The Sand Painting

See the sand painting.

Experience its beauty,

Wind blows it away.

The Heroine

I never considered myself a hero.  I am not super woman who flies about the planet looking for victims to save.  I simply passed the pond every morning on my exercise walk.  The morning in question marked the beginning of what promised to be a cold transition into a Northwest autumn.  The temperature dropped to below 32 degrees.  Frost whitened lawns and made the sidewalks slippery.  I definitely didn’t set out to be a hero that morning.  I only wanted to get some exercise while avoiding slippage and broken bones.

I approached the pond while a gust of wind pushed me backward with icy force.  I remember hugging my body for extra warmth when a high pitched sound pierced my consciousness.  At first I dismissed it as merely the wind and wrapped my arms even tighter about my shivering body.

I don’t recall what caused me to glance at the pond since my head at that moment pointed downward to avoid the wind, but for some reason I looked in that direction.  Two small arms waved frantically above the water.

I guess instinct took over.  The details remain forever foggy.  All I know is that I ran to the pond, dove in, and pulled out a small trembling child.  He was thin and frail.  His bluish face and fingers gave him an unearthly appearance.  I opened my wet jacket and flannel shirt to allow him access to my body heat after which I wrapped him tightly with my arms and clothing.

I am not exactly sure what thoughts went through my head; if I tried to use my  damaged cell phone or  just ran to the nearest house.   I do remember pounding at the door of an unknown house screaming for help.

You can read the rest of the story in the paper.  “Local Heroine Saves Boy from Drowning” said the headlines.  Those simple words have ruined my life.

Afterwards, folks began to follow me every everywhere, and they scrutinized all my actions.  What thoughts went through their heads?  “This is how a hero drinks coffee.  Here is where the hero shops for food.  This is what she eats.”   

"Good grief", I thought, "leave me alone!"  I felt like a paranoid maniac; only it wasn't my imagination.  People really did follow me and watch me all the time.

The worst part of all of this; people hovered expecting to witness the next heroic act.  Didn’t they understand serendipity?  I just happened upon the situation. 

Fueled by the anticipation of my entire town, I felt the pressure to continue saving my fellow man.  Not motivated by altruism but rather pressure to meet expectations, I volunteered at a local women’s shelter.  I also sponsored a food drive and participated in a human rights group. I wrote letters to the editors of the local paper supporting humanitarian causes.  What have you done to me little boy?  I am forever compelled to help the less fortunate whether I want to or not, and I feel like a fraud!

“Look at me,” I long to shout out loud (but don’t).  “Look deeply.  I am as flawed as you.  Don’t idolize me anymore.  Stop writing about me!  Leave me alone and let me return to the self indulgent life I used to live.  I miss that life!”

I heard some film maker wanted to make a TV movie about me.  He called to ask for an interview.  He also asked to shadow me.  Would this attention ever end?  I wondered.  I could have refused the interview, but my new alter ego felt compelled to satisfy her public.  I felt like Clark Kent in reverse.  The real me, the ordinary everyday unexciting woman, lay hidden beneath the Super Woman suit.

This tale goes even further.  Local politicians both liberal and conservative begged me to run for office on their tickets.  I could be anything from dog catcher to state senator.  I had my pick, and according to local wisdom, I would undoubtedly win.

At some point I decided that perhaps I should run for office, but not for the reasons other people thought.   Maybe, I reasoned, the hero worship would end at last.  No one respects politicians these days.  Finally, I gave in and agreed to run for state congress.  I had to quit my job and live off my savings while I campaigned.  Money poured in for my election; more money than I had ever seen before.  People had to be hired to handle my life.  No one cared about my private self with good reason.  I had no more privacy!    
Everyone wanted to support the heroic candidate.  Photographers posed me with the child from the pond as well as babies I’ve never seen before.  Everywhere I went; people wanted to shake my hand, touch me.  I became so exhausted.  I wanted to sleep rather than do all this, but the momentum swept me forward.  I granted more interviews, made speeches written by other people, and amazingly, got elected.  It was as if I had become the victim drowning in a pond of other people’s expectations.   

Again, the details of what happened hung like a fog in my brain.  My life seemed to be propelled by a force that came from outside my will.

How foolish of me to think that I could stop being a hero once I sat in the state Senate!  Then the whole state pressured me to fight for humanitarian causes with an even louder voice.  Reluctantly I complied.  Don’t get me wrong.  I believe in these things, but I had to deal with lobbyists and my constituents whose agendas often conflicted.  Somehow, I had to make everyone happy which often forced me to stretch the truth.  Oh the guilt of telling political lies!  My working days began at 6:00 AM and ended at 2:00 AM most days.  I talked, talked, talked, traveled, studied reports; it never ended.  I so wanted to sleep with the covers pulled over my head; bury myself where the public could never find me, but I suspected even then that somehow, they’d turn up to drag me back.  I realized I might never have a private life again.

I began to hear rumors that some folks wanted me to run for national office.  The Congressman from our district retired due to some sort of scandal.  The party needed someone with a positive image to replace him.  Guess who filled the bill?  Before I knew it, I made the national talk circuit.  My face smiled from every major news publication and even the tabloids.  Makeup artists and personal dressers transformed my image.  I still don’t recognize this person.  She dresses in designer clothing and has a perpetual smile on her face.  Her flawless hair and skin look like the “Cookie Dolls” that are so popular with little girls.  Who is this person?

Today on the Jason Bronson talk show, he asked for the most important message I could give to the American public.   I wanted to say, “If you ever pass a pond where someone is drowning, keep walking.”  Of course, I didn’t say that!

Las Gitanitas de Sacromonte

Childish faces with ancient eyes

Laughing as their bodies dance in the sunlight

Infants, stealing hearts and consuming them like candy

Behold them all, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Sway to the music your grandfathers sang

While rocking their gypsy children.

Crooning in the shadows of their cave homes

Such wild children, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Laugh and play for me small roguish ones.

Let me swirl and dance with you.

Take my soul, but keep it safe.

Small laughing girls, las gitanitas de Sacromonte.

Butterfly Dreams

                “Audition today!”  She set the book on the coffee table and mocked up the will to enter the real world of noise and motion.  One step, two; she turned her head for a last glance at the cozy living room.  The blanket on the couch retained the impression of her body.  She felt its call.  “Come back to me.” “Let me caress you once again.”           

                “No,” she bellowed and then looked around to see if anyone had heard the outburst.  The siren call tempted her, but resolve pushed her on.  One two; move the shoe.  Three four; shut the door.  Free!  Well, maybe.                 

                Once inside the elevator she sighed both in relief and panic.  For a week, she had only vacated the sofa to collect food and use the toilet.  Even when she forced herself to shower and dress this morning, she didn’t know if she would actually go.  Ever since he left that pathetic farewell text message; “Need space-moving on”, she had burrowed into the cocoon.    He didn’t even care enough to use proper punctuation.  “I deserve good grammar and punctuation!”                                                               

                The elevator door groaned as if reluctant to release its passenger to the streets of Manhattan.   She stepped into the lobby and nearly walked into the remnants of someone’s upset stomach.  She held her breath to avoid taking in the lingering stench.  “Ah yes, the real world!  Now why is this preferable to my cocoon?”

                Even before she reached the lobby door, city sounds assaulted her; a cacophony of horns, sirens and shouts.   Still, she moved on reaching for the door.  She opened it while a sense of triumph over apathy energized her cells.  Then, she merged into the aggressive world of New York streets. 

                Every New Yorker knows how to push through crowds instinctively maneuvering through the spaces at near marathon pace.  One could spot the tourists and new comers.  They identified themselves by their slow lumbering steps and soft expressions.  Residents acquired hardened ruthless “get out of my way” faces or returned to their safe little homes elsewhere.  Our heroine gave an obscene gesture to a taxi driver who nearly ran her down; never mind that he had the right-of-way; this was New York.  The right-of-way belonged to the daring.  He gestured back and screamed something she didn’t hear as she descended into the street cave that housed a metro station.

                She thought about the audition.  A jilted angry young woman; perfect.  She could nail this one.  She lived the part.  She would play it subtly feeling the anger but only letting it reflect in her eyes while she calmly voiced the words.  She cloaked herself in anticipated victory as she approached the casting agency.  This part belonged to her.  The universe owed it to her.  It would serve as the catharsis she needed to move on.  She approached the door and unconsciously arranged her hair with one hand as the other reached out for the doorknob.  The door opened with a squeak.  “Don’t any doors in this city open quietly?  But then, New York isn’t about quiet after all.  Is it?”

                Other young women with similar features and coloring looked up at her before reburying their faces into the scripts that each clutched with clenched fingers.  Some murmured their lines while others merely looked downward lost in their private thoughts.  The young woman announced herself to the receptionist.  Then she took a seat with the others.  She didn’t glance at the script that lay inside her handbag; no need to.  It was her life printed on the pages; her tragedy.  She looked around and smiled at the pinched worried faces that surrounded her.  Finally she heard her name.

                She stood confidently before the directors and entered into the anger she felt after her own rejection.  She breathed fury into her character.  Then she executed the lines with understated passion.

                “Thank you; next!”

                “What?  Just thank you, next?”

                “Yes.  Please leave.  Next!”

                She walked into a bakery.  Sweet seduction filled her nostrils and activated a flow of saliva.  She chose an array of gooey chocolate confections.  The expressionless sales girl filled a pink bakery box with the baked goods which she traded for cash.  Perhaps she dreamt of flying out of her own cocoon.  “Don’t do it!” the twice rejected woman wanted to tell her, but of course, didn’t.  She carried the box into the subway, up her street, into her lobby, sidestepped the vomit, and finally, collapsed back onto her sofa.  After she opened the box of cakes, she reached for her book on the coffee table.  She wrapped the blanket about her body while burrowing into the overstuffed sofa cushions.  Outside, the city shouted, pushed and cursed; a world now far beyond her sensibilities.

               

We say "Pan". What do you Say?

            “Now that you’re half way through third grade, there’s no more ‘catchies’ in handball.”  The class groaned.  Jorge Molina raised his hand and complained that then they’d always get out.  Mrs. Jimenez smiled.  “That’s the idea, Jorge.  You hit the ball so the others will miss and get out.  You all need to learn strategies for hitting whatever comes.  We’ll practice during PE”.  The boys and girls looked at each other and groaned again.

            Pratima Patell raised her hand.  “But not Hana right?  She can still catch the ball first, can’t she?”  The teacher nodded.  She saw a shy smile spread on Hana’s face.  Of course she would allow Hana to catch the ball first.  Cecilia Perez patted her friend’s back softly.

            Late October Hana Park walked into Mrs. Jimenez’s classroom third grade ESL class clutching a Korean/English Dictionary in her left hand.  She held her right hand behind her back.  “Class, please welcome Hana Park.  “The children all said, “Hello, Hana.”  The small girl held her head down, and her cheeks turned bright red.  Mrs. Jimenez found an empty seat for Hana, and gave the girl a collection of books and supplies.  When she looked about her new classroom, Hanna found the Korean word for welcome, 환영, among many other words under a photo of multi-ethnic children holding hands. On the colorful walls the she saw international flags and other artifacts filled all spaces not covered with children’s work.   The environment felt welcoming, yet at first, Hana kept to herself on the playground and ate alone always hiding her deformed hand which resembled a claw.  The other children tried to encourage her to play, but Hanna politely declined.

            A few weeks later, Cecelia entered the class and sat in the empty seat next to Hanna.  That first day, Cecelia put her head on the desk and cried.  Hana looked at her desk mate.  She drew something on paper and handed it to Cecilia.  It was a drawing of a blue flower and a red heart.  Cecilia took the drawing and smiled.   She looked up a word in her Spanish/English dictionary.  Then she pointed to Hana’s hand.  “What?” she wrote on the same paper.

            Hana covered her hand, lowered her eyes, cleared her throat, and said in a hoarse voice, “Born”.  When Cecilia saw the tears roll down Hana’s face, she looked for another word in her dictionary.  Cecilia wrote “friends” on the paper and pointed to herself and Hana.  After that, she hugged Hanna. 

            The girls became inseparable.  They used their dictionaries to help each other with English and soon began giggling together over shared jokes.  Mrs. Jimenez sometimes had to remind them to work quietly.

            At first, Cecilia offered to help Hana with difficult tasks, but Hana actually demonstrated a great deal of proficiency in using her afflicted appendage once she felt more comfortable exposing her hand to others.  She could do almost anything that the other children did.  She could pass papers, hold a pencil and even play handball if allowed to catch the ball first.  Before long Hana and Cecilia joined their classmates at play but always remained special friends.  No one ever mentioned Hana’s hand, but when some playground bully made fun of her, Hana’s classmates screamed, “Get out of here!”

            Sometimes the two friends stayed in at recess always whispering and writing in notebooks.  They seemed to be engaged in a secret project.  Overcome with curiosity, Mrs.  Jimenez asked what the girls spent so much time doing.  “You will see,” smiled Cecelia.

            Finally, after several weeks, Hana shyly handed some stapled pieces of paper to the teacher saying only, “You read?”  On the pages in carefully crafted English, the girls had written story of their growing friendship called, “We Say Pan.  What do You Say?  It began, “My friend and I come from different places in the world.  In America, We learn English, but we also speak our mother languages.  We teach each other our languages while we help ourselves learn English….”  The story went on to speak about how sharing their home cultures with each other made them feel less sad about having left family and friends behind. 

            Mrs.  Jimenez read the story.  She smiled at the two friends.   “In a few weeks, our school will celebrate “International Day.”  Would you girls like to read your story at the assembly?” 

            Three weeks later, Hana and Cecilia walked up to the stage of the school auditorium holding hands.  They alternated reading from the paper they held together.  Hana didn’t hide her hand.  They finished reading their story to thunderous applause.  In the audience, one beaming teacher whispered, “Welcome to America.”

           

           

To an Unseen Enemy on the Battlefields of War

Don’t let me hear your voice

Telling me of loves’ sweet follies

The cherished memories that leave you wistful even now

And the burden of your daily labors 

Or how you meant to tell him sorry

But now it’s much too late

I mustn’t hear how much you miss your son or need your wife

Or know that you are frightened just like me

Please, don’t let me hear your voice.

Don’t let me see your face

To know your smiles frowns and tears

To see in you a part of me and melt the hardness in my soul

Don’t let me see your face.

Don’t let me watch you dance

I need to turn my head so I don’t feel the joy in you

So much like mine when music calls me

And I feel the need to dance

You cannot be like me

I need you faceless, voiceless, void of soul

Or how can I shoot you in the field

And walk away untouched       

Don’t reveal your joy or pain

Don’t let me hear your voice!     

Lifelines

The morning Mary realized her periods had stopped forever she slipped into bed, pulled the covers over her head, and stayed there until noon.  Sunlight filtered through the windows of her bedroom promising a brilliant spring day, but under the pile of quilted blankets, darkened gloom presided.  Carl had already left for work, or perhaps he slept in the den again last night.  What difference did it make?  Ginger, the golden retriever tried nuzzling her way into Mary’s refuge.  An extended arm pushed the dog away.  Ginger persisted for a few minutes before leaving to shred trash in the bathroom. 

About the time the cuckoo clock struck twelve, Mary pulled the TV remote from her night stand without lifting her head.  She heard something fall to the floor with a thud but didn’t bother to find out what.   Reruns of old sitcoms blasted from the TV for the next three hours.  Mary stared at the silly husband and wife antics which didn’t really strike her as very funny. 

Finally she dragged herself out of bed and ransacked the cupboards for anything with sugar.  She polished off assorted candies and a very old cookie then proceeded to cover all the mirrors with black tissue paper.  “I ought to,” she whined, “part of me just died.” 

At last, animated by a sense of purpose, Mary wondered, “What sort of a funeral would be fitting for my lost womanhood?”   She lined an old cardboard box with red velvet and glued sprays of plastic roses to the sides.  “This looks like a proper coffin for my departed youth. “ 

Mary rummaged through boxes of wedding pictures, prom photos and snapshots of her during pregnancy.  These she dumped onto the living room floor.  Then she searched through the house for anything else relevant.

“What’s this?  I can’t believe I still have the corsage from my high school prom. She removed it from the protective wrap.  In the coffin it goes.”   Plop, the dried flowers and yellowed ribbon landed on the bottom of the box.  Some of the withered petals fell off and lay in crumbled disarray.  Mary snorted, “Just like me; dried up and useless.” Next, Mary found a dusty old diary on a shelf in her closet.  She opened to a page written in shocking pink ink. “…Why won’t Mom let me buy the blue hot pants?” With a quick glance at the protruding varicose veins on her legs Mary forcefully tossed the diary into the box further crushing the petals of her aged prom relic!”

“This and this and that,” growled Mary as she selectively trashed her life story in photos.  Everything relevant from childhood to her (forced) retirement party lay scattered within the tomb of cardboard.  Then she sealed the box with tape and took it outside.  “Goodbye.  Thanks for the betrayal.” She buried the box beneath a peach tree, then ate a frozen cheesecake and went back to bed.

Mary’s husband, Carl, wasn’t taking this new development very well.  Now, when he came home from work, he poured two drinks and locked himself in the den.  He allowed Ginger to join him. There, with his canine companion, he watched TV and sometimes spent nights on the sofa.  He had been supportive of his wife’s pre-menopausal mood swings for a whole decade.   That, he decided, was enough.

He didn’t understand why she couldn’t handle aging as well as he did.   He explained to Ginger while stroking her head, “Getting old is not a picnic for me either, but who has a choice in the matter?  Didn’t I deal with balding and high blood pressure?   You didn’t see me going crazy.  She better snap out of this soon!”  Ginger licked him.  Carl poured himself another drink.  “She doesn’t want any more babies, so what’s the problem?  I don’t get it.”  Ginger nudged him for more scratches behind the ears which she received.  Carl contemplated installing a small refrigerator and hotplate inside the den.

Three days later, Mary threw back her covers, took a shower and got dressed.  She had selected an outfit of jeans and a shell with a red blazer jacket.  It was smart and said, “This person has youthful taste.  Then with a grimace, Mary glanced at the mirror reflection of her sagging neck and deepening laugh lines.   She surveyed the rest of her body with equal disdain.  When had her breasts grown larger and lower?   “Whose sadistic joke is this anyway?”

“Humph”, she grunted, “youthful taste and a withering body.  “I can’t stand it!” Mary called Jennifer, an acquaintance from her former job.  “Jen, Mary.    Oh I’m fine she lied.  How are you?  Yeah, I know it’s been a while.  We’ll have to do lunch soon.  Oh, I realize it’s hard for you with work and all.  I guess since I was laid off I have too much time on my hands.  What’s new at the old workplace anyway?  Oh, you’re kidding, I knew there was something going on between those two.  What did his wife say?  Ha, that’s delicious.  I never really liked Alice anyway.  She wiggled her big behind in tight skirts all around the office.  That woman was always on the make!  She deserves to have been fired.  They forced me into early retirement to save money.  I didn’t deserve that.  It’s nice to think that sometimes justice is served!  Listen, I wanted to ask you for a favor.   Can you give me the name and number of the plastic surgeon who did Ella’s lipo?  No, I’m not planning anything.  I just want a consultation.  Thanks.  We must do lunch soon.”

She fingered the paper on which she had written the plastic surgeon’s number, but she didn’t pick up the phone.  She put the paper down, picked it up, and then she put it down again.  “Well Mary, what are you waiting for?”  Finally she dialed the number.

The twenty-something receptionist whose skimpy camisole revealed deep cleavage, scrutinized Mary carefully before handing her a questionnaire.   “Don’t judge me; this will be you in another thirty years.”

  Mary tried to tell the young chippie that she only wanted a consult.  There was no need to fill out all the paperwork.  She just wanted to ask a few questions.  

“Look Ma’am.   If you want to see the doctor you’re going to have to fill this form in advance.  Do you want the appointment or not?  We are very busy here!”

Mary glanced about the room.  Most of the people seated in the waiting room were women.  Some were Mary’s age, but many had no obvious flaws.  “What could they be doing here?” she wondered. 

“Ma’am,” boomed the irritated voice of the receptionist, “please, are you going to fill out the required forms or not?” 

“I’m not deaf, you little floozy.”  Some of the patients looked up with shocked expressions while others looked away pretending they hadn’t heard Mary’s outburst.  The receptionist stiffened and closed her sliding window with a slam.  Mary mumbled something about having made a terrible mistake.   Then she bolted out of the office.

“Well, that was a disaster!”  Our post-menopausal heroine headed for the nearest fast food joint.  She ordered a chocolate shake and a jumbo bag of fries which she carried to an available booth.  After giving a menacing look to the crying child across from her, she told herself that she needed a plan.  “What will I do with myself?” 

Mary took a notebook and pen out of her large floppy purse.   In the process she pricked her finger on something sharp and blurted out a curse.  A small boy in the booth behind her asked his mother why that lady said a bad word.  The mother picked up the food and escorted her son to a booth on the other side of the restaurant.  

Mary intended to make a list of things she could with her life.  She couldn’t think of anything.  “Not too promising,” she sighed.   After fifteen minutes she had slurped up the last drops of chocolate shake but still had no useful ideas.  “That’s it!”  She screeched out loud suddenly, “I give up!  She blushed when several people stared at her.  “Oh sorry,” she stammered, “I didn’t realize I spoke out loud.”  She hurried out of the eatery while hiding her face with the greasy notebook paper.

Mary shuffled her feet as she walked through her town shrouded in her personal black cloud of despair.  She passed by a community bulletin board and only looked at it because a bright pink flyer caught her eye.  “Attention retired women:  come join us for talk and coffee.  Check out our web page; www.lifelines.com.”

Six gray-haired women sat around a large table in the back of the coffee shop.  Mary almost left, but as she looked in, one of the ladies smiled warmly at her and beckoned her to join them.   At first Mary sat in awkward silence and listened to the others talking and laughing around her.  No one pressured her to speak.   Finally, she summoned her courage.  “Last week I had a funeral for my lost youth.”  Everyone laughed.  They raised their cups in salute, and the chatter continued.  

Mary still has no particular plan for how she will spend the rest of her life, but once a week she meets with other women who all welcome her; even when she feels disagreeable.  And there’s more good news.  Carl has come out of the den.