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Tag Archives: brother

August, Just In Time.

23 Sunday Aug 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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aunt, belonging, brother, cicada, family, Mom, neighbor, rain, summer, women

Late summer nights in Jersey the council of women would convene beneath the maple tree. Dinner dishes dried and put away, beach chairs snapped open, metal frames scraped to find level ground to sit upon, and after a while they did rest their bones. It was time for us kids to make ourselves scarce, the women were gonna talk. It was lightning bug time, so wandering off wasn’t so bad. And yet…

The women smoked, their cigarettes cherry red targets in the fallen night. When I crept closer to eavesdrop on mom and her sisters and maybe a cousin or two, because nothing could be cooler than whatever it was they were talking about, the chatter stopped. They swished ice in their tea glasses and waited for my boredom to lead me elsewhere or shooed me away, nothing here to see, ma’am, move along. There were no men here at the council, just me snooping and hanging out with my little brother. One woman’s voice frequently rose above the others, edgy, aggressive, often brought the laughter. I wondered who was wearing the admonishment tonight.
***
I padded down to the pagodas half hour before a cloudy sunset. No breathtaking palette here this time. The neighbors were chatting, seated level in their sandy beach chairs. A stray cicada came to inspect us, clearly wanting to bump into us but settled on singing its chainsaw song beneath the pagoda then flew away. One of us smoked. Two of us drank. I didn’t add much because I was feeling like a kid on a late summer night who should probably be off catching lightning bugs. It rained on us some though the sky was patchy, the water was surprising. None of us moved. I speak for the council when I say the little water was welcome.

Holy Morning

03 Tuesday Mar 2020

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, awake, brother, Crystal Ship, headphones, James Douglas Morrison, morning, ocean, Ray Manzarek, son, sorting, sunrise, the Doors

Abruptly awakened
(charley horse and other reasons I rose before I was ready,
remembering a dream of sorting legos with my son and baby brother)
I dress in the dark and remember that I have headphones
and it’s the first time in weeks I can motor

down to the beach in cold flip flops armored in Carhart, otherwise
I crest the dune and come down into the beach and see a gull, torn.
Omen she is, she tells me ‘Ware, what you seek you will find here”
I take up the dare and keep walking, wiggling cold grains from my soles
giving up once I arrive at The Place.

I turn east and study the horizon with “The Crystal Ship”
absorbing me–that piano–one hand, now two
never heard anything so beautiful
god why can’t I do that
he croons effortlessly and the water has not come to hear him
It’s only for me and a wish of you, I suppose…
The orb rises behind thick clouds
I’ve seen the water mirror but not this morn
Small waves rise up and comb the shore though I cannot hear them
drowned out by Jim and Dionysus
(another flashing chance at bliss another kiss, a nother kiss)
Should I read what I wrote so long ago?

The trance is broken by dog-walkers, neighbors, sweet and kind.
Sweaty headphones off now for momma raised me right,
thou shalt not be rude to thy neighbors

I don’t need a reason why.
I am awake and alive
purple ink on my wrist
candle burning
it is morning
I am writing.
(rejoice. delicate.)

Hallows Eve 2018

31 Wednesday Oct 2018

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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brother, candy, change, childhood, children, costume, dark, Halloween, hallways, memory, parents, sister

It is said that today, this evening is when the veil between the worlds is thinnest, those who have passed may walk among us.

Today I think about the recent talk I had with my son in the waxing hours of night. We talked long about my Dad–his grandfather–who we both love and miss. He had questions and worries and pain and I answered best I could, and those answers said aloud reaffirmed my beliefs. It all felt right.  Perhaps he went back to sleep, but I stayed awake then slept in the middle of the day, my heart ringing with memory.

This morning I close my eyes and remember Halloween of the past, when me and my brother were kids. Mom got us our costumes at the store, but I do not remember which one. The cellophane came unglued from the cardboard boxes they were packed in by the time we got home.  I am 100% sure I tried mine on and played with it before Halloween and got yelled at.  We lived in a large development, apartments galore, and you would think we would come home king and queen of Halloween candy, but no. You would be wrong.  Mom told us every year we could pick one. ONE. apartment house outside our own to trick or treat and that would be it for the day. Oh? Did you not know that we only trick or treated during the day? Yep. Too dangerous at night we were told. So we donned our paper-thin costumes, slipped on our masks, and knocked on our first door.  It was exciting! Neighbors answered and tucked candy into our plastic pumpkins, a ritual that was wonderful outside the usual nod as we passed each other on the stairs, and I got to peep inside where they lived!   One year I was Lady Liberty, another Cinderella, and my brother was a Firefighter and Chewbacca, if memory serves. Most neighbors gave us a good haul, and some slipped us pennies instead of candy. Our marauding ended at the kitchen table where Mom let all the air out of our tires: She picked through every piece of candy and threw out just about half of it because she said it didn’t look right.  In those days there was fear of razors in candy apples and LSD on paper candy, so anything that looked open she tossed, no negotiating, THAT was the real horror!  We clanked the pennies into our matching glass piggy banks which have gone I don’t know where…  I used to eat candy corns color by color, first the tip, then the orange, then the base, one small bite at a time, because I’m really not sure why.  And once we used to have a contest to see who could make their candy last the longest, and I think we both hit the “Thanksgiving” target.

One thing we don’t remember is Dad being with us.  It was always Mom shuffling behind us down echoey dark hallways with us.  I’m pretty sure it’s because Dad was working, or he was sleeping because his shift was in the middle of the night.

Dad moved us from the city filled with apartment complexes where Halloween candy and pennies and neighbors and friends were abundant to a field in the middle of nowhere, darker than hell and nobody around.  Trick or treating became dead to us because there was no way Mom and Dad was going to pile us into the car and take us into “town” where the rest of the kids were trick or treating. Halloween died when we moved upstate.

When I became a Mom we used to keep a bowl of chocolate treats for kids who might come to visit us on a route that is used for fast-moving traffic. One kid came. Probably the best part of Halloween was Mike making elaborate costumes for the kid–he was Halloween king of the cul-de-sac!  Okay, maybe the giant tarantula the guys stuck up on the roof was pretty cool, too. Cool but icky as it bobbed in the breeze.  But that’s Halloween, eh?

Last year I had a bowl of candy ready but no one comes to this apartment complex. Nobody came so I gave it all to the realty office across the way.  This year I have nothing to offer but hope and protection for anyone who comes by.

My how the times change.

Driving With Dad*

13 Monday Nov 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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brother, daughter, death, evolving, father, life, love

The neighbors are less suspicious now as I drive down the narrow street and turn into the graveyard. They see my black Jeep a lot nowadays, and once I had to tell the cops I’m just here to see my dad.  You know how it is with small town cops. I think they’ve gotten used to me now and I still don’t give a shit.

His grave is between the elementary school and the “middle” school. I can’t help reliving some of those days every time I drive past them to make the turn into the narrow street, or road because it’s small town.  There’s a large, green lawn and a big playground down back. My 18-year-old friends liked to play back there in the middle of the night, big kids having fun with their girlfriends, except that one night when he jumped down off the monkey-bars and his boot knife drove into his ankle. That was kind of messed up.  These are the woods I hid inside when I played hooky and maybe some other things. I relive those times every time I drive down this backstreet and turn onto a smaller street not meant for two cars passing, neighbors wondering who’s this kid in a tricked out Jeep hanging out in the graveyard?

I wouldn’t come back here for any reason except that you are here. I took my beatings in this neighborhood, not far from the cool place where the under-aged were served at the tavern. We don’t all need to be the king and queen of the prom, but it would’ve been nice not to get beaten because I was a minding-my-own-business Head and you were a Jock serving your term as eradicator of supposed filth.  I wouldn’t come back here for any reason, but this was the best place I could find for you, and I know you’d be okay with it.  I wouldn’t come back here for any reason except for you. The neighbors are less suspicious now when I pull in between the low and narrow chain link fence. I pull off the gravel road into the grass, my Jeep leans steeply but at least people can pass by if they need to, but they never do because no one comes here except me, day or night.

I’m not thrilled about the headstone the Army provided at no charge. I wish it could be more. I wish it gave me space to tell the world who you have been and who you are.

I come here when I want, no reason or rhyme. Sometimes I just sit and listen to Concrete Blonde and watch the night go by. Other times I get out of the Jeep and greet your stone.  I stand beside the dimple in the ground and I just start talking. I tell you everything. I tell you things I didn’t know I needed to say, words I can’t believe I’m saying. Sometimes it’s just the most random bullshit. I can hear what you’d probably say.  Or maybe you might surprise me, I don’t know, but this silent ground gives me a place to tell, instead of lifelong silence when I needed you most. Now I tell you all, a silent post.

Should I stay here so I can keep speaking with you, telling you my heart that I will never give another?  If I drive my Jeep into desert discomfort, will you still be with me and hear me?  I need to go, but I don’t know how to leave you, Dad.  How will I find your listening or not listening anywhere else?  I flick my cigarette out the window and drive on. Traffic is heavy like it never was before when we were kids. I light another cig and change the song on the machine. I’m looking for something to lift the ribs that crush my heart and help me breathe free.

*Thank you, Kevin, for letting me have this one.

Tales From The Mattress

26 Friday May 2017

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, brother, childhood, dragon, father, mother, sleepless, story

And there it was, through the struggle of the night, another long Goldilocks night where I’m too hot, I’m too cold, but oh, please, bring me just right….  I awoke in the middle of the night and remembered that story I used to tell myself when I was little.  Actually, I was telling my stuffed animals, for they were good listeners, but I am getting ahead of myself.

My brother and I went from cribs to bunk beds, nothing in between.  Brother got the bottom bunk which means I got the top.  It was so high up, though, and Mom was worried about me falling out of bed.  Dad had every Craftsman tool known to man (or at least it seemed that way to a little girl who liked following him around, wanting to help spackle or anything else he thought I was capable of doing.)  Dad brought home a ginormous piece of wood, longer than the bunk bed and thicker than a pizza box.  He drew lines and sawed the ends into curves, sanded, then he varnished the shit out of that thing which stunk to high heaven and set off my asthma, naturally.  When it was done, he fitted the smooth, dark wood piece over the edges of my bunk so that it would keep me from falling out during the night.

I accumulated stuffed animals over the years and I lined them up, just so, at the head of my bed.  They were my cabinet, my aides du camp, the only thing helping me through Godzilla / tornado dreams — or worse.  Mom used to read us bedtime stories like an orator on a stage, me high in the balcony.  I used to make up stories as I lay in the laps of my dear stuffed animals, and they listened.  And I remembered one of those stories last night.  You know.  It’s the one about the dragons.

My goal is to write the story today.  I don’t know what I will do with it when it’s done.  There are so many places I could hobble up to and beg they take my paltry thing and publish it.  But it all starts here. In my bed.  The place where I still sleep with dragons.

A Morning for Wonder

29 Thursday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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brother, morning, ocean, rain, son, sunrise, wonder

I awoke to the sound of the sky changing color.  I almost set my alarm clock to give me just 15 minutes more, but instead I swung legs over the bed and dressed in the dark, eyes half-glued shut.  My favorite weather app tells me it will begin to rain in 8 minutes, and I decide to wear my hoodie instead of a rain jacket, it’s warmer after all, and what does an app really know, anyway?

I believe the sun lured me out of bed this morning with a little dare. He said, “If you come for a walk I will show you something that will make you glad.”  I hustled down to the sand looking for ocean and there it was, right where I left it. I turned east, looking for Juliet, and the sun let a few wide bands of gossamer, in rose, come through the clouds. I stood still, and I know for sure the sun said, “See? Aren’t you glad?”

I trespassed ten steps through Werner’s sand (you know he loves his fences and his signs), keeping my eye on the sunrise but it faded rapidly.  The 10th street stairs haven’t been repaired from the hungry bite of hurricane Matthew. When did this graffiti arrive on the hanging wood, and why hadn’t I noticed it before?  Six large flocks of crows flew past heading northwest. I wonder why.  And it begins to rain.  I think of the chores I have this morning, and the spell of the sun is broken.

I am typing in a dark apartment waiting for the bathroom to warm up.  My hoodie hangs from a hook on the door, soaked.  It sounds like a creature has come to live in the ceiling above my kitchen. Perhaps he or she thought it was a good time to move in while I was gone. Meanwhile, in the back bay, the soaking flag clings to its white pole trying to escape the cold rain.  A mountain-sized bee has been sounding the bay, but it has gone quiet now.  No other sounds but little laptop typing, no light but what the sun can give behind thick layers of gray sky. I wonder if I will feel a door slam soon and will I embrace it as proof of life and let it go with a smile, or will I greet it with rolling eyes and gritted jaw, proof that I just can’t let things go.   I wonder when I will reply to my brother’s email, another ocean I must cross. I wonder if my wax plant will continue to thrive since I had to give it a new place to grow.  I wonder when I will finish reading that book, and what will I do with the notes I’ve been taking, or will I leave it unfinished because I never want it to end?   What will I do with the word “transformation?” It’s everywhere now, unleaving me like the soundtrack for Red October that’s been playing in my head for weeks.  Well.  I couldn’t ask for a better sound in my head while getting things done.  My son would approve.

The Senses

09 Friday Dec 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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brother, childhood, faith, father, Godzilla, mother, racism, Senses, truth

I can remember what the plastic-coated railing of my crib tasted like: flat, cool, and sometimes it pinched my tongue and made it bleed a little.   I can remember what breakfast tasted like, little bowls of Apple Jacks or Cheerios, maybe milk toast awesome with butter and a dash of pepper.  Sick bed days were spent on the couch in front of the tube watching Godzilla with grilled cheese and tomato soup, no guilt required.

I can remember what mornings sounded like. The awful squawk of the alarm clock that launched me from my bunk bed, headed me off to the bathroom to wash my teeth but skip my hair because I already had a bath last night, and it didn’t matter that my hair greased geometrically overnight and everyone made fun of me. Slurping down breakfast while listening to the news on the green radio Mom kept on the table.  I can still smell Dad’s Old Spice and wondering where those long, thick scars on his back came from, but I knew better than to ask.

I can remember what nighttime sounded like when our bedroom lights were out but the one in my head stayed on.  I heard their music playing on the stereo:  The Surfaris, Sinatra, Andy Williams, Cher, Simon & Garfunkel, Johnny Cash… a soundtrack for a life still in infancy. Once I heard the crinkle of gift wrap on Christmas Eve, but I knew better than to ask.

I can remember dinners that alternated between Daddy’s home and Daddy’s not home, and it’s unfair and cruel to say which was the best, but when Daddy wasn’t home we took his special quarters and bought pizza from Regina’s and ate like there would never be anything this heavenly again in all our lives–a perfect mozzarella pizza with tiny pepperoni that perfectly cupped the oil.  I can remember mom pouring oil into the electric fry pan and overcooking just about everything, things that were not meant to be soaked in hot oil.  I learned to hate eggplant in that fry pan.  She warmed up peas from a can, and I sat in front of them and the desiccated liver and onion thing, determined to starve and die because it was so awful, and I never gave in, a good ship Resolute.

I can remember Mom playing songs on the organ in our bedroom from a blue denim book. Many were happy and fun like “Camptown Races,” patriotic like “The Marines Hymn,” and some were “spirituals” or work songs.  Mom had no idea these were offensive or hurtful because she grew up believing these were just songs. One of my Catholic school teachers taught us a slave song, and even then it felt wrong to me: “Oh lordie, pick a bale o cotton, o lordie pick a bale a day…”  No.  Just, no.

I can remember Mom putting black pepper in my mouth for saying something horrible about my brother. I can remember Dad making me hold a heavy box with my arms outstretched until they shook because I was a very bad girl at the store. I just closed my eyes and focused on the lamp that rained oil in the stationery store, the one I wanted so badly.

I remember pussy willow buds, so soft and silver-white that bloomed every year in the courtyard, the courtyard that Godzilla never managed to destroy in my dreams.  I remember that clover tasted bitter, grass even worse, and dandelions leave the most wonderful yellow on fingertips. I remember popping open sticky maple seeds and putting them on my nose so I could be a rhinoceros or any other kind of mythical beast. I remember the prickle of sweet gum seeds that felt like porcupines underfoot.

I remember the constant sound of jets taking off or coming back to LaGuardia.  One long, hot day at summer camp I got to see the Concorde flying over the tennis courts as I lay in the grass waiting to play. The sonic boom, the awesomeness of that tiny white delta shape in a perfect blue sky in a place that I hated.  It was a spaceship of amazing, a spirit unbelievable.  God I’ll never forget that Concorde, the mysteries and marvel of its wing.

I remember the heady fragrance of incense, but I don’t remember which resin was burning on that holy day.  I can remember the swish of the priests robes and the clink of the decanter chain, whispers instead of songs.  I remember the bland taste of the Eucharist and that it did not cancel out my doubts, fears, or wonders I’ve had about this life.  The body of Christ tastes like something you must decipher for yourself, and for heaven’s sake don’t chew on it!

I remember growing up in a neighborhood with friends who were of different faiths. The old lady on the park bench, the fixture, always spoke to us nicely and nobody told me she was Jewish until later, and I didn’t know it mattered. The kids I went to camp with were of various faiths and nobody cared, except for that one girl who tried to own the rest of us in her braids and perfect red swimsuit, that horrible bully.   Unfortunately, I lived in a neighborhood where black and brown people were looked on as dangerous or at the very least suspicious, but it was so hard for me to process that because all the kids I went to school with were different colors–a bunch of them were Vietnamese.  I learned to sing “Mary Had a Little Lamb” in Vietnamese,  and maybe that put me on the road to becoming a bleeding heart. At least I know what inclusion means and how it feels. That it looks like my son’s Vietnamese best friend who lived just across the yard, whose family invited us, including my Dad who served in Vietnam, to celebrate their sons birthdays.  We came to their table and ate traditional foods flavored with chopped peanuts and fish sauce, or wrapped in rice paper. How can this happen, and how can I be so lucky? Was my whole life just one big serendip waiting to happen?

Oh god/goddess keep our senses wide open, to see, hear, smell, taste, and touch the world and love it to the fullest.

Two Worlds, part II

08 Tuesday Nov 2016

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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broken circle, brother, life, son, woman

Sun sets early now.  I turned the outside lights on so you could see when you pull in the driveway.  Just like the old days.

The dishes are washed and put away, places set. They are waiting.

My son tells me physics bedtime stories but he doesn’t know where to put things away.  He is waiting.

My brother, brave and deep, sits on his bed and watches another episode of the same episode again.  He is waiting.

My personal things are packed, but the balance will be stowed away with me tomorrow. I am not waiting.

 

Lovesick Girl Puke and Other Wails

06 Friday Nov 2015

Posted by Kristine in Uncategorized

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amwriting, brother, chapbook, goals

My brother comes upstairs for a visit with me almost every morning now bearing gifts of coffee from the usual place.  This morning he opened the door and, instead of a good morning, he greeted me with “How do you write?”  It came rather out of nowhere. He had many questions and I don’t know why these thoughts came to him. It doesn’t matter, really.  This is quite an about face from the “why bother journaling” he spat at me many months ago.  He wanted to ask if I have a secret yearning to write a novel.

I explained between sips from my “Witch’s Brew” mug that a phrase will come to me while doing the most mundane things like washing dishes, folding laundry, or driving to work.  And the period I did the most writing was also the most heartbreaking time for me. I confessed that most of those poems can’t compete with what is considered “literature” and I probably shouldn’t submit them for literary chapbooks, but I’m not giving up.  He asked why do I care what “literati” think, suggested that I’m aiming too high.  I don’t expect him to understand the complex voices in my head that fight over what I write, how, and for whom.

I told him this is National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo), and I have no desire to participate in writing a novel at this time. I have a few flash pieces that could be developed into something bigger, but I haven’t chosen to do so. Not a goal right now.  (Well, knowing what’s NOT a goal does help to establish what IS, hmm?)  But just the act of discussing these things with him was stimulating and helpful. And I do believe my next chapbook submission will be called “Lovesick Girl Puke,” will be read by the teenage demographic, and that’s all right with me.  Kidding…not kidding.  

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