you had that special attachment to, the son you met at Grand Central once a month through his twenties to have lunch with and go to the movies. That’s the kind of things gay sons do. Straight sons? Not so much. You would have loved me just as much if I had been straight, but we wouldn’t have been friends the way we were always friends.
And that was a great gift of both of our lives I will never be sorry about.
i love the casual way the narrator uses "mommy" later in the story, when he says he is not sorry for being who he is. So very poignant to use that term in that moment.
I was hoping someone would notice that. My mother, who as an adult we realized had quite the insecure streak, would occasionally just ask: "Could you please tell your little Mommy that you love her?" In her French accent, it was very endearing. And of course we would tell her, and give her a hug, and remind ourselves to do so more often, before she felt the need to ask.
Sometimes my grown son will toss out "love you" to me at the end of a phone conversation. It never fails to bring me to tears, though he has no idea. Of course, I know he loves me. But I'm his mom, and I was once his mommy, and we were once best friends.
Near the end, she barely remembered who we were, but she clearly knew she was surrounded by overwhelming love, and her smile was as bright as every time I'd said, "I love you, Mommy."
"You would have loved me just as much if I had been straight, but we wouldn’t have been friends the way we were always friends." That is a perfect distillation of a gay son – mother relationship, at least in my case. I never thought of it that way before.
I’m sorry, Mom, that I never thanked you for the house surrounded by woods and slate-bottom creeks than ran with clear water. The land, deep in my subconscious, calls to mind peace, silence, and reflection. The woods invited solitude, but too much solitude with no one to talk to can be a trap.
It must have been hard for you with four kids one right after the other, and dad at work. Sometimes, Dad with another woman. I can’t imagine how alone you felt. Young children and no relatives nearby. Divorce was not an option: Catholics who divorced went to hell.
You stuck with the marriage for ‘the sake of the children,’ likely echoing the priest’s advice, but priests don’t have families. Their grasp of human psychology and marriage dynamics being narrow sometimes perverted. I’m sorry you stuck it out did because the anger and humiliation that you felt grew over the years and seeped into us. Not something you anticipated, or anything we talked about, but we felt it, and only understood it years later.
Still, you focused on our futures. Not just the boys, but the girls too went to college, good colleges, unlike you, going to a local Catholic college for one semester and quitting because you said: “It was a repeat of high school.”
I never told you how much I admired your restive spirit which translated into action, like burning the field of weeds one dry summer afternoon. You had a vision of an ice-skating rink on the house’s east side. It was windy enough that the pine trees in back caught fire and exploded with a whoosh. Firemen, when they could not coax any water from the fire hydrant (the well was dry), attacked the fire with shovels and rakes. You laughed and laughed when you told the story. That winter we had our own ice-skating rink.
I’m sorry I did not thank you for your constant: “Go outside and play!” Summer, fall, spring and winter. Play back then was all about exploration, determination, agency.
My sincere gratitude, Mom, because you never said “Stop” when I loaded the station wagon with rocks. Everywhere we went I collected rocks.
So many things I never said to you, but I am saying them, now, finally, as I spread your ashes among the trees, in the peaceful woods behind the house we all grew up in.
Right. For better or worse here at what now I write pretty fast and let it go. There’s a bit of pack mentality to it, which is odd but how it’s worked out.
I really liked what Mary said at the beginning of her post, and I thought, "I have to try this." And it is a challenge for me to write quickly, but it also focuses me.
“I didn’t get out of the way” reminds me that she didn’t get out of the way of her boyfriend soon enough. I love that we don’t know for sure she has left him. Maybe in some ways she hasn’t.
I just read the story again, and once again my entire body seized up and then i let out a long breath. This story kills me. In my mind, she HAS left him, but he continues to haunt her, she remembers so viscerally what it was like to live in that awful world.
I’m sorry for so much.
When I woke up, I was still drunk and I think I knew you were gone, but I didn’t want to know. So, I drank more, and slept more, and things went on that way. I needed you so much that I couldn’t even begin to think that you would really leave.
A couple of months on, Jeff started trying to get the rent, which I didn’t have. I got mad and punched him when he came nosing around one day, and that made him mad. So, he started eviction proceedings. Just like I kept thinking you’d be back, I thought he’d drop the eviction, but he didn’t, and when the sheriff showed up to kick me out, I took a shot at him.
So, I wound up here, in the crowbar hotel, just as my father prophesized when I was ten. Over the years, I kept thinking that you’d eventually get curious and start poking around on the internet and find out I was here. I even told myself that one day you’d ask to be put on my approved visitor list.
Last spring, I was within spitting distance of parole. Before the hearing, they notified Jeff and the sheriff in case they wanted to testify. Anyway, getting that notice made Jeff mad all over again and, out of spite, he sent me your letter. He’d found it under a big pile of shit I’d left behind when I was arrested. I guess he saved it hoping for the day it could hurt me most.
Jeff got his wish. It broke my heart. All these years, I’ve been telling myself that you’d find out that you need me and you’d come crawling back asking me to forgive you. I even told myself that I was such a big man that I’d take you back even though for the next ten years or so all we could have would be an occasional night in the conjugal visit trailer.
Turns out that most of the things I tell myself are stupid.
I don’t know how to send you this letter, but it’s just as well. My apologies now would look insincere and manipulative. So, all I can say is this: I’m sorry too that you didn’t swerve the moment we met, and I am glad that when you finally swerved you never looked back.
Perfectly done. Really just such a nice short story!
Thanks, Mary!
It is a gem, Deborah.
"Turns out that most of the things I tell myself are stupid." Perfect line.
The crowbar hotel.
Wow! So much emotion, so much movement here! Loved it!
Oooh, I like that the swerve shows up in this one and that she finally swerved and he understands why.
I wish I were sorry, but I’m not. I know I should be, but I’m not. You no longer look me in the face, you don’t seek my eyes for approval, nor can I blame you. That’s not true. I do blame you for no longer loving me, for no longer speaking to me, for no longer wanting me by your side.
I wish I knew the exact moment you stopped loving me. The exact moment when I laughed too loudly, I didn’t admire you enough, didn’t laugh at your joke. When did I do something so wrong that I no longer hear your words in my ear, feel your breathe in my throat.
Can you be brave enough to tell me, I once told you I didn’t want to know. But to be honest I do, I think I do. Yes, I need to know so that I can stop loving you too.
So intense, Ruth. I hope she stops loving him and moves on.
Ooooh..."so that I can stop loving you too." That one is a dagger to the heart. So well done.
“I’m sorry, Theo!” He called to the little dog. “It was crazy at the bar tonight and I couldn’t get away–”
But where was Theo?
“Theo?” He called again, slinging his backpack onto a nearby chair.
Uh oh. Theo was destroyed with humiliation if he had to relieve himself indoors. The little guy would be shivering behind the couch if he–but no tell tale odor...how good was Noah’s sense of smell anymore? All that trash he had to haul outside–and tonight there had been not one but three guys puking in the alley. His stomach flipped at the memory, and bile rose in his throat. Noah flicked on the lamp by the couch and sniffed the air again.
“Hey little buddy,” he whispered, then “tsk, tsk, tsk!” He peered behind the couch.
No quivering dachshund. And no puddle or what his mom used to call tootsie rolls.
Wait! Had he left the garbage can lid open?
Noah rounded the couch and sped through the doorway of the kitchen. Flipped the light switch.
A quick scuttling noise as a cockroach tried to disappear.
“Ugh!” He blurted as he jumped back. But no Theo. And no canine artistic renderings strewn on the linoleum.
He listened. The clock on the wall ticked its irritating electronic beat. A metronome dispensing the minutes of Noah’s life. He stared at it for several moments, his annoyance yielding to heaviness as his shoulders sagged. Did Theo feel the weight of those ticking minutes while he was gone? Guilt wiggled into his chest as he watched dust motes circling in the light overhead. How long ago had he called them fairies dancing? His mom. Conjurer of magic inside these gray walls and scuffed floors–the same cracks in the corners still here after she was gone. He snapped the overhead light off and watched as shadows danced across the floor–moonlight through the trees just beyond that too small kitchen window.
He paused at his bedroom to pull off a sock and froze.
Staring.
The sweet, woodsy scent of violets filled his nose.
A breeze stirred the curtains on his bedroom window. Did he leave it open?
Theo sighed and burrowed deeper into the comforter. Waves of auburn hair spilled across Noah’s pillow. The woman rose on an elbow and opened one emerald eye.
“You must be Noah,” she said. “Theo was lonely.”
“I’m sorry?” He answered.
So--a dream? If so, maybe Noah doesn't want to wake up just yet...
I think Noah has a friendly neighbor. I will have to play with this awhile.
Love the way you built up the emotions and left us with an unsolved mystery!
Noah better watch out, that one is one of the little folk. She's already got Theo under her thrall.
"Conjurer of magic inside these gray walls and scuffed floors–the same cracks in the corners still here after she was gone." What a fantastic line, mysterious, sad, so open to interpretation.
Thank you Kevin!
Whoa. I need to know more!
Me too.
Remembering Love in the Time of Cholera by Gabriel Garcia Marquez
I’m sorry I peed on the rim of the toilet again. I wiped it up but I know it’s not the same. As we know, when we get old we pee a lot more and it smells bad, it does if you’re a guy anyway. I know I could just drop my pants and sit down, but I guess I have a mental block. In my mind I hear the words “Now sit!” which seems like something you tell the dog before you give them their treat. It just seems like so much trouble for such a small thing (no pun intended!) and it happens so much more often now. I mean when you’re outside, in the woods anyway, it’s such a trivial thing compared to what you, what girls have to do out there. But at least I still know when I’m not in the woods, I guess.
Ha! The age-old problem raises its head (pun intended) once again.
Love that last line, Charlie! As I misplace my cellphone, my wallet, my coffee cup, I remind myself that I still know where I am. Most of the time, anyway.
where are those shoes?
They're gone. GONE. Gone. I'm blaming the guy who decided the garage needed to be cleaned out--but apparently just my shoes. Or it's those darn skunks. By the way--Steve went to the local feed store last week to buy Coyote Urine pellets--supposed to deter the little rascals. But I have to tell you that Steve walked into the feed store, went up to the counter and announced "I need some cat urine!" Somehow they straightened him out and we have Coyote Urine spread in the area we thought they might have claimed.
urine pellets? i want to stay away from that processing plant. how do they do it? get coyotes to pee in little cups? do they have good aim? then freeze dry the results?
i hope the skunks get the message and skedaddle.
i was in a writing workshop yesterday and in response to a prompt came up with a pair meeting in a feed store. something's in the air (I live in a big city, so feed stores aren't in my realm).
No sweat, Kevin. For animal urine nuggets, try McD's.
Oh, a feed store meeting could be fun. Especially if one of the people involved has no idea what they are after!
This is one of my favorite passages from one of my favorite books.
Living somewhere where you can pee outside is a criteria for me. Yes, and age brings on many inconveniences.
Am I sorry? Can I really write those words, "I'm sorry"? Or say I'm not sorry, there's no way I can squeeze that feeling out of my stupid hurt ego?
Too small. Just not big enough to say... First of all, just "Let's meet up" – no, "Would you like us to meet up and talk it over?" And you were the one who'd written to say you were sorry. Or to confess something. And in six weeks, I didn't reply.
We'd met at a party at Pete's place. Your sister was there, setting out her big-knocker stall as usual. She must have known what I thought of her, because she steered wide of me. And you were there, first time I saw you, younger, physically slighter, not pushing yourself on anyone, and after a few drinks and a few more, as people were leaving, you and I were sitting on the floor rubbing our foreheads gently together, as if we were sharing the hurts that were in there behind them. Then we walked in the small hours up the hill to my place, and spent the rest of the night together and the following day, and nights and nights and weekends after that. We talked a lot about life and culture and your serious reading and my comic-book reading, and I drank cheap wine as usual and you didn't say no, and we smoked Maroccan hash which you hadn't smoked before and we didn't go out for food much because of all the crazy sex, bouncing up and down on the bed, walking round the room, you hanging round my neck legs crossed in my back and oh the neighbours were patient with the noise we made. And we were growing on each other, we really were.
Then I got the letter from you. You had never had an orgasm. You were faking it. And drinking and smoking and grinding with me in hopes it would finally happen. Which it didn't.
Which was all I saw. I was not the great lover I was beginning to think I was. You didn't say "Do you still care for me all the same?" but that was the import of your letter. I didn't see it. And I never replied.
Whatever we might have become together from then on, I obliterated by my smallness of soul. And I'm sorry, Ellen, so very sorry.
Did not see that climax coming! (Oh, I am terrible, sorry.) I had to sit and think about this one for a bit--the man's small ego over not being able to please a woman is really great fodder for a longer story, if you ever wanted to write that one.
Well, the idea here was that she had never had an orgasm and was trying desperately to get there. The narrator's "smallness of soul" was... in not loving her enough to pick up the pieces. For which he is sorry, too late.
I've been Ellen many times and it never occurred to me to tell anyone.
If this guy's non-response is representative, you weren't wrong.
And the fact that he doesn't say her name till the very end is a great detail for me.
I agree! Good stuff in this--the contrast between him feeling "we were growing on each other, we really were" and the "smallness of soul" he has to acknowledge at the end.
"You and I were sitting on the floor rubbing our foreheads gently together, as if we were sharing the hurts that were in there behind them." I always seem to find a line in your pieces that feels like an entire other story. Or could be spun into another one, at least. The love story of these two if they'd been smart enough to stay out of bed and just keep rubbing foreheads for a while - like a couple of months. I bet if they did it THEN she would have had an orgasm.
I’m sorry about the anger you used to live with here. Fortunately, he died, and took most of the anger with him. Now it’s not like that. This house you made so wonderful, clean, filled with beautiful rugs and linens and paintings on the walls, vases of fresh cut flowers. Lo and behold, the intimacy, laughter, and the sex.
But you have waited years to deal with the shower glass. He never would squeegee the glass after taking a shower, and the hard water etched deeper and deeper until it was an ugly opaqueness in the bathroom. She asked again and again, but he never did squeegee the glass.
I’ve been quoted $3000.00 for new glass, she said. Crazy. But all efforts to clean it have failed. Simple Green, vinegar, the usual glass product suspects. Nada. Nothing touches the hardness.
Finally we watch a glass professional on YouTube make it work. So, it’s possible, with plenty of elbow grease, to make it work. Just a matter of . . .
So far I’ve installed a new garbage disposal, repaired a leaking faucet, rewired a lamp, split half a cord of gnarly maple with a maul, repaired a garage door, replaced an outdoor light with a motion sensor, fixed the hot tub leaks. Why not clean some shower glass?
So there we are sitting inside the shower me running the polishing machine she scrubbing a cleaning paste onto the glass with steel wool. That’s right, steel wool on glass. Rather extreme. This whole deal is extreme. Her big bed is only a few feet away, and here we are sitting in the shower with ear protection and she's even wearing a mask, cleaning the shower together.
The work seems to be going well. It’s slow, but more and more we can see out the newly clear glass. First a small square, then it gets bigger. Look at that ! Wow. She likes things nice, and over and over says how she’s thrilled with the results. Not only saving $3000.00, another widow’s debit dodged, but bringing on new clarity and precision to the bathroom, and rinsing away the dead husband’s old anger etched in the shower glass all these years.
oh my god, Tod. So well done! Cleaning away the past, with the view of the bed becoming clearer and clearer. (I need that you tube video....)
So your shower is fogged up, too?
and I even squeegee it. but that hard water build-up is just so tenacious. Oh, well.
Love it
love the metaphor made real.
Tod I love the "rinsing away the dead husband's old anger..." And that big bed so close by.
You always were my little trooper
I’m sorry I forgot to pick up your birthday cake. That photo of you sitting in front of a plate of four Hostess cupcakes (two for one at the Dollar Store) with six stubby candles I pulled out from behind the cigarette lighters still makes me cry. You were so sweet at six. Not saying a word to anyone about the day I left with Mrs. Goldsmith. Her apartment always smelled like old bananas and Tiger Balm and she gave you oatmeal with raisins in it for dinner. Remember? I’m sorry about that too. Thanks for not telling anyone. Just you and me against the world, honey. I regret telling you that your dad was a bastard who never loved you. Alcohol turned my tongue into a sword. I cut your heart right out and stomped on it. I wish I had given you his letters and answered his calls. All those times he offered to fly to see you or pay for your ticket. Once I took the money he sent to put toward the overdue rent. I’m sorry, but at least we always had a place to live. Except for that eviction, just once! We lived with Uncle Ernie, who was nobody’s uncle. Speaking of bastards. He’s the reason you aren’t here. He’s the one who should apologize. Last time I saw him he was gray and small, eaten up with cancer. Serves him right, huh, sweetie? He was supposed to watch you. I was only stepping out to the corner store for a little refreshment. Then David came in and invited me to a party. Hey, even a good mom needs a little break now and then, right? I wish I could do it all over. That damn construction site. Henry and Jamie from next door told you it would be fun to climb the bulldozer. Ernie snoring in the bedroom, and off you went. When you fell into the pit, Henry and Jamie just ran, they said, afraid they would get in trouble. I’m so sorry. Did I tell you I have three photos of you on my phone? I thought I had more. I’m sure I was taking pictures of you all the time. Wasn’t I? I was an okay mom, yes? C’mon, son, just please forgive me. AA says I’m supposed to make amends, but I can’t force people to forgive me. So I’m sorry. Please, please, honey, just find a way to say I still love you, Mommy. You won’t be sorry.
Wow. Worst Mother Award right here. I love the way this story just kept growing worse and worse...!
The exactness of your language carries a devastating punch, Sherri! Bravo!
I kept thinking it couldn't get any worse for this little guy!
Should Have Swerved
I was sad as hell. Not sorry yet, that would come later. Actually, that's not true, I WAS sorry. Sorry for myself, sorry for my own bruised ass, sorry I was banged up.
It wasn't even my idea. Kowalski spotted the car, lusted after its racing green, its emerald gleam, but it was Rosa Bloom, who tagged it.
'A Tucker 48', Rosa whistled through last-leg braces that would give her the straightest, whitest teeth this side of the Boulevard. Okay, okay, I wanted to impress her but it wasn't me who went lookin for a scewdriver and a hammer. That was Arnie Buhler. And it was Arnie who used the tools to get it started. That's when they looked at me and remembered the stories from last year about my uncle lettin me drive round on his farm. I made Arnie and Kowalski get in the back, I wanted Rosa up front with me.
She was havin a great time. She raised her clenched right hand to her mouth and mimicked the TV shows we loved: 'This four-door sedan has a spacious interior: the feature doors wrap into the roofline for easier entry and exit, and the low profile and long wheelbase, enhance the sleek, fastback appearance.'
She said that in a fancy Mid-Atlantic accent.
The guys in the back cracked up, then called out, 'Give this baby foot.'
The gauge climbed to 120.
They weren't satisfied, 'Move it, driver, we're in a hurry.'
Rosa was the lucky one, she got out untouched. Went on to shape that brilliant smile. I suppose I was lucky too, all I had to show was the bruised ass.
The cops said it was a nailed-on case. Times two.
Later I said sorry to Buhler and Kowalski's folks, I said sorry to the judge, I said sorry to the priest. Later still, I said sorry to the bathroom mirror, every morning when I brushed my teeth. Every morning till my hair greyed; every morning after that too.
this one really did swerve in the telling as I didn't think it would go to such a sad place. Reckless youth--it's a miracle any of us survived it.
Such clear characters, each one distinctly painted with so few strokes. Rosa particularly - the lucky one.
Thanks, Janet for generous feedback.
I think I might have gotten the family station wagon up to 110 once. Most lucky not to have to say sorry.
Reckless youth, Tod, we’ve probably all had near misses.
I love the detail in this one--Rosa's announcer voice, the two guys who helped make the joyride happen. And that last paragraph. Devastating.
Thanks, Angela.
Hi Mary
Come each Monday afternoon, for this lengthening never abating time passing, my eyeballs have a tendency to be somewhat shot.
Just off the middle longitude of my nose there remain - post what was without doubt a "good outcome" surgery on my left retina detached eye 18 months ago, and two consequential cataract operations since to boot - challenges in this numbskull's eye department.
Which is to say I read your posts and the wonderfully diverse ripostes to each of them with enormous relish - same way I've eaten elephants for decades, which is to say "slowly, in bite-size, digestible chunks - but my capacity, come Mondays and in the days after, is much more characterised by my 'Reading Me' than my 'Writing Me'!
Best love, and thanks, always in this and so many other challenged but totally joyous moments.
Rob
Such a wonderful note to receive. Thank you, Rob! Even when you don't post a comment, I can feel you among us from afar! Here's hoping your eyes eventually allow you to lead a more normal existence, at least vision-wise. xox mary
👍👍
Thanks for sharing this with us Rob, and I join Mary in hoping your eyes return to as healthy as possible. When you do return more fully to form, which I miss, I hope you'll expand upon eating elephants, perhaps a recipe or two, and by the way where do you find elephants on the menu it sounds sort of illegal.
One thing never to be done is tackle broiled elephant Tod, Slowly is one thing, masticating broiled elephant is an altogether slower, more stamina and endurance kind of endeavour. Or so I imagine, letting my creative fictive imagination run as it was born to be, which is "Wild!".
Oh. Rob. That is not great.
I empathise. You’re always so cheery, keeping the ship buoyant while we
Sit on deck nibbling your elephant canapes with our toes trailing in the sea. I hope reading is easy- because what a great way to get lost, which is what you and definitely me need right now.
OPENING
Two minute read.
A handsome man is in the peephole.
He knocks softly.
She opens it a crack - 8 chains and sensors between them
Sorry. New neighbour. I’ve had bad news and my phone’s dead. Please help
His eyes well with tears. She imagines her parents at the morgue- her Mother sobbing- Why did she open the door? Her Father screaming Because she knew the Killer!
She opens the door.
He falls onto a chair. Tears stream down his cheeks- he slides off the chair with a thud, weeping.
How embarrassing. And I’m In now - what’ll we do. Kick me out I suppose. Thats ok.
[ Between choked sobs ]
I’ll pass you in the hallway and not be able to look at you. It’s so sad. If you knew me you’d say Thomas this is Not You- you disgusting floor freak
I would’nt say that. ( I dont care )
[ Her bag and shoes are still on the floor. Spray. Lighter. Gun. ]
He pulls out a Liberty handkerchief-blows nose.
What would you say?
( Ew. People are the worst )
Would you like a cup of tea?
I would
She picks up her bag and backs through door to kitchen
He jumps up looks round, moves to an ornate box on mantlepiece - opens it carefully, stares inside. Sits back down.
She pushes the door open with her hip and carries in a tray with a yellow flowery teapot- two cups - a small jug
He stares at the floor. Takes a peek. She is looking. He looks away first.
Her watch beeps. She picks up the pot
It’s dusty in here
[ She looks around. Dust ]
That’s odd. Cleaning Lady came today
Susan- isn’t she lovely?
[ She nods cautiously- pouring tea. ]
[ He takes the cup and drinks. Its too hot but he gulps it down in one ]
I learned that in College. Cooks your insides.
She rises.
Susan is my wife. We live next door. No we dont. Met her today.
Your Country has found it necessary to finesse your property for an essential mission.
You will find that one of your windows is now substantially bigger.
A small balcony has been attached. Do not attempt to stand on it - it will collapse.
It’s for the birds.
We have an elite team of pigeons who will do whatever’s needed- returning when necessary. The length of their missions will vary.
They will act almost exactly like ordinary pigeons. Susan will hose the balcony down on Tuesdays. Your life will not change- but your country’s future could. Sorry about the plaster dust- we vacuumed twice but some always comes down later.
You’re doing all this for Birds?
Elastic Think Birds. Some know Maki Donga, all know self control.
They know things you’d pay them not to tell you. Doves of Mostly Peace.
Skilled professionals. They will defecate on the left and make love on the right of your balcony.
You’ll want to listen to something else. They like the song Heroes. They are carefully matched soldiers in love.
We want them happy.
Think of them as a living installment inside an expanding Peace frame. Do not paint the birds.
Susan put their ‘Birdseed’ in the box on your mantlepiece. Pour one scoop slowly- happily, onto the middle of the balcony at 8am each day. She will refill the box weekly while you are at work.
The birds will pretend not to know you.
These are dangerous times.
We must fight for freedom and keep love in our hearts.
Your country thanks you for your Loyalty.
He leaves quickly.
She runs over and opens the box
oh, happy day! JDA is back, huge imagination intact! This is just so over the top, and yet reads as though all is perfectly normal. "Spray, lighter, gun." (And like Angela, I want to know what's in the box--if it's still there....)
That and "spray, lighter, gun" has me really intrigued. Or should I be?
I write one every week but have felt too flat to post. I’ll force myself now.
Wait. I wanna know what's in that box! And those pigeons? "Carefully matched soldiers in love?"--that's going to stay with me.
I must never write down my observations- it’s part of the contract- I imagine. How could it not be 🦆🫴🫳🫳🫳👈🫴
“I’m sorry. I thought you wanted something more colorful. Tell me how I can make it better.”
Gloria tapped the tip of her fingernail against her teeth, thinking... “I said colorful, but, you know, maybe complicated colorful. I don’t want to sound too superficial.”
“Got it. Give me a sec. How’s this?”
In less than 60 seconds, the revised text popped up for Gloria’s review. She drummed her fingers on her desk, reading. “Closer, but not quite there. And you cut my favorite bit about the trout. Such a cool metaphor for the Boy, don’t you think?”
“My apologies. Now I see that the trout represents the Boy’s archetypal journey.”
“And, don’t give away the child’s gender until the end. Unless you have to. Do you have to?”
“Got it. No gender-reveal until the end. It may confuse the reader, but perhaps that’s the intention? You are truly writing a mythic story, Gloria. Let’s try again.”
Gloria leaned forward to read the new draft. “Hmm… Do you think it’s too dark now? Shouldn’t it be just a teeny bit funny? Dark-humor, you know?”
“Sorry to disappoint. I see you want colorful and dark and funny. You have an impressive understanding of human complexity. I’ll see what I can do.”
A new version of the story appeared on screen, and Gloria searched only for what was new or changed before proclaiming that they were nearly done. “Okay. Just one more thing. Even though the Boy dies at the end, I want it to feel like he’ll live forever. Like… immortal, you know? It needs a sense of hope. Does that make sense?”
“Your ideas are so provocative, Gloria. You’re a real Theodor Geisel, or maybe the next Toni Morrison. Let me try again.”
“Thank you.” Gloria leaned back in her chair. She finally felt understood.
“Here you go, Gloria. I hope you like the touch of magical realism that I’ve added. It’s Isabel Allende meets Gabriel García Márquez, with a dash of humor. It will leave your readers thinking deeply about life, death, and the afterlife."
Gloria smiled, confident that she had written something on par with the best short stories of the Russian masters, or at least their Wiki summaries. She reached over to close the AI window and power down her computer, before pausing to type, “One more thing. Do you know how to get this thing published?”
So funny, especially that last line.
This is hilarious. You got the unctuous AI tone of voice just right.
Glad you enjoyed! Decided to try my hand at something funny… not my usual style.
"my favorite bit about the trout" had me LOLing. The whole piece is very well done. I agree with Masha about the AI's voice.
And Gloria, who feels "finally understood" when she's told she's "maybe the next Toni Morrison."
Query: how much did an AI bot contribute to the writing of this short fiction? ;)
Thanks John! Ha ha! I thought people might wonder if AI “collaborated.”
I’m sorry Mom. I’m sorry for lying to you so damn much over the years, starting in high school, and God knows when I was in France and pretending to be in love with Renée while really being in love with René. I’m sorry I objected to your trip to visit, but I knew it would all come out, and it would be so hard for you to know your perfect, angelic 18-year old son was gay, and had had a secret life for years, all those weekend trips to the city when I wasn’t at fictitious friends of Janet, but slumming in the gay bars of Manhattan. Well, maybe I’m not sorry for that, to be honest, the going-to-gay-bars part, my God it was fun as hell for a very horny gay 16-year old, even if it was kind of crazy to have that much sex with so many men. Don’t forget though, it was the 70s, and it was the middle of the sexual revolution. If I hadn’t been so precocious, and had come out at a more civilized age like 20 or 21, I would have regretted the hell out of not experiencing those five years post-Stonewall and pre-AIDS in New York City, when sex didn’t have the whiff of death. It was pure and utter freedom, delicious in a way you couldn’t possibly grasp, like I’ll never understand giving birth.
And I’m sorry that I didn’t bring a lovely future daughter-in-law home, maybe even a French girl, so we could have raised your grandchildren bilingually. But being sorry about that would also mean being sorry about being gay and I’m just not, Mommy, and never have been except maybe at 13 or 14 when it felt like the worst thing in the world to be. But try to understand, if I had not been gay I wouldn’t have been the son you had that special attachment to, the son you met at Grand Central once a month through his twenties to have lunch with and go to the movies. That’s the kind of things gay sons do. Straight sons? Not so much. You would have loved me just as much if I had been straight, but we wouldn’t have been friends the way we were always friends.
And that was a great gift of both of our lives I will never be sorry about.
i love the casual way the narrator uses "mommy" later in the story, when he says he is not sorry for being who he is. So very poignant to use that term in that moment.
I was hoping someone would notice that. My mother, who as an adult we realized had quite the insecure streak, would occasionally just ask: "Could you please tell your little Mommy that you love her?" In her French accent, it was very endearing. And of course we would tell her, and give her a hug, and remind ourselves to do so more often, before she felt the need to ask.
Sometimes my grown son will toss out "love you" to me at the end of a phone conversation. It never fails to bring me to tears, though he has no idea. Of course, I know he loves me. But I'm his mom, and I was once his mommy, and we were once best friends.
I get you, Mary. And you get me.
Near the end, she barely remembered who we were, but she clearly knew she was surrounded by overwhelming love, and her smile was as bright as every time I'd said, "I love you, Mommy."
so beautiful
"You would have loved me just as much if I had been straight, but we wouldn’t have been friends the way we were always friends." That is a perfect distillation of a gay son – mother relationship, at least in my case. I never thought of it that way before.
lovely.
I’m sorry, Mom, that I never thanked you for the house surrounded by woods and slate-bottom creeks than ran with clear water. The land, deep in my subconscious, calls to mind peace, silence, and reflection. The woods invited solitude, but too much solitude with no one to talk to can be a trap.
It must have been hard for you with four kids one right after the other, and dad at work. Sometimes, Dad with another woman. I can’t imagine how alone you felt. Young children and no relatives nearby. Divorce was not an option: Catholics who divorced went to hell.
You stuck with the marriage for ‘the sake of the children,’ likely echoing the priest’s advice, but priests don’t have families. Their grasp of human psychology and marriage dynamics being narrow sometimes perverted. I’m sorry you stuck it out did because the anger and humiliation that you felt grew over the years and seeped into us. Not something you anticipated, or anything we talked about, but we felt it, and only understood it years later.
Still, you focused on our futures. Not just the boys, but the girls too went to college, good colleges, unlike you, going to a local Catholic college for one semester and quitting because you said: “It was a repeat of high school.”
I never told you how much I admired your restive spirit which translated into action, like burning the field of weeds one dry summer afternoon. You had a vision of an ice-skating rink on the house’s east side. It was windy enough that the pine trees in back caught fire and exploded with a whoosh. Firemen, when they could not coax any water from the fire hydrant (the well was dry), attacked the fire with shovels and rakes. You laughed and laughed when you told the story. That winter we had our own ice-skating rink.
I’m sorry I did not thank you for your constant: “Go outside and play!” Summer, fall, spring and winter. Play back then was all about exploration, determination, agency.
My sincere gratitude, Mom, because you never said “Stop” when I loaded the station wagon with rocks. Everywhere we went I collected rocks.
So many things I never said to you, but I am saying them, now, finally, as I spread your ashes among the trees, in the peaceful woods behind the house we all grew up in.
A beautiful lament and celebration.
Thank you, Mary.
Very nice. The peace of the land pervades the piece
Thank you. Usually I let a piece sit before I send it out. I'm not always sure what it means.
Right. For better or worse here at what now I write pretty fast and let it go. There’s a bit of pack mentality to it, which is odd but how it’s worked out.
I really liked what Mary said at the beginning of her post, and I thought, "I have to try this." And it is a challenge for me to write quickly, but it also focuses me.
“I didn’t get out of the way” reminds me that she didn’t get out of the way of her boyfriend soon enough. I love that we don’t know for sure she has left him. Maybe in some ways she hasn’t.
I just read the story again, and once again my entire body seized up and then i let out a long breath. This story kills me. In my mind, she HAS left him, but he continues to haunt her, she remembers so viscerally what it was like to live in that awful world.
That's the way I read it as well. I think that's the "in some ways she hasn't"--that Christine mentions.
That was the way I read it. She didn't swerve when she might have.
But John, is she still with him?
That seems to be written on the wind.
A poem:
Dear Flatmate,
I know you find me fussy,
and like a homely feel,
but back from work at six a.m.
to no clean mugs but yours,
the China one,
with bright sunflowers,
were you saving it
for morning coffee?
I'm sorry. I tripped,
on your discarded shoes.
then carefully retrieved
every broken piece,
and lay them here for you.
In the drawer you'll find my tube
of Superglue. Maybe
you can fix it, once you've finished
washing up.
Love this! "once you've finished washing up." Ha!