Nocturne

Life is a canvas we paint on each day, starting off with the brilliant sunrise of dawn, as we grow toward the nocturne of our lives, with the purple dusky serenade of night to come. We can paint our days as colorful as we wish; or we can end up with a muddy composition written entirely in the minor key. I miss my parents. Of course, one always does, when they have passed from this earth. Certain times of the year, or smells, sounds,- evoke an emptiness that can become palpable, if we don't get busy with our paintbrushes and make the memories bright and exuberant on our canvases, which I mostly always do. As Mother's Day approaches, I am missing my mom more than ever. I was very close to my dad, had a tumultuous relationship growing up with my domineering mother, yet as I have blogged before, became best of friends with her before she passed in 2002, a month short of her 90th birthday. I wrote the following persona poem nineteen years ago, and it was subsequently published in an anthology.

In a recurring dream, my father had died. I wrote this poem imagining my mother's voice, of what might come to pass when he did eventually die, out of empathy for the elderly condition. Several months later, my dad died suddenly, while on vacation.        

                                            NOCTURNE 

Another one gone, just like that, taken
as though stealing a gem,
no need for sirens anymore. 


We'd only played Gin two nights ago; 
I'd complained my arthritis was kicking up. 
She laughed at my excuses, then said, 
"I feel lucky." 


This photograph in black and white 
gives a flat, unreal image of 
the colors, the textures, of taffeta, 
chiffon, velvet and satin, 
we girls in our formals, with minks 
draped around us, the men in tuxedos 
with fresh boutonnieres. 


Martinis, Manhattans, Revlon's "Love That Red" 
lips, and matting the shine of callow skin 
before we took off in assorted pumpkins for 
The Nocturne Club. 


Saturday nights spent under a mirrored moon-ball 
that sprayed diamonds around the darkened room, 
as we danced to Glen Miller's 
String of Pearls...


Did I preen longer in the women's lounge 
because so many husbands flirted with me? 
They said that I looked like Loretta Young; I coyly 
blushed, under well-rouged cheeks. 


Now I look in the mirror, and only see Death, 
crooking his gnarled finger at me. 
In this time-worn photo, my eyes are as bright 
as my taffeta gown, of emerald green. 


"Four o'clock," I whisper, to the man in the picture, 
with his hand on my shoulder, and a smile 
that held promise. I pour the cocktails: 
A Manhattan for me, a Martini for him. The Big Bands play 
soft, in a minor key. 


"What a shame about Helen, so suddenly," he'd say. 
I stare ahead, nodding, 
and not toasting anything, wait 
for the liquor, like Novocaine.


(Copyright © 1993, and may not be reproduced in any manner.) 

Long LOVE The Bad Ass

So I have come to the realization that "she" was right.

Of course I am referring to my dear, departed Mother, who always said, (among other things), "You'll see I was right!"

My God. It first began with the notice of time passing faster than a Hollywood hook-up. This started happening a few years ago when I was shopping at a Marshall's store the beginning of July, to find a huge Halloween section. WTF? The Christmas decos were there by the first of August. I still had a Christmas candle on my dining room table, an indication of both my manana mentality, and how often my dining room table gets used. (The candle was from the year before.)

My Mom was, God rest her soul, a curmudgeon's curmudgeon, though she would never have admitted to such a comparison, using the famous selective mirror we all tend to use at times.

She was a one-armed hugger. You know the type: You go in for the big bear hug and get an uncomfortable three-pats on the shoulder with the one arm they are using as they disengage as quickly as possible, while their other arm hangs like the poor lifeless victim of a massive stroke. She never said anything if not critical, disapproving, or negative. At least not that I could remember. One time when she and my Dad were coming for a visit, scheduled to arrive on Friday, they - much to my horror - arrived on a Thursday, around 5 pm (in time for the dinner I had not planned).

I remember like it was yesterday, though it was 25 years ago (again an example of the lightning bolt passage of time). I was on a step ladder in the front yard of our home, washing the windows. I was wearing cut off light blue jeans, a white tee shirt with a coffee stain from the morning, and a - God help me - bandanna around my head (picture a white Aunt Jemima - not attractive). I saw the green station wagon (yes, they still had them), driving up my street like a hearse coming to pick me up. As they pulled into the circular driveway, I jumped down off the ladder and went to greet them, my painted-on fake happy, thrilled face in tact.

Dad's door was closest to me, and he jumped out quickly, affording me the first opportunity for a hug (his were warm and genuine). "Hi, honey! Hope you don't mind that we're a day early...blah blah reason why blah blah... but you look great! You must have lost 20 pounds! (22 since I'd seen them nearly ten months earlier, and from sheer determination and starvation)"

"Thanks, Dad. It's great to see you......"

(Mother arrives from the other side of the car, *thin-lipped (*more on the subject of my mother and lips at a later date) one-armed pat-pull-back-hug, limp, lifeless right arm hanging (this is significant, because she was right-handed. Get it? She had to lead with her less used less important less strong arm) greeting me with, "What made you think you could wear bangs?"

I stuck my adult, married chin out and replied, "Good to see you, Mom," rankling on the inside. I was grown, independent, woh-man. I could let this disapproving greeting fall like petals off a dead rose. She was not going to get to me.

Until a couple hours later, when, during dinner, I excused myself to use the bathroom. Until I washed my hands, brushed my hair to the side off my brow, and rebuked myself in my mind, with, "She's right! What ever made me think I could wear bangs?!" Never mind that friends, my husband, and most importantly I liked my new hairdo. She was right, as always.

It took many years, divorce, self-help books, loner periods of introspection, to silent that voice. Happily, I did not wait until she was gone, instead choosing to kill her with kindness and love. Every time she would criticize me, I would say, "Love you, Mom!" in a cheery voice. It drove her crazy at first. She would say, "What?" and shake her head. But it silenced her. And it did something more important. It turned her into a loving person after 85 years on earth. She learned how to hug.

I wasn't even aware of this until a few days before she had what later proved to be a fatal stroke.

I had dropped her at the drugstore to pick up a prescription, while I went next door to the supermarket. When I went to meet her, I saw her frail self at the end of the long aisle in front of the prescription counter. I came up behind her, unknown to her, in time to witness the most amazing thing. Before I tell you what it was, exactly, I must preface it by saying that she talked down to every single person in the world, especially workers of any kind - waiters, clerks, etc. She would always talk to them in an imperious and all at once disapproving tone, much to my chagrin, and I often scolded her for it.

So here she was, saying, "Oh, Connie! I can't believe you're moving! I'm going to miss you so much! Come over here and give me a hug!" And I witnessed this stranger, this clerk-of-sorts woman come out and get the biggest, two-armed, warm hug I had ever seen.

It was then I knew: Love can change everyone and everything. So I continue to love unconditionally, and spread it to everyone, everywhere I go. And I don't resent realizing that my Mom was right about a lot:

• Time passes faster than you think (so don't put off forgiving, understanding, letting go, telling someone you love them, loving yourself).
• There never will be a comedienne funnier than Lucille Ball, or a television show better than "I Love Lucy."
• Coffee should always be drunk black, with nothing added, and it does go with EVERYTHING!

I used to watch, in amusement mixed with disgust at my Mom, drinking her black coffee with a tuna salad sandwich, a hamburger - anything and everything.

Awhile ago I was drinking my "Bad Ass Coffee" and ate some tortilla chips. With extra salt and salsa.

Heaven.

Thanks, Mom, for (mostly) being right. I was/am/ will be the forever "badass" child, and I will forever be grateful for you as a Mom - and the discovery of the coffee bean!