Wednesday, July 25, 2012

The Middle

We walked into the small viewing room. The swell of panic bubbled up into my chest toward my tightly clenched jaw, teeth forced into one another, the urge to run overwhelming. There were no windows in the small beige room, only dim fluorescent lighting that cast shadows across faces and corners.  I willed my feet to move in a forward motion knowing I would regret not seeing her one last time before the cremation. As my family walked forward, I lingered behind my mom and uncle as they broke into tears. My mom’s back heaved up and down and the ache she must have felt escaped with a low unnatural sound. My uncle sniffed and wiped at his checks while standing still and simply staring, his hand rubbing my mom’s back in a counterclockwise circle from time to time  They blocked my view slightly and I stayed back still waiting to see a sign that she was still going to look like my grandma. Finally I stepped forward and looked down at my grandma, sleeping, the sheet from her bed wrapped around her like a butterfly getting ready to leave her cocoon. I began to choke again, my throat on fire as I tried to not walk away, to run out of the tight beige room. My sister broke down beside me, crying, shaking her, “Wake up Ita! Wake up!”, the volume in the room magnified by the imminent silence and the speechless sounds of our grief. I shrank further inside myself, muted,  and I found solace in smoothing my grandma’s hair back, tracing the bridge of her nose with my hand trying to make myself not forget what she looked and felt like. I stood there longer than the rest of my family, running my hand along the planes of her face, trying to make the last imprint she would make in my life. My family faded into the background, I stared at her sleeping face and tried to imagine her getting ready for bed, to imagine the nightly ritual I had seen countless times. I saw the faded little girl image of myself sitting in the center of the bed watching her as she sang to herself, watching as she had quietly gone to sleep, watching as she had quietly died alone. 

Saturday, July 21, 2012


today is saturday. a lazy saturday. i woke up with my cat, Drew, curled up next to me, sans alarm, sans my neighbor throwing his trash away as he does every morning at 5am, simply sans. there is nothing lovelier than waking up on your own accord, stretching from fingertips to toe tips and laying quietly with only the sound of your breath.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Journal Blast

sometimes when your mind is deliciously empty of words that would have meaning for anyone but yourself, you search into things written in the past, and i stumbled upon an appropriate piece for today.

drum beats and rocks gods and
shiny things that keep your mind from standing still
long enough
to make a

they keep
r o l l i n g
until you can't keep track of where you started
and where things ended,
repeat and rinse,
but she's still there

Wednesday, July 11, 2012

Stream of Conscious Wednesday

At Village Inn, my favorite writing place. This one, is my favorite in the city. Bright orange booths with light fixtures out of Rock Hudson's Pillow Talk, and witty quotes on the wall like, "Never trust a skinny chef." 

The cloudy skies stream in through tinted windows and continue to draw me away, seduce me into daydreaming about all the things I should be writing and trips I should be taking and money I need to be saving. So I can go high and low and down below the country's line I have never crossed before. 

Then I look back to the screen and I think, Ita, Ita, what do I write about Ita. My thesis, a memoir, and Yeah, my stories are that interesting. There are many, but I need pictures, I need something, because right now they are floating, tiny little words on paper bouncing around outside the atmosphere of my brain. 

Oh, there's an art show soon. I should go. It's starting to rain and it makes me think of dancing. Dancing Donna Summer style with my arms open and twirling. I used to twirl a lot when I was a kid. But, I can't dance in the rain because I'm wearing white. But the rain also makes me think of porches and sitting next to someone who likes the rain just as much as I do. I'm not sure who that person is in my memory. Really, I swear. I think maybe when I find that person they'll replace the shadow in my mind. 

Hey, there's a fundraiser at 5 Points Bistro for the fight against AIDS. I should go. And the 17 Ojos  Collective Art show, and the battle of the bands at the Percolator. I hope it's not hot. If it's hot I'll leave. I'll walk out! How do people do it? 

The rain is already pooling in the street. My Ita hated driving in the rain. She would stay where ever she was until it stopped or she wouldn't leave the house. Her car sunk into the street once when it was raining. I think it was a mini-sink hole. She hated the rain almost as much as I love it. 

Sunday, July 8, 2012

Sunlight Sunday Afternoon

There are two types of Sunday afternoons:

A. You realize that your weekend is almost over and tomorrow is the beginning of the week. That's right Monday, and with that comes early morning and (hopefully) coffee, work and and and....

B. The lounge-y Sunday afternoon that lets you sleep in, tangled in cool sheets (hopefully), followed by a leisure brunch.

Today I am having B. I am having B and completely enjoying it, because although I don 't have a stressful summer I still have things to do like everyone else, but for now, today, I'll enjoy the warm breeze weaving itself though my house through the sliding glass doors, Luna curled up dozing, sunshine making the words I'm typing  brighter and more meaningful, and if needed a conversation, with the one writing sunlit words, as well, in the other room.