A Change of Plans

There are some days when you wish you never got out of bed.  Everything that can go wrong, does.  That was today but this isn't about that.

I had plans.  I changed them twice.  Originally I had planned to take my boys to the Victoria Gardens at Wollman Rink in Central Park.  Then I decided to go see Tarzan with my friend because I had been craving Haitian food.  Let's just say I was really looking forward to seeing Tarzan; only all my plans went to hell in a hand basket.  After a week of bad sleeping pattern my insomnia struck with a vengeance at the stroke of midnight.  Being turned into a pumpkin would have been a blessing in comparison.

After a futile hour of tossing and turning I turned to drugs.

I know, Staten Island, drug problems, you think this is getting interesting.  Not that kind of drugs.  They were over the counter kind that can be found in most drug stores although in some neighborhoods you'd need a manager's key to access them.  It eventually knocked me out; I overslept and ended up being late for work.

I could go on in tedious details about all the things that went wrong with my day.  But that is not what this is about.  It's about plans and how plans can change on a whim.

Needlessly to say, I was fed up with the day.  I left work early, hopped on a bus, slept in traffic for an hour before finally going home.  Grilling in this heat seemed like a good idea.  Only that didn't work out as we had a gas scare.  Not wanting to blow up the house and everyone in it, we decided to head to the diner for dinner.

I was supposed to be in Brooklyn tonight.  But instead I ended up at a diner being waited on by a very tired looking single mom.  My circumstances had caused me to abandon my original plans.

The mundane details doesn't matter.  Neither does the circumstances.  I didn't plan on being where I ended up.  But God had plans that required me to be exactly where I ended up.  My husband makes our oldest repeat the following every morning.  "I am a leader, I am blessed.  I'll be a blessing.  I'll be my best."

Today I got to be in the right place, at the right time, to witness something extraordinary.  I don't know what God's plan is for that single mother.  I only know that I played a small part in a much bigger plan.  The plan wasn't for me but I got to play a part in the fulfillment of God's plan for someone else.

As Christians it is important to remember that we were called to be salt of the earth, a light in the darkness.  We were commanded by Christ himself to show our love for Him by feeding his sheep.  It's more than just attending church service, or church programs.  We need to see the minuteness of us and the grandness of Him.  It is His plan and we should be so blessed as to get a small walk-in part.

Shades of Brown and Blue

ME

Does my dad seem sad to you?

HIM

(slight pause before a thoughtful)

Maybe.

Fast forward time through bath and bedtime.  Clean children, dressed in pajamas.

ME

(putting our arms together)

Connie Mac, look!

You're brown, like me.

CONNNOR

Mummy, you're right!  I am brown!  I was white.  Now I'm brown.

(holds up three fingers)

There are three people who are brown.

(points to closed bedroom door and holds up four fingers this time)

Dadu's brown.  There are four brown people in this house.

CMC

(calling from his room)

Dadu is dark brown.

CONNOR

(pause as he thinks)

You know who else is brown?  Mama is brown.

Mamima is white, like Daddy.

ME

You're like a chameleon.  You change from white to brown

CMC

(walks out of his room to the landing where three bedroom doors meet.  two are open, one is closed.  he points to each of the three bedrooms)

There used to be six people here.  Two here, two here, and two here.  Now there are five.

(points to the three doors again)

Two here, two here, and one here.

(this time he points to the closed door without looking at it)

There used to be two people here.  Before the caaaancer.

My son's eyes meet mine in shared silence.  We're all just a bunch of chameleons; only we change from brown to blue against our will.  

My Addiction

I remember writing my first story when I was 13.  It was about bears of different colors.  It was the only way I could wrap my head around my first encounter with the racial divide that existed in the deep South.  In my part of the world brown comes in all different shades; we can be pale as the white folks and as dark as the darkest Africans.  The details are unimportant now.

My teenage years were haunted by an Italian and later a Russian Jew would unleash chaos in my otherwise sheltered life.  But life can't be lived within the pages of a book or even a notebook filled with stories.  I had to embark on a journey to discover this life for myself eventually.

I was too busy living so I stopped writing.  The decade saw me accomplish things, marriage, a few degrees, even a child.  Not bad for embracing life and living it.

Then I saw the doctor open his mouth and even though I didn't hear it, I saw him speak the word "cancer."  Like a bloated corpse after deep winter thaw, emotions rose to surface.  I was overwhelmed.  The blank screen of a new word document beckoned, as if it had been wait for just this moment.  So I began to write.  Again.

But I am determined that this summer will not be a repeat of the summer she died.  I did what I didn't that summer, on a whim I decided to go to Egger's Ice Cream Parlor.  Last time I was there, I think we only had the one kid.  He doesn't really like ice cream.  His brother loves ice cream.

To my surprise, they were having an open mic night.  My oldest son has been taking piano lessons and has worked his little butt off to learn how to play Ode to Joy.  He's seven and is in love with Beethoven.  There are worse addictions.

Watching him play just took my breath away.  Next to me, his brother shouted "THAT'S MY BROTHER!" as everyone applauded   Little one is cute.  The girls thought this was doubly cute.

I didn't get ice cream but a milk shake.  I didn't expect to have the pleasure of watching my son play in public with such confidence.  I didn't expect the pride in my younger son's voice, cheering for his brother.  Yet, that is exactly what I found.

This is why I have to write.  Life is made up of moments.  A picture or a video can never quite capture a moment the way a few well strung words can.  These words will allow me to capture the fluidity of this experience in such a way that I can take it out, dust it off and savor it, over and over again until it makes me sick to my soul.  

Manifestation of Grief

Dear Mother,

Why did you leave me?
I'm alone.
So.
Very.
Alone.
Mom?
Do you hear me?
Are you listening?
Am I talking to myself here?
Moooooother?
Where are you?
The silence answers
Why.
Couldn't I.
Come?

My Summer of Regret

From the time I heard the phrase "Je ne regrette rien" I fell in love with it.  Regrettably, I was 13 at the time.  It's a very charming phrase and captures the essence of the "Je ne sais quoi" of everything that was French.  I still prefer French wine, French food, and dream of one day going to Paris.  Sadly I missed the opportunity the year I turned 30.  I almost went, if that counts.  I came close enough where I looked up ticket prices and visitor restrictions for travelers carrying American passports.  Then I found out I was pregnant.  A trip to France is a waste when you're pregnant.  Wine is out of the question as are so many wonderful French things.  Yet, I do not have any regrets but have hope.  Forty is around the corner.  Paris is right there, on top of my bucket list.

But I digress....it's the melancholy you see; makes it hard to focus on any one thing.

Summer is here again.  I feel as if time is slowing down again.  My last best summer was 2009.  It was the year my son was born.  The only thing that happened that was regrettable was my discovery of the genius of Michael Jackson after he died.  I finally understood what the fuss was about.  He was a brilliant artist.  But THIS is not about THAT.

My father planted his garden and I have spent the last two months watching life return to his garden.  The vegetables are flourishing, the flowers are blooming.  It feels normal, seeing the lush greenery that surrounds this little house on this cul de sac.  My sons have taken to living here.  Why shouldn't they?  This was the house that first received them when they were born.  This was her home.

My sister-in-law said something the other day when I remarked that my brother was buying her a house.  Maybe the reality is they both worked to buy it.  It's where they will build their home.  My friend reminded me that for as long as she's known me, this house has never been my home.  In a lot of ways this is true.  It was my mother's home.  How could it even be mine?  So technically, I'm homeless.  But I don't really regret that either.  I haven't found my home yet but I'm certain that one day I will.

There I go....off yet on another tangent.  Focus.  That's what I need to do.

I am trying to go through the motions of having an exciting summer.  Yet, inside my head, I am reliving every detail of 2014.  I'm reliving the days, the moments.  While I was busy most of 2014 and 2015 recovering from one disaster after another, I didn't have time to focus on what happened.  I didn't have time to dwell on it.  But I don't regret the circumstance I faced because they helped me grow.  I was tested and learned my true mettle.  I found an inner core of strength I never would have believed existed.

My youngest son seemed to have inherited my talent for stories running in his head because he regaled me with details of his adventure with his "Dida."  He talks about her like he knows her and sometimes I find myself willing to believe that maybe, somehow he does see her when she visits him in his dreams.  Maybe I am being fanciful.

It's not July yet.  She went into the hospital in July for the last time.  I remember taking this picture of her.  It's the last one I took.  She's laughing behind the mask.  She wanted to see what she looked like.    I remember sitting with her and my cousin that day.  She said "It's better this way."  What am I supposed to say about that?  How am I supposed to feel about that?  I don't feel better.  I'm trying to move past this grief but I seem to be stuck in limbo.  It'll be two years in a month and a half.  My life is moving forward but my head, my heart, and a part of my soul is stuck back in 2014.

Je ne regrette rien.  I have learned that regret is a waste of time and energy.  I remember that day thinking how much time we wasted.  I felt regret creeping up on me, clawing at my conscious.  I pushed it away with both hands, choosing instead to grab a hold of what I had, whatever time was left.  I got to rest with my mother as I watched her prepare for the journey home.  Now, nearly two years later, that regret is creeping up on me.  But this regret is different.  I regret that she will never sing while her oldest grandson plays the piano for her.  I regret that her youngest grandson will only ever know the version of her that he created in his imagination.

The crux of my problem is that in terms of my own life, I stayed true to my mantra.  Je ne regrette rien.  Yet, the regrets I have are insurmountable because they are stitched to my core by grief.  

What You Leave Behind

I’m drawn to you

Inexplicably.

I find myself adorned

In your cast offs.

You didn’t pack your bags

When you left;

Instead you left it all behind

Along with me.

I’m not sure what to do.

Do I pause or press start?

Where do I go?

Forward or Rewind,

The button seems jammed.

I’ve been looking for you

As if somehow, imitating

The movement of your hands

Could bring you back;

It doesn’t and only the loneliness

Echoes the fading clip clop

Of your footsteps.

There’s no way around it,

You’re just gone.

Laughing at myself

I am tired of my mother's death.  Yet, I'm drawn back to this event in my life.  Who am I fooling?  I am that thing that once adorned your home, your life and now it's broken, chipped, cracked, imperfect.  But you've had it so long that it would be a shame to simply toss it.  I have become that thing.  There are moments when I feel strong, invincible almost.  Then I encounter that lost orphan girl without a mother and fall to pieces.  Maybe there is no hope.  Maybe the only thing you can do in the end is just put one foot in front of the other, remind yourself how to breathe, inhale and then exhale.  It's easy enough.  Focus on that.  That's all I seem to be capable of these days.

Frankly, I don't give a damn anymore about you the reader.  You see, buried inside of me is a pain I can't escape.  So I'm not writing for you, I'm writing for me.  I'm hoping that if I make my fingers dance over these keyboards enough that maybe, maybe a coherent thought will appear on this screen that might make sense of all this.  You see there is a still a silent echo of a question that's ringing in my head.

Mother you told me it was better this way.  I disagree.  I'm not seeing how this is really better than any other solution.  Pity they don't have internet in heaven.  I doubt she would go online.  Who would do it for her?  She didn't even have an email.  No Facebook, either.  So the echo just bounces around the chamber of my head, and I am just stuck with the question, "Why?"

The little girl buried under the pain is petulant.  She stamps her foot and shouts "Not fair!"  Sorry, kid, it really does suck to  be us.