You sat next to me,
Taking his spot.
Blanketing him in darkness
Like the first blizzard every Winter.
Covering him so completely.
Day after day,
I watched you steal him from me,
Coercing him further into your darkest recesses
Whispering into his ears,
Telling him alternately to be silent and lash out.
Strategically, methodically even,
You covered his eyes with your corners,
So he could not see me reaching out to him.
And stuffed your loose strings into his ears,
So he could not hear me calling his name in the darkness.
You led him along your destructive, devouring road,
Toward the place blacker than the night sky
And more unfathomable than the depths of the ocean.
How or why he followed you,
I do not know.
I may never know,
May always be left wondering who you were,
Wondering where he went,
Wondering what this shadow is that’s left behind
Staring at me with empty eyes.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Thursday, July 9, 2009
The Dangers of Gardening
Wes and I went out gardening today. By that I mean Wes grabbed my plastic tea pitcher he uses for watering the plants, the miracle grow, and the insecticide and headed out to “the garden.” And I followed.
Our “garden” consists of four plants: three different kinds of tomato plants that I can’t name and a cucumber plant. We used to have a squash plant. It died. Don’t know what happened.
Wes went to the water hose, filled up the pitcher, mixed in the miracle grow and began the watering of our “garden.” I followed swinging my arms gaily, tromping through the too tall grass, and braving the swarms of gnats that have taken up residence in the air around “the garden.”
Wes waters the leaves and the soil around one plant and heads back to the watering hose to refill my tea pitcher with the pink lemonade looking mixture that we hope will soon turn our plants into giant stalks leading up into the clouds. I follow, walking slowly and deliberately through the jungle, also known as, our backyard.
On the trip back to “the garden,” I ascertain that the swarms of gnats are out to get me and start flailing my arms at them in an attempt to thwart their oncoming attack. Of course no one else can see the gnats, so the woman across the street looks at me like I’m crazy. Then she resumes digging in her huge garden that reflects her expertise in such matters.
Wes asks me if we should dig in the soil a little bit to get it loosened up. Per his mother’s suggestion, I respond in the affirmative feeling like I know something about gardening even if I’m not an expert like Old Lady Green Thumb across the road. I venture slowly into the cobweb-infested basement to retrieve the dirt-covered spade that sits neatly on a cracked wooden door.
My mission accomplished, I venture back out into the wilderness and deposit aforementioned spade on the ground in front of “the garden.” Wes is sitting on the ground stirring the dirt with his hands that are now completely covered in wet soil. He asks me to pick some of the weedy grass out from around the cucumber plant. I bend over, pulling my black sundress tightly to my ass, so no one will see up it, and grab a few handfuls of stringy looking green stuff that may or may not actually be weeds. After commenting to Wes that I just didn’t know how much of this grass to pull up, desperately hoping to get out of pulling up anymore seeing as my hands are now dirty, Wes tells me to pull up a little more.
I stand there staring at my flip-flops, continuously lifting my feet up from the itch of the grassy ground, and fight off the gnat attack that is wreaking havoc on my back at this point. Note to self: either don’t wear a sundress and flip-flops while gardening or get a big NASA space suit that will keep me protected from all unwanted invasions before gardening again.
Upon Wes’ completion of aforementioned gardening tasks, I flee inside the protection of our house fearing the fly buzzing around my head is going to nosedive into my ear and lay eggs that will hatch during the night while I sleep.
“The garden” is watered. My muffins have cooled. There are no more bugs to lay eggs inside my head. Whew! Gardening is dangerous work. Time to enjoy a straight from the box home made blueberry muffin. Thank God I made it in alive to enjoy them.
Our “garden” consists of four plants: three different kinds of tomato plants that I can’t name and a cucumber plant. We used to have a squash plant. It died. Don’t know what happened.
Wes went to the water hose, filled up the pitcher, mixed in the miracle grow and began the watering of our “garden.” I followed swinging my arms gaily, tromping through the too tall grass, and braving the swarms of gnats that have taken up residence in the air around “the garden.”
Wes waters the leaves and the soil around one plant and heads back to the watering hose to refill my tea pitcher with the pink lemonade looking mixture that we hope will soon turn our plants into giant stalks leading up into the clouds. I follow, walking slowly and deliberately through the jungle, also known as, our backyard.
On the trip back to “the garden,” I ascertain that the swarms of gnats are out to get me and start flailing my arms at them in an attempt to thwart their oncoming attack. Of course no one else can see the gnats, so the woman across the street looks at me like I’m crazy. Then she resumes digging in her huge garden that reflects her expertise in such matters.
Wes asks me if we should dig in the soil a little bit to get it loosened up. Per his mother’s suggestion, I respond in the affirmative feeling like I know something about gardening even if I’m not an expert like Old Lady Green Thumb across the road. I venture slowly into the cobweb-infested basement to retrieve the dirt-covered spade that sits neatly on a cracked wooden door.
My mission accomplished, I venture back out into the wilderness and deposit aforementioned spade on the ground in front of “the garden.” Wes is sitting on the ground stirring the dirt with his hands that are now completely covered in wet soil. He asks me to pick some of the weedy grass out from around the cucumber plant. I bend over, pulling my black sundress tightly to my ass, so no one will see up it, and grab a few handfuls of stringy looking green stuff that may or may not actually be weeds. After commenting to Wes that I just didn’t know how much of this grass to pull up, desperately hoping to get out of pulling up anymore seeing as my hands are now dirty, Wes tells me to pull up a little more.
I stand there staring at my flip-flops, continuously lifting my feet up from the itch of the grassy ground, and fight off the gnat attack that is wreaking havoc on my back at this point. Note to self: either don’t wear a sundress and flip-flops while gardening or get a big NASA space suit that will keep me protected from all unwanted invasions before gardening again.
Upon Wes’ completion of aforementioned gardening tasks, I flee inside the protection of our house fearing the fly buzzing around my head is going to nosedive into my ear and lay eggs that will hatch during the night while I sleep.
“The garden” is watered. My muffins have cooled. There are no more bugs to lay eggs inside my head. Whew! Gardening is dangerous work. Time to enjoy a straight from the box home made blueberry muffin. Thank God I made it in alive to enjoy them.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Announcement to All Who Come Into Contact With Me Today
The sign on my forehead should say this:
Today I woke up ornery, and my shoulder's hurting, because I slept funny. I'm pretty hormonal, for no reason in particular. If I were you, I would stay away. I don't feel like sharing my toys; so don't ask to use anything I have. And because I'm hormonal, I could lash out at you at any moment. If you must come near me, make sure you have cheese, a box of tissues, and a sappy movie in your hand, because all will be needed for you to survive your encounter with me while I'm in this heightened hormonal state. Basically, just let me munch out and watch girly love stories on Lifetime tv, because that's your best chance of survival.
No, you haven’t done anything wrong, but that doesn’t matter. Everything you do will be wrong and everything you touch will somehow need cleaning or moving back into place or just generally touched up after your presence has been vanquished from this darkened temple dedicated solely to my womanly needs.
What did you say? No, I don’t need any light other than the mesmerizing, tear-inducing glow coming from my friend, the only one who’s on my side today, the television. I don’t know why you’ve, all of a sudden, grown so demanding of me but I can’t do anything for you today as I am fastidiously attending to my womanly hormones that are wreaking their havoc on my brain and my heart.
I am also extremely busy lying with the heating pad on my stomach and my back, in turn, because both ache as if in remembrance of the child I have not born for you yet. I’m greatly looking forward to carrying the watermelon around that will be caused by you and your sperm. I can hear you now, “Go guys. Swim faster.” It will be fun. You carry around the bowling ball then.
Why am I hostile today you ask? Let’s see. Could it be because I switched my birth control recently? Yes, you knew that. We have been talking about it for months because, as you know, switching my birth control really fucks with my body.
I’m sorry. Surely I misheard you, because you would not have said, “So, it’s like you ate an apple today instead of a banana.” I cannot express to you how so not like that it is!
Maybe you should just send the dog in. She is always welcome. She’s good at drying my tears. She knows how to love on me the way I need to be loved on. Take lessons!
I’m getting back to my movie now. It always gets me. I can’t believe Shelby dies! I can’t even handle it when they go to her funeral. I need to be alone.
Today I woke up ornery, and my shoulder's hurting, because I slept funny. I'm pretty hormonal, for no reason in particular. If I were you, I would stay away. I don't feel like sharing my toys; so don't ask to use anything I have. And because I'm hormonal, I could lash out at you at any moment. If you must come near me, make sure you have cheese, a box of tissues, and a sappy movie in your hand, because all will be needed for you to survive your encounter with me while I'm in this heightened hormonal state. Basically, just let me munch out and watch girly love stories on Lifetime tv, because that's your best chance of survival.
No, you haven’t done anything wrong, but that doesn’t matter. Everything you do will be wrong and everything you touch will somehow need cleaning or moving back into place or just generally touched up after your presence has been vanquished from this darkened temple dedicated solely to my womanly needs.
What did you say? No, I don’t need any light other than the mesmerizing, tear-inducing glow coming from my friend, the only one who’s on my side today, the television. I don’t know why you’ve, all of a sudden, grown so demanding of me but I can’t do anything for you today as I am fastidiously attending to my womanly hormones that are wreaking their havoc on my brain and my heart.
I am also extremely busy lying with the heating pad on my stomach and my back, in turn, because both ache as if in remembrance of the child I have not born for you yet. I’m greatly looking forward to carrying the watermelon around that will be caused by you and your sperm. I can hear you now, “Go guys. Swim faster.” It will be fun. You carry around the bowling ball then.
Why am I hostile today you ask? Let’s see. Could it be because I switched my birth control recently? Yes, you knew that. We have been talking about it for months because, as you know, switching my birth control really fucks with my body.
I’m sorry. Surely I misheard you, because you would not have said, “So, it’s like you ate an apple today instead of a banana.” I cannot express to you how so not like that it is!
Maybe you should just send the dog in. She is always welcome. She’s good at drying my tears. She knows how to love on me the way I need to be loved on. Take lessons!
I’m getting back to my movie now. It always gets me. I can’t believe Shelby dies! I can’t even handle it when they go to her funeral. I need to be alone.
Left or Right?
I am Tara Tiffany Tyler. Yes, my mom did that to me. And yes, my dad let her.
Left or Right? Left leads to California and sunny beaches and anonymity. Right leads to Virginia and home and the realities of Mom and Dad. If I head to California, I never have to deal with this past again. No one will know me, and I can start fresh. If I go home, I will have to face the fact that Mom and Dad are both gone now. I will walk in their house, and Dad won’t be there to ask me how the new car’s running and if my breaks are squeaking. Mom won’t be there to give me a hug that I only half embrace, like we always do it. California sounds pretty freaking good to me!
I wage this silent war within me. I’m sitting at the stop sign with my left blinker on. I turn right. After hours and days of waging war and second-guessing I pull into the driveway. It’s strikes me as uncomfortably familiar. I reach for the key I still have on my key ring even though I haven’t lived here in years. I put it in the lock only to find the door already unlocked. Again, uncomfortably familiar. The lump in my throat is the size of a cantaloupe.
I walk in and jump, startled by their presence. Jennifer sits at the table and asks about the drive. Chelsea gets up and hugs me, but I embrace it wholeheartedly. Mom and Dad are here. I bust out laughing, as do the other two. We are three and have always been three. We just used to have two old geezers to guide us along by their craziness. I pull up a chair. Jennifer gets the booze. Chelsea gets the photo albums. Tonight, the only reality we face is the past one we have lived together.
Left or Right? Left leads to California and sunny beaches and anonymity. Right leads to Virginia and home and the realities of Mom and Dad. If I head to California, I never have to deal with this past again. No one will know me, and I can start fresh. If I go home, I will have to face the fact that Mom and Dad are both gone now. I will walk in their house, and Dad won’t be there to ask me how the new car’s running and if my breaks are squeaking. Mom won’t be there to give me a hug that I only half embrace, like we always do it. California sounds pretty freaking good to me!
I wage this silent war within me. I’m sitting at the stop sign with my left blinker on. I turn right. After hours and days of waging war and second-guessing I pull into the driveway. It’s strikes me as uncomfortably familiar. I reach for the key I still have on my key ring even though I haven’t lived here in years. I put it in the lock only to find the door already unlocked. Again, uncomfortably familiar. The lump in my throat is the size of a cantaloupe.
I walk in and jump, startled by their presence. Jennifer sits at the table and asks about the drive. Chelsea gets up and hugs me, but I embrace it wholeheartedly. Mom and Dad are here. I bust out laughing, as do the other two. We are three and have always been three. We just used to have two old geezers to guide us along by their craziness. I pull up a chair. Jennifer gets the booze. Chelsea gets the photo albums. Tonight, the only reality we face is the past one we have lived together.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)