PSST! Rantings, Musings, & "Not Your Mama's" Platitudes

When I am left, again, holding disappointment for the world I am apart of, I am on a back winding road in torrential rainfall. Hazard lights blink revealing a vehicle up ahead: a dump truck, ambulance, no— a school bus stops. Yellow lights turn red in rain so thick I cannot see the tiny stop sign fold out. A man drapes a jacket over a child stepping off the bus, cradles him under his arm into their van parked feet from the bus stop. Back he goes three more times, sheltering tiny feet through the monsoon, and my eyes well with tears at this immense love. I am a bystander of their little world suspended between two strong arms.

Song by The Killers (pure lyrical magic) A dustland fairytale beginning Or just another white trash County kiss In Sixty-one Long brown hair and foolish eyes He looked just like you'd want him to Some kind of slick chrome American prince A blue jean serenade Moon River what'd you do to me But I don't believe you Saw Cinderella in a party dress but She was looking for a night gown Saw the devil wrapping up his hands He's getting ready for the show down Saw the minute that I turned away I got my money on a pawn tonight A change came in disguise of revelation Set his soul on fire She said she always knew he'd come around And the decades disappear like sinking ships But we persevere, God gives us hope But we still fear What we don't know The mind is poison Castle's in the sky Sit stranded vandalized The drawbridge is closing Saw Cinderella in a party dress but She was looking for a night gown I saw the devil wrapping up his hands He's getting ready for the s...

Outgrown His demeanor was solemn. She pulled the same shit, criticized him for his silence, corrected him in regard to his career. She laughed and threatened to drive behind his work vehicle blaring protest chants, then stroked his face asking if he was okay. He did not react to her touch. He used to turn and look at her after one of her verbal jabs. He used to seek approval, search her eyes for remorse, an apology. Tonight, he was cold, sad. “Why are you laughing?” he asked me directly, after showing me something on his phone. “I didn’t understand. I’m sorry,” I said. We both looked down as the laughter continued. She declared her job is just as dangerous as his. She sells and orders restaurant equipment for a living. His silence was the loudest thing in the room. His exposure to reality, to the worst in people, has caused him to outgrow his wife. His patience was thin, he was ready to leave. I recognized it. He didn’t ask why she was still laughing. He already knew. The tan line on h...

She looks up online bachelor’s degrees again. Wonders if now would be a good time. Remembers it costs money. She doesn’t know what she would like to do. She hasn’t wanted anything badly enough to go through the trouble. What career would make her feel more alive? She doesn’t know and she doesn’t want to pick one at random. She knows even if it happened, even if she finished a degree, she would still feel unworthy. The wrong degree picked. Anyone could do it. What does it matter? Perhaps business. It would be helpful if she wanted to advance in management at her current employer. Everything feels far away. In two days it will be 8 years since her divorce was final. 8 years matches the amount of time she was married. And yet the healing feels incomplete. How do others move on? Do they ignore their feelings and gut to settle down with someone because they are afraid of being alone? Are they better at healing and ready to form healthy relationships? Are they better at ignoring things that ...

A boy spins a top on the pharmacy floor. As it spins, he adds dust, dirt, the leg of a cockroach to the body of the toy.  “I am 7 years old,” he says. “This is a tornado like on Squid Game. Have you ever seen Squid Game? It’s on Netflix. It only costs $11. The winner wins $7.4 Billion dollars. The losers die. They get shot. BANG!” He is wearing a neon green and blue camouflage t-shirt and black sweatpants. Black Adidas tennis shoes.  “They are my parents,” he says, pointing to the man and woman at the register. Neither of them acknowledge me. They appear old enough to be his grandparents. The man is wearing pajama pants and has a long beard. The woman wears a white mesh top. You can see her bra underneath.  “Joshua,” the man says, “let’s go.”  The boy looks at me and smiles. “Bye!” He says. I wave and say goodbye. 

The back yard has overgrown. It was too much to keep up with along with everything else. I bought brush killer and a pump sprayer, but all I can think of: the birds. They love the brush. They inhabit what was forgotten. The twisted roots and overgrown weeds and saplings, stubborn and wild. Our love tossed to the wayside. Oh, how we were entangled. I hoped the roots were deep enough. That somehow, in the brush, the lush green of our hearts would be enough. But the weeds are cruel and strong. And love can only hold so much. And the green shoots scattered about are smothered by brown rope vines. Tonight, a cardinal rests on a tendril. She sings her song, still.