I love it here at Gloria's

The birds are always coming out of the sofa

and the banana ears out of the yard—

the sun out of the sky

and the cold out of the shadows.

It is a stair-master, treadmill of a city—

up and down, thither and yon

The efficiency of the lungs is challenged

and the feet pounded into stumps.

The Boy King is engrossed in work and ideas—

busy cells of creativity and code.

He delivers interesting discoveries and salmon

in equal measure.

The Bride is half CEO of the home

keeping the cable car on the rails

and half her own flagship of resourcefulness

and strength.

The dog loves me: I walk to Billy Goat Hill

and throw the ball in the yard.

Sometimes we share the backseat

on the way to the beach.

Tip-toeing around pre-established routines,

I see new tendrils of connection

ever wary of my role and

deciphering the necessary level of my opacity.

I love it here at Gloria's.

Cooking Guide for Widows

Year one

chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year two

have a salad

every now and then

followed by chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year three

eat out with a book

take half home for dinner tomorrow night.

At bedtime have chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year four

attempt a grocery list

buy salmon and fresh vegetables

like broccoli and spinach

and some chicken.

Prepare salmon and salad.

steam vegetables

freeze the chicken.

Try not to eat chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year five

throw away the frozen chicken

eat out once a week

eat leftovers once a week

eat salmon once a week

drink margarita once  week

(or wine if you prefer)

(or every night if you prefer)

eat peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch

every day

Don’t forget the chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year six

if you haven’t killed your self by now

decide it is worth eating to live

Begin again.  You know how to do this.

You just don’t want to.

Nightswimming (R.E.M.)

I swim at night resting on my side

left hand to my right shoulder, right to my left

perfectly straight I glide my legs smoothly up to my head

I see myself walking on a village street

houses on my left, rocky waterfront on my right

I know this place

I think I know this place as an amalgam of two:

mountains of NC or hills of the Finger Lakes

the end is before me and I turn back

Jack is waiting for me with the car

Safely parked and glad that I took this road

I feel proud and brave

He makes me feel proud and brave

emboldened I venture out again further around

the sidewalk is broken and chipped away by the lake

soon I am swimming to reach the village

and there I climb out to see a market or café

and Jack is there with someone else known to me

And there he is smiling with someone known to us

I trudge back wet but not minding so much

these night time swims are largely struggles

I must be working something out as I

pull my knees in to my chest, curl my toes
and rest upon my other side, waiting for tomorrow.

Memory (Triolet)

The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend

- Henri Bergson

The mind is wily in remembrance; storing frozen images of experience

no movie trailers of past events replaying in order, only still life.

Captured as a broken lens would, moments of fractured resemblance,

they should create a resource, but lack clarity and coherence;

they should be useful at reunions and other events of social appearance.

Instead, little carousel slide shows drift willy-nilly across the mind’s eye;

ragged around the edges, in grayscale or sepia tones of diffidence,

they flutter across my closed eyelids, these frozen images of experience.

There is one of me at six or seven sitting upon a pine tree stump just my size

in the warm sun, looking sober and petite, my daddy looking back at me.

We are walking on Little Dry Creek Road pine woods on either side,

between my house and Anna’s, a regular ritual of ours traipsing outside

why does my mind not replay the father-daughter love, the prize

that abides?  A picture not of 1000 words but of sensations of safety,

and comfort, a drug, a shot, a boost of heart, snapshots that bring smiles                   

that touch all the senses and have the power to heal me.

The real work is to rewrite history, to revisit the old fuzzy memories

that haunt or pain the soul and touch them up, color them heroic.

Take back the fears, wash them with courage and print them in a new diary

as happy stories, lessons learned with joy and remembered in giddy reverie.

Let the memories cease their unchanging stillness nor carry sorry worries

into the heart.  Transform the mind, engineer the brain to rage poetic

with brave words, bold thoughts and intrepid plans of adventure and mystery;

newly tattoo the soul with hopeful images; build a new past and love it.

From the back

small well-worn white-soled

sneakers with brown socks

and blue jersey pants

snug with self waistband

gathers stitched in place

by hand with paisley blouse

in oranges and lemons

swirling with curlicues

leading to curly hair

grey; who is this woman?

perhaps unfortunate or

not; concerned with else

she walks with purpose

quiet, un-noticed by most

at the corner she turns,

shrinks; and then she sings

Christmas wish 2013

It approaches again:

tiny thoughts of snow

and breathing brisk air

of snippets of the tender touch

of quick hugs and air kisses

of fuzzy wiggleness

of snug hats and mittens

of visions of children

bustling about

close kitchens and

of papered boxes

then paper and boxes

bandied about the living rooms

and the dining rooms

of how to recreate

this happy mayhem.

Actually, all that is needed

is a loving heart.

Junaluska Joy

Junaluska Joy: a sketch book by Virginia Mauldin Wiggins | Make Your Own Book