Around the World in Eighty Days

Imagine yourself hovering in a hot air balloon
over your house,
your town,
your life.
Would you land the balloon?
Or, would you let it drift –
drift along to another house,
another town,
another life.
Would you let the air currents take you wherever?
Maybe,
if you were lucky,
the jet stream would pick you up and blow you clear to Spain,
or Sweden,
or around the world in eighty days.

If it landed someplace new,
would you get out just to walk around,
get something to drink,
maybe use the facilities -
in whatever condition they may be?
Would you stop to say hello!
or hola!
or hej!
Would you go exploring –
like a pirate,
or a spy –
and suddenly find yourself holed up in a farmhouse
with a Russian named Yuri
and his young children –
two girls and a boy -
and a cow.

If you found you spent your days with Yuri
cooking
and farming
and milking that cow,
how long before you started looking around,
wondering where he was hiding that large basket,
and whether,
when you found it,
you’d have enough fuel to make it take flight?
Would you want to ask him,
but not be able to
because you wouldn't know the Russian word
for hot air balloon?
Would you motion to him –
stretching your arms up high,
flapping them to indicate flight –
Would he scratch his head
and hand you back the milk bucket?

How long would it take you to attach a cart to that cow,
drive his children into town
and see if there wasn’t a school for them –
and for you –
to learn the words you needed
to communicate with this man
Yuri
who took you in when you were hungry
and gave you food,
who gave you a drink when you were thirsty,
who clothed you when you were naked.
This man who gave you a warm place to sleep,
two strong arms to hold you tight
two arms to keep you from wandering,
how long would it take to find the words to tell him
how much you appreciate the love he’d given you,
but that you needed to keep moving.
Would he graciously pull out your basket
 from wherever he’d safely stored it,
repair the torn sailcloth you damaged when you landed in his field,
and fill your tank with enough fuel to see you safely take flight?
Would he stand with his children –
two girls and a boy –
who couldn’t remember anyone other than you as their mother,
and hold their tiny hands,
patiently teaching them,
by example,
how to let love go?

Would you wave?
Would you cry?
Would you think of them as your basket soared
higher and higher into the air,
over that farmhouse
over that town
over that life
Would you think of them as the air currents took you wherever
and the jet stream picked you up
and blew you clear to Sweden
or Spain
or around the world in eighty days.
When you found yourself back where you started,
would anyone notice you'd been gone?
Were you gone for eighty days
or eighty years?

Hands

Her hands are the only thing that hasn’t changed since the last time I saw her, nine months ago. Everything else looks different, somehow.

Her hair is coiffed high – like an old woman would wear it, not someone who isn’t yet fifty. It sits high on her head and surrounds her face like cotton candy on a stick. The color is different, too, lighter maybe. I can remember how important her hair was to her in college, and that time she laughed at me for cutting my bangs, not waiting for her to help me with the trim.

“You’re so impatient!” she told me. “Now, look what you’ve done!”

We were laughing when she said, “You look a little punk, don’t you think? Maybe like Chrissie Hynde?”

Her makeup looks wrong, too. The dramatic effect she seemed to so effortlessly carry off is gone. Her lips are too pale, her eyes are understated. No, this is not the woman who spent hours trying to patiently teach me how to apply the proper foundation to my fair skin.

“Just dab it … like this,” she’d say, but then when I couldn’t ever get it right, she’d cave in and do it for me. “Just like this,” she’d show me, right before she’d pronounce me “BEAUTIFUL!”

Now, her lips are pale and flat. I resist the urge to pull out a darker shade from my purse and touch her up. “Just a dab … like this … BEAUTIFUL!”

It’s the weight gain that surprises me the most. She’s completely changed – her face is swollen. If I didn’t know better, I’m not sure I would recognize her, that’s how very different she looks. Nine months ago, she was worried about gaining too much weight, and I had laughed at her.

“With everything else you’ve got to worry about, why bother about your weight? Relax and enjoy eating for once. No one who cares about you is going to care if you’ve gain weight!”

Maybe she could see ahead better than I could, for here I stand - in a crowd that easily could reach five hundred people – checking her out and what’s the first thing I notice?

“Gosh, she looks so … puffy!” I whisper.

But it’s her hands I notice, finally, which help me to understand this woman lying serenely before me is the woman who doted on me, fixed my hair, dressed me fashionably, applied my makeup, consoled me when I gained too much weight, let me cry on her shoulder when someone broke my heart – this is my friend. I want to reach out and touch her, to hold on to her hands the way she held on to mine for so many years, and yet, I can’t. I’m afraid to touch her, now. These hands – so familiar to me for so long – are attached to a woman I no longer recognize. Who is she – this woman? My friend? No. My friend is gone. What I see is the body my friend inhabited for forty eight years.

I’m here to say my goodbyes to the woman who gave me her love and friendship – and I can’t touch her hands.

Meant to Be #2

Who am I meant to be?
And how will I know when I get there?
Will a bell ring?
Will lights flash?
Will a banner drop?
Or will it be more like crossing a finish line first -
Taking that tape with me?

Maybe it will be more subtle –
A nod of the head,
A pat on the back,
An acknowledged bow that says:
“You’ve arrived!
You’ve made it!
You’ve become the person you were meant to be –
A freaking nut case!"

Ha! The joke’s on me. 
And all this time I thought I was meant to be a writer.

Meant To Be #1

You sit in front of me, shake your head, and say,
“We just weren’t meant to be.”
But I wonder ...
Maybe if I try just a little harder to be who you need me to be,
Could I manipulate myself back into this relationship?
But then, I’m not being true to me;
Truth is what I need.
Truth.

I tried to be all things to you,
To change who I was, to work harder, to show by example,
And by action.
“This! This is how we should live!”
I willed my actions to say,
But it wouldn’t – couldn’t change you.
And then, I got tired of trying to change to please you.
There is a limit – yes! – to how much one person should change;
Where is that line?

There is something about getting to know each other,
And accepting each other for who we are -
Really are – that is beautiful.
Beautiful.

Truth and Beauty.

Maybe you're right.

Maybe you're right.  Maybe I'm wrong.
And maybe the world isn't round after all,
Maybe the sky isn't blue,
Maybe the sun isn't yellow, the grass isn't green.
Maybe this is all an illusion - a mirage.
Maybe what we see, feel, hear isn't really truth.
Maybe we're just confused.

Maybe we didn't invade Iraq.
Maybe George Bush wasn't elected President.
Maybe Bill Clinton never saw that blue dress and Richard Nixon wasn't a crook.
Maybe Anna was short for Anastasia.and Munchhausen went to the moon.
Maybe Albert Einstein did flunk his math tests.

Maybe there was no Holocaust, maybe no one died.
Maybe the South really did just want states rights.
Maybe George Washington cut down that cherry tree.
And maybe there was a horse in Troy.

Or maybe you're just wrong.

Secret Spaces. Lonely Faces.

She races
To the places
Where she traces
Or erases
The lonely faces
With happy thoughts from her secret spaces.
Then he displaces
Her happy spaces.
So, she paces,
And then she braces
Until she finds new secret spaces -
Look! No more lonely faces!