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                               Finding My Grandma’s Journal

    Our most treasured family heirlooms are our sweet memories.
    The past is not dead. It is not even past.
                                                                                     ~ William Faulkner

   Two months before my forty-third birthday, my mother,
who’d been widowed for more than a decade, came for a
weekend visit to our home north of Montreal. When she
visited from New York, she always brought with her a
nostalgic item that had belonged to my father or one of my
grandparents. Because my mother lived in the past, she
frequently spoke about the way things used to be. She had
difficulty keeping up with the changing times. She refused
to learn how to use a computer, so she was asked to resign
from her job as a medical receptionist in the hospital where
she’d worked for twenty-five years. By that time, she was
seventy-five years old.
   Mother was the opposite of a hoarder. With her own
sense of discretion, she tossed away anything that didn’t
personally serve her. She usually did this without asking
anybody in the household if they wanted any of such items.
For example, in 1976, when I moved out of the house to go
to college, I was devastated when I learned that Mother
had thrown away all my childhood journals, which were
stored in a big plastic box in my closet.

                                                ***

   Before dinner on the night of my mother’s arrival in
Montreal, without saying anything or acknowledging their
presence, she peeked into the playroom off the kitchen
where my three kids were playing. She had never much
liked children, nor did she know how to connect with
them. I suppose that’s why she left my care to my
grandmother.
   She came into the kitchen and lifted her small, blue
suitcase onto one of the six contemporary, black-leather
chairs at the table. She pulled something out and yelled to
no one in particular, “Here, I brought this for you.”
I stood at the counter, my back to her with my hands
submerged in a bowl of chopped meat. I suspected she was
speaking to me, so I turned around as she flung a plastic
sheath filled with papers across the glass table.
   “This is your grandmother’s,” she said.
What she’d tossed so unceremoniously was Grandma’s
journal. It wasn’t a bound book or a notebook but fifty
pages of single-spaced, typed pages laden with strikeovers,
awkward syntax, and numerous grammatical errors. I
washed my hands, walked over to the table, and collected
the pages. As I flipped through them, a sudden strong
memory overtook me: the day my grandmother taught me
how to type on her Remington typewriter when I was eight
years old. I wondered if it had been the same typewriter
that she’d used to type this journal.
“Have a seat on this chair,” Grandma had said, pointing
to her vanity chair. “I’m going to teach you how to type.
This is a handy skill for a girl to have. Plus, you never
know what kind of stories you’ll want to tell one day.”
With her blonde hair in bouffant style and her bright red
lipstick framing the space between her two front teeth, she
stood behind me, smiling radiantly in the mirror. She took
my right hand and positioned it on the second row of keys
from the bottom, carefully placing one finger on each letter.
With my left hand, she repeated the same gesture.
“This is the position your fingers should be in. When
you become a good typist, you won’t even have to look at
the letters while you’re typing. Okay, dear, let’s see if we
can type your name.”

                                                ***

    Suddenly, after receiving her journal, I was reunited
with her for the first time since she’d died more than thirty
years earlier. It felt both eerie and exciting. Her voice once
again filled the gap of the loneliness born out of being an
only child and being raised by a mother with narcissistic
tendencies who really did not understand me nor know
how to bring out the best in me.

                                                 ***

   Over the years, I have often pulled out Grandma’s
journal to reread it. My intention has been to absorb herr life.
sensibilities and understand who she was and what she
endured. I also wanted to understand her sense of torment
and what led to her depression and subsequent suicide. I
knew that certain psychological traits can be genetic. While
we do have control over our lives, genetics is an important
factor that can determine whether, when facing life’s
setbacks, we feel grateful or doomed. I thought it was
critical for me to know everything I could about my
grandmother’s mental health, hoping it would help me
navigate my own journey. Even though her story was sad,
reading it grounded me and brought me closer to her. Her
words empowered me. They also served as a reminder of
my huge sense of loss and abandonment when she died.
Until receiving the journal, I had no idea that Grandma
was a journal keeper as I am. Sometimes when we study
and get to know our ancestors, we make fascinating
discoveries. Perhaps journaling is in my DNA. For years, it
has been my savior.



Reflections / Writing Prompts

What were some of the challenges that your parents
and/or grandparents faced?

Do you have an artifact or item that reminds you of
an ancestor?

What passions have you carried with you since
childhood?

Did a grandparent have a talent or passion that they
shared with you?

Is there a memorable story that a parent or
grandparent shared about their own childhood?

---

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Content Warning: mention of suicide

                               Cancer, Quarantine,
                                     and Intuition

    Intuition doesn’t tell you what you want to hear; it tells you
    what you need to hear. 
                                                                                   ~ Sonia Choquette 

   I’ve  heard  that  children  are  born with  strong  intuitive
instincts and that at ages three  to five  a  child  is  fully  open
and   naturally   intuitive. World-renowned   psychic  Sonia
Choquette  says  in  her  book,  The Wise Child (1999), that
children  experience  spontaneous  intuitive  messages  more
readily than do adults,  and it’s important  that  parents listen
to  them.  In fact,  many in  spiritual circles believe that young
children  are  more  intuitive  and  open  to  the  otherworld
because  they  are  the most recent  arrivals to Earth. Having
intuition   helps   us   observe   and   detect   other   people’s
behavior  so  that  we  can  respond  accordingly and  appro-
priately.  Those  who  have  experienced  early-childhood
trauma tend to be even more intuitive because they need to
be  aware   of  everything  happening  in  the  world  around
them to stay safe.
   Unfortunately, many times children aren’t encouraged to
follow their intuition, and, over time, many lose this innate
sense. Encouraging the development of intuitive powers
means allowing the child a lot of time for imaginary and
solitary play. As an only child with very few after-school
activities, especially before the age of ten, I had plenty of
time to develop my intuitive powers. Intuition is also based
on our experiences—what we’ve inherited from our ances-
tors as well as the emotions we encounter now in various
situations. When we lose our intuitive instinct, rational
thought takes over.
   Intuition works more quickly than rational thought.
Decisions made with rational thinking usually take longer
because we need to evaluate various scenarios before mak-
ing a decision. Most often intuition and rationality work
together, but some individuals lean more in one direction
than another.
   I believe my grandmother and I survived the challenges
of our childhoods and dealing with mothers who didn’t
cherish us by relying on and honing our instincts. I also
believe that we all tend to trust our instincts more and
more as we age. I noticed this during the recent years of
uncertainty around the time of the coronavirus pandemic.
As a result of the mixed messages we received from
authorities and the universe-at-large about the disease, its
course of infection, and vaccination programs, we all had
more questions than answers. With scant concrete
knowledge, facts, and experiences to pull from, much of
our survival depended on our ability to tap into our inner
wisdom. This wisdom or instinct is like a hunch we get
about a person or a situation. It’s a gut feeling that is
sometimes called clairsentience—or “clear sensation,”
referring to an energy that is felt in our body in response to
our environment, whether it comes from people, situations,
places, or other realms. Children might have a difficult time
explaining this feeling. They might simply say they don’t
feel well; they have a tummy ache or backache. Or they
become tired or nervous. Personally, I just remember
having this deeper knowing when things felt a little weird
around me.
   When we focus on listening to our inner voice, we
become more empathetic and hypersensitive. I believe this
is what saved Grandma during her turbulent, wartime
childhood and being unwanted and then orphaned. It
wasn’t until I read her journal, which I will share excerpts
from later, that I realized how traumatized she was by her
difficult childhood. On a personal level, my inner voice is
what enabled me to survive life being born to a mother
who told her husband that she preferred a parakeet instead
of a child. All this has given me fodder for so many stories
to tell.
   Writing and telling our own stories and sharing with
others help us gain perspective on our experiences and
navigate our own journey. Stories also unite us and can
resonate at both personal and universal levels. That’s one
of the many reasons why people love reading and hearing
them.
   While I love my writing studio, it’s often inspiring to
write in different locations, whether it’s a local coffee shop,
bookstore, park, or faraway place. A few times, I have
ventured off to Maui for a personal writer’s retreat and had
magical experiences.

                                                ***

   During that trip in Maui, I spent a few full days alone
with the shaman. At the end of each day, that tall, robust,
and jovial woman full of positive energy hugged me good
bye and said, “Let’s meet again tomorrow to talk story.” I
believe the reason I love Hawaii so much is its people’s
wonderful energy and the importance of story in their
culture. There’s something heartwarming about connecting
and passing time together chitchatting and rekindling
memories. Ancient Hawaiians expressed themselves
through storytelling, which is known as the tradition of
mo‘olelo. This is basically the telling of stories transferred
orally from one generation to the next. Mo‘olelo is also an
opportunity for people to channel their ancestors.
According to Foor in Ancestral Medicine (2017), “We are
bonded with the ancestors as life to death, light to shadow.
The choice is not whether or not to be in relationship with
them, but whether or not these relationships will be
conscious or reciprocal” (p. 57).
   The process is similar to what I’ve been doing with
Grandma through the hummingbird as a messenger. There
are other ways as well in which the departed might visit us.
When I’ve discussed connecting with our ancestors in my
writing workshops, some of my students have said that, if
they pay attention, they get messages in all kinds of
forms—from butterflies, wild animals, rainbows, and found
feathers or coins to pictures, slogans, billboards, a certain
piece of music, a particular numerical sequence, or
electrical interferences such flashing lights or a cell phone
ringing.
   While I’ve experienced some of these occurrences during
the course of my life, for me, there’s something even more
powerful when a hummingbird visits. I feel a renewed sense
of hope and ability to see life’s larger picture. These
creatures also have a calming influence on me, telling me
that everything happens for a reason and that everything
will be okay.
   Having hope is so important, especially when dealing
with challenging times of all sorts, including tragedy,
illness, the possibility of death, or even living through a
pandemic. The stories of loved ones can help us when we
listen to them. My parents were both immigrants and had
so many stories to share, but also, much has been
transferred down to me by the ancestral line.



Reflections / Writing Prompts

Describe an experience in which you or another
child you knew was intuitive. You might also choose
to write about an intuitive child you know now.

Discuss a memorable experience during the coronavirus pandemic.

Discuss a time when you felt your intuition was
strong.

Have you ever connected with an ancestor? Describe
what happened.

Discuss a health challenge you or your loved ones
have experienced.

Describe an experience in which you or another
child you knew was intuitive. You might also choose
to write about an intuitive child you know now.

---

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Content Warning: mention of suicide

                               My Grandfather and I

    The closing years of life are like the end of a masquerade
    party, when the masks are dropped.
                                                                                     ~ Cesare Pavese

   Often when a loved one dies, we try to replace that person
with   someone  else.  Sometimes  the  decision  to  do  so  is
conscious, and other times it’s not. Because my grandfather
also  lived  with  us  when I was  a child, it was quite natural
for  me to  try  to  replace  my  grandmother’s presence with
his.  Having   him  in   my  life   and   nurturing  my   regular
journaling  practice  were  two  powerful  healing  forces  for
me.
    My grandfather  told me stories about all his travels  after
emigrating  to  the  United  States  from  Austria  in the  late
1930s. In the few  weeks after Grandma died, he spent a  lot
of time with me.  I believe he was trying to distract me from
missing her when my  parents were  at  work. He graciously
invited me into his world.
    In  fact, if  there  was   a  bright  spot   in  the  loss  of   my
grandmother, it was that I grew closer to my grandfather.  I
didn’t realize it at  the time,  but   she had kept  me  isolated
from him.  Forty years  after  her passing,  I  found personal
documents in her closet. Included in  them  was one  of  her
journals, from which  I learned that, in the few years before
her   suicide,   even   though   my   grandparents   had   lived
together in the  same  house with all of us, they were legally
separated.  Legal   paperwork  I    discovered  in   her  closet
revealed that my  grandfather  had  been  physically abusive
toward  her. Did  she  prevent me from  seeing  or  spending
time with him to protect me?

                                                ***

   As   children,   we  don’t  usually  question  adult  relation-
ships.  However,   there  were  times  when I  intuitively  felt
things  weren’t  right between  my grandparents.  My family
wasn’t    communicative   about     their   feelings,   but  they
certainly  gave  off  vibes  that I was  able  to  decipher  at   a
young age. As an adult, I wonder if Grandma fabricated  the
story  about  Grandpa striking  her to find her way out of an
unhappy marriage.  Would  she do such  a  thing? Who  was
the   hummingbird   and   who  was  the  dragon?  I’ll   never
know.
   With me,  my  grandfather  was  a  gentleman  who  intro-
duced  me  to  the  cultural  wonders of New York City.  For
about  twenty years, until his  untimely  passing,  he  and  I
were    quite   close.  So,   I’m   left   wondering—are   we  all
chimeras and shapeshifters who exist as different beings in
different spaces and moments and with different people? A
hummingbird one moment, a dragon the next?
   Many  of  us  have  different personas  and  wear  different
masks at different times. Only those close to  us truly  know
us.  My  mother  was  a  master  of  masks.  To   the  outside
world,  she  was  charming,   vivacious,   and  joyous, but  at
home,  she  was  somber  and  depressed.  I   wonder  if  she
inherited  this  trait  from  my  grandfather,  who  also wore
two  masks.  He  was  abusive  toward  my  grandmother yet
gentle and caring to me and others. Many people  have  two
masks: an  inside mask that we  keep for our loved ones and
an outside mask for the world to see.
   As  an  avid reader and  longtime  observer  of character, I
understand the appeal of masks. A mask portrays emotions
or serves as protection. In the sport of falconry,  a  falcon  is
fitted  with  a  mask  called  a  “trapping  hood”  to calm and
protect  it  in  scary  situations.  My grandfather’s  “trapping
hood”  could  have  been his way  of protecting himself from
expressing rage  in  public. It  calmed  him,  enabled  him to
act like a gentleman.
   If we  feel  unloved  by  others,  we  might  hide behind the
mask  of  anger. If we’re afraid, we might hide under a mask
that antagonizes others by  insulting  them or  putting them
down.  If  we’re  insecure about  our  perceived   status,  we
might  hide  behind  the  mask  of  name-dropping—talking
about celebrities  or  important figures.  If we’re insecure or
unsure   of   our   power, we might  hide  under  the  “tough-
person” mask. If we’re in a bad  or difficult  relationship, we
might   wear  the  mask signifying  that  everything  is  okay.
Apparently, this was the mask my grandparents wore.

                                                ***

    A  few  years  after  my  grandfather  died  and during  my
nursing   residency   in   Montreal,   I    had   an   interesting
encounter  with  a  female  patient  who,  in  so  many  ways,
reminded  me  of  my  grandmother.  While  I  didn’t  find it
significant at the time, looking back, I  recall  that she had a
photograph   of   a  hummingbird   on  her  hospital bedside
table. I remember  remarking  on  its  iridescent  colors. She
told me she loved those birds and had special feeders in her
yard with sweetened red water that attracted them.

                                                 ***

   That day  began  with  morning   rounds,  which   involved
the  doctors, nurses, and nursing  students going from room
to room to visit all the clients on  the  unit.  The  head  nurse
or   physician   in   chief    summarized   the  reason  for   the
patient’s hospitalization and their current status.Sometimes
a patient’s condition evoked a discussion, while  other times
the clan moved quickly from one room to the next.
   We  entered  Mrs.  G.’s  room,  and  I  stood  at the  back of
the line. When I moved forward and saw her, I was stunned
beyond words. I  thought  I  was looking into the eyes of  my
grandmother.  Her blonde hair had dark roots that matched
her well-defined eyebrows.  She  was  applying  lipstick,  and
her  mannerisms  were  Grandma’s.  She  traced  her  mouth
with  a  lip liner,  making her lips appear larger, and came to
a well-defined point in the middle of her top lip.
   “I  feel  naked without my lipstick,” Grandma  used  to  tell
me, and I sensed that Mrs. G. held similar sentiments.
   She  finished  applying her lipstick and sat in  bed, dressed
in  a  pink  skirt  and  matching  floral blouse. When I  asked
why  she  was not  wearing a  hospital  gown, I  was told that
she insisted on using her own clothing, something Grandma
would  also have  requested. I watched  this  striking,  sixty-
something blonde woman staring out  the window. Her blue
eyes emanated intelligence, pain, and reflection. I wondered
if my grandmother’s eyes showed the  same pain  before she
took her life.

                                               ***

   “Mrs.  G.  has been depressed for  many  months,”   said  the
doctor  in  charge.  “Her  family  admitted her  to  the  hospital
because  she  tried  to  commit  suicide by  taking an  overdose
of her blood-pressure pills.”
   The   mention  of   the   word  suicide  made  me  feel   as if  a
dagger  had been  plunged  deep  inside  my  heart. I  was  glad
I’d   gulped   down  a  bowl  of  cereal  that   morning. It helped
ease the sudden nausea.

                                                ***

   The  head  nurse  approached  me  and  whispered, “Mrs.  G.
attempted to  kill  herself  the  night  she  found  her  husband,
twenty  years   her   junior,   sleeping  with   another  woman.”
Then she stepped out of the room.
   I gasped.
   I   couldn’t   leave   the   room.  I   felt   a   gravitational   pull
toward   Mrs.  G.  I   nudged  myself  closer  to  her  bed  in the
small,   private  room    with   the     window   overlooking   the
hospital  roof.   I  carefully  drew  the  privacy curtains  around
her  bed  and  sat on  the  vinyl   chair  beside  her.  Part of   me
wanted   to  wake her—to hear her voice,  her   tone,  her  story.
Another  part  of me  was  petrified. I  stared  until  I heard  the
head   nurse’s  footsteps  outside   the  curtain.  She  poked  her
head in through the opening.
   “Are you okay?” she asked.
   I  nodded,  afraid to admit how  the  woman  resembled  my
grandmother—in  appearance  and  mannerisms and  deed.  I
thought  about  the possibility of  removing  myself  from  the
unit  because  I had a  family history  of suicide. On  the other
hand,  with  my  background  I felt as if I  should  be there.  It
was  strange  being  in  the   company  of  a   woman   who   so
closely    resembled     Grandma.    When     looking     at     her
photographs,  I’d look  deep  into her eyes,  wondering  if  I’d
ever  find  out   why  she   killed   herself.  I   stopped  when  I
realized   I   never   would.   Still,    I’m    comforted    by    the
knowledge  that  we  had such a  powerful  and  deep love  for
each other. For now, this would have to be enough.
   My  grandparents  never  spoke  about  each  other  to   me.
In discussions with each of them, whenever I mentioned the
other’s   name,   whomever   I    was   speaking   with   didn’t
respond  but  sat with  a blank affect, similar to the  vibe  I’d
picked   up   from   Mrs.   G.  Their  silence  told  a  story. My
childhood   was   filled  with  ambiguity,  especially  when  it
came to  the relationships of  my parents and  grandparents.
In a sense, everyone came   together in  their  love for  me. I
was  the  glue   that  held  the   family together,  something I
continue to do  now  as  I’ve become  a  grandmother myself.
   That  evening, when I  returned home from  the hospital, I
pulled out my journal to write about  the day’s experience. I
glanced  up  at  the framed  quote  hanging  above  my  desk,
which  is  from   François  Mauriac’s   book,  The  Desert   of
Love  (1960):  “We are, all   of  us, molded  and remolded by
those who  have  loved us, and   though  that  love  may pass,
we   remain   none the  less  their  work—a  work   that   very
likely  they  do  not   recognize,  and  which  is never  exactly
what they intended.”



Reflections / Writing Prompts

What genetic traits did you inherit from a beloved
parent or grandparent?

Have you lost a loved one whom you tried to
replace with someone else?

Are you familiar with a story about someone that
emerged only after they died?

What were your superpowers when you were
younger? What are they now?

What were your passions as a child, and who
inspired them?

---

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                               Visitations

    Some people are your relatives but others are your ancestors,
    and you choose the ones you want to have as your ancestors.
    You create yourself out of those values.
                                                                                     ~ Ralph Ellison

Each   day   a  hummingbird visits  the  garden  outside   my
writing studio. She  loves the  red  trumpet  vine  that  bears
delicious nectar. She hovers in the center of the flower for a
few  seconds, levitates, and then  moves on to the next vine.
Her  movements are so quick that I have to keep a close eye
so  as  not to miss her  before she flies  away. She  seems  to
have  a  lot to  do over the  course of  her day as she bestows
her magic on plants and other sentient beings.
    It’s  been  said  that  those  who  were close to  you  before
they  died   commonly  send  messages  in  the form  of  bird
spirit  guides. Hummingbirds,  in particular,  resonate  at  a
high  vibration, which  makes  them  more  connected to the
spiritual  realm.  They’re  also joyful  reminders and tend to
open  our  hearts  and make  us smile. They’re referred to as
messengers  from  the heavens  because  they often show up
when  people  grieve  the  loss  of  a  loved  one.  In this way,
they can also be  healing. If you ever watch a hummingbird,
you’ll  notice  that  it  can   come  to  a  complete  stop  when
traveling at high speed.  Also,  their movements are often in
the  shape   of   an  infinity  sign;  thus   their  connection  to
eternity.
                                                ***

    I’m  quite  sure  that  my  grandmother,  who died in 1964
at  the age of sixty-one, frequently visits me in the form of a
hummingbird.  She  sends  messages  of  love and  offers me
ongoing   protection. She   reminds  me  that   everything  is
temporary and of how important it is to enjoy my time here
on  Earth. She tells me that her time here was too short and
that  being  my   grandma   and  caretaker  was   one  of  her
greatest joys and accomplishments. She reminds me to rise
above the  everyday, rudimentary concerns of life  and  look
at  the   larger  picture.  She   says  that,  with  love,  we   can
accomplish  almost  anything,  and a life without love  is  an
empty one.
    If we pay attention, the universe has  a way  of sending us
signs.  I  believe  that  if  we  pay attention, we  receive signs
from  the  departed that help show us the way. Some people
call  these  entities  guardian   angels,  while  others  refer to
them  as  spirit  guides.  They visit in different forms, so you
must opyour heart to the  secret  messages  being  sent your
way.
                                                ***

    When   my  grandmother   and   father   were   alive,   they
provided me  with unconditional love, and  they continue to
do   so  on   their   visitations.  They  don’t   give  me   direct,
detailed instructions. Rather, they support and guide me on
my life  journey. I  sometimes  feel  their  presence over  my
right   shoulder  as  if  an  energy  were   coming  through—a
physical sensation  such  as  tingling  or chills  in  the  upper
part of my body. Once in a while, I feel their presence when
one of  my extremities  falls  asleep. Sometimes I  hear  Dad
giving me  advice or  telling me that everything will be okay.
    My grandmother’s messages come  to  me  in other subtle
ways—an  unexpected bird, an out-of-the-blue phone call, a
certain  book falling  off my shelf, a  certain song playing on
the radio, a light flickering in the  house, or her  whispering
into my right  ear.  It  might  only  be a word or  two, but it’s
usually enough to relay an  important message, much as the
hummingbirds seem to do.
    This connection  with birds  can also  be a way  to connect
with our own souls.
                                                 ***

    For  the  most  part, children and young adults take things
in stride; but sometimes, if they have a difficult time expres-
sing  their  feelings, their bodies  give  them  messages. After
my  grandmother  died, my parents  began  fighting  a  lot. It
was  difficult  to watch  and  impossible to  process. I believe
my   childhood  asthma   might   have  signaled   that   I   was
stressed   by   circumstances   at    home.  According    to  the
Cleveland  Clinic, traumatized  children have  shown asthma
rates fifty times higher than their peers. As  an adolescent,  I
hung out  with  teens  who took  illegal  drugs,  and  I  stayed
away   from   home   as    much    as    possible.  I   felt  adrift,
searching  for a  way  to reconnect  with Grandma.  Now  I’m
left  to  wonder if the  hummingbird  visitations are a way  to
make  that  connection.  Are  her  messages  a way  for me to
heal  from  my grief both over losing her and over not  being
wanted by my mother?

Reflections / Writing Prompts

1. Write about an incident from your childhood that
   transformed you.
2. Who in your life, alive or deceased, provided you
   with the most unconditional love? Describe how
   they displayed their love.
3. Discuss the first time you lost someone whom you
   loved deeply.
4. Write about an experience you’ve had with a
   visitation from a deceased loved one.
5. Write about a book or books that changed your
   worldview or perception.

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                               Hummingbird

I have fallen in love
with a hummingbird—
the way she arrives each day
at the red flowers outside my studio
and moves among the petals
as if the next has more to offer.

The nectar, oh, it oozes so gently
while other birds nuzzle their beaks
in curiosity.

She might think I’m foolish
to stare at her
in this wonder and amazement,
as she performs so naturally
and I pretend to be writing a new poem
Beseeching her for inspiration.

But, before I can grab her, she’s gone
On to the next chore, whatever it might be,
maybe reaching for the heavens or
seeking her ancestral friends who hold answers
from the beyond—which, in the end, is all we want.

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Content Warning: domestic violence or child abuse

Listening to OCD

Since Prozac I can’t
keep the spice jars in
alphabetical

order. There’s a stack
of receipts for car
repairs on one end

table, unopened
mail on the other.
I forget people’s

zip codes, even the
names of their cats. Nights
I dream of pushing

a grocery cart
with one bent wheel, of
ironing men’s shirts

over and over
under a full moon,
while some days, I read

magazines without
clipping recipes,
I let milk go sour.

---

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Forgiveness

is a hard woman insisting I spend
New Year’s Day writing an apology to her boyfriend

for things I don’t recall saying the night before, and if I did—
hell, he was drunk too. Holding up my karma as if she had

a direct line, knew even half
the things I’ve done wrong: breezing past

Salvation Army Santas, my pockets full of quarters; that day
I told the boss I was sick but just wanted to stay

home and watch TV; the sheepdog pup
I kicked. Forgiveness—ah,

forgiveness: how I wish her love were sap
that never stopped flowing, that I could tap

her like a maple tree in winter, set
my empty bucket at an angle, let

not a single drop of her sweetness run
off, flow away, across the frozen ground.

---

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Fourth of July, Chicago

My mother told me “Lie down with dogs,
stand up with fleas.” That’s why at first I’m glad
to find his place is overrun with cats:

Persian, calico, tortoise, Manx, draped
like antimacassars across the arms
of rescued Victorian sofas, dozing

on windowsills, play-batting dustballs.
Salsa music rises from Clark Street, a pulse
as sullen as heat, drifts through the open window

on a breeze smelling of tortillas and yesterday’s
diesel exhaust. He’s beating me, slowly,
at strip chess. I lose a bishop, take

off one sock, lick salt from my upper lip.
Sweat rolls from my scalp, lodges in a brow.
He’s sweet, I think, sweet—but I’m so hip,

I’ve got no time for love, only enough
to tangle on a frayed bedspread covered
with cat hair, while far off, a lost dog howls.

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Editor’s Note

I owe Esinam Bediako, Patricia ‘Ti’ McMillen, guest editor Maggie Rue Hess, and Sundress’s subscribers an apology. When I scheduled the posts of Ms. McMillen’s poems, I failed to update the author photo as usual. Ms. Bediako does not deserve to be incorrectly associated with another author’s work and Ms. McMillen deserves to be showcased accurately alongside her poems and receive the same recognition as our other featured authors. You deserve to see them respectively as such! The original and future posts have been corrected. I am deeply sorry for my error and hope that you are able to continue enjoying Ms. McMillen’s work.

Merrick Sloane, Managing Editor of The Wardrobe

Boy Crazy

If it wasn’t this one, copping
a feel beside the rusty
wheelbarrow in my father’s garage,
then that one, maybe, leaning in
for the kiss but first bending to pull
up socks that had slipped down
inside his shoes while I sat there
feeling foolish in too much lip gloss
on a stone bench behind the bowling alley
the weekend after Kennedy was shot.

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Editor’s Note

I owe Esinam Bediako, Patricia ‘Ti’ McMillen, guest editor Maggie Rue Hess, and Sundress’s subscribers an apology. When I scheduled the posts of Ms. McMillen’s poems, I failed to update the author photo. Ms. Bediako does not deserve to be incorrectly associated with another author’s work and Ms. McMillen deserves to be showcased accurately alongside her poems and receive the same recognition as our other featured authors. You deserve to see them respectively as such! The original and future posts have been corrected. I am deeply sorry for my error and hope that you are able to continue enjoying Ms. McMillen’s work.

Merrick Sloane, Managing Editor of The Wardrobe

Little Sister

When I think how close I came
to losing you in the Monadnock Building
after my first eye doctor appointment,
Mom and I both stunned to hear him say
I needed glasses—would I never
dance Swan Lake?—both crying, waiting
for the elevator which though classy

had no operator, was uncomprehending
as a toaster or neuro-ophthalmologist,
and when it came, how you hopped right on
while we stood, watched those ornate
glass-and-brass doors bang shut, eight-year-old
you on one side with your pixie haircut,
Mom and thirteen-year-old me on the other:

O then did I become a woman, then know
what loss would be, and when, that same lifetime,
Mom and I still paralyzed on the seventh floor,
the same doors clanged open again, revealing you
untouched, unharmed, valiant in the elevator cab,

O then did we three keen in tragic unison
all the way out to Jackson Boulevard.

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