Cracked Pot -

Ever since I read One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, I have referred to flawed people as psycho-ceramics, the cracked pots of humankind. For most of my life, I didn’t belong in that category. Then in 2007, I had a series of crises, including the deaths of two grandmothers, the death of a beloved family pet, the loss of a business, and a failed 13-year relationship. The US economy was diagnosed with terminal illness that same year and I found myself with great financial worries. The whole world was gray, completely devoid of color. In addition to this generalized grayness, my body started failing, starting at the top. I noticed memory loss and loss of visual focus. God really must have a sense of humor or he wouldn’t have invented presbyopia, where the eyes cannot focus on near or far and seem to operate on separate schedules. This distressed me because it signifies that I am a temporal being. I have always been terrified of death.

I was originally baptized as a child after professing salvation, spurred mostly by my fear of death. I understood as much as a child can. Then when I was seventeen, I had a second turn-around after realizing that being a Goody Goody was not quite enough. Since then, I have been a nominal Christian. I’ve never had a smoking, drinking, or drug problem. I have always tried not to gossip. I have tried not to envy other people’s good fortune or their possessions. I have tried to be fair and ethical in business and in friendship. I have experienced guilt, a barometer of sinfulness, when I fail.

The years leading up to 2007 were filled with self-induced potholes, detours, and one or two very large ravines. In 13 years, I didn’t go to church except for a handful of times. I was married to someone who thought all churches robbed people of their money and I knew that if I chose to go to church it would likely cost me my marriage. My unhappiness bubbled into Despair several months before I started coming to Valley of Blessing. My husband at the time was out of the country for three months. While he was gone I hit bottom. I remember examining my life and feeling a sense of fruitlessness. “Is this all there is?” was the prevailing question. My second question was, “If I were alone, how would I change my life?” After introspection, I decided that I wanted to devote time and effort to someone else’s well-being as a volunteer at a nursing home and that I wanted to start going to church again.

In the midst of turmoil and fear I needed the security of repetition and ceremony. I needed something steadfast, of the ages, historical, and ritualistic. So I figured it out: I was going to find me a Catholic church. Then my sister, Rebecca, told us about this hair-brained ministry she had found on the Internet. Not really interested, I said. But in February of 2008 I had a significantly mournful day and this was the day my sister and mother decided to go to VOB and I went with them out of sheer loneliness and desperation.

My troubles did not end when I started attending this congregation. In fact, in the beginning I was so emotionally drained that I slept through many of Richard’s prayers—and a couple of complete services. I felt that if I voiced my distress, I would disappear in a puddle of tears. Each Friday I battled whether to attend or not. In addition to my grief, I was afraid to get caught up in the costumery of Jewishness and miss the meatiness I craved. So I hardened my heart toward much of what I heard here in the beginning, biding my time. As I waited, I learned a lot by osmosis. Things started clicking for me, not just in the way of theology but also heart clicks.

I’ve had a progressive softening of the heart that finally kicked in full speed in the last six months. I have started reading the scriptures. I broke open that blue Bible my mother gave me so long ago. I find solace in reading the Word. With help from our rabbi, I am discovering God’s wonderful patterns and truths and the beauty of the Old and New testaments as an ensemble. I have also experienced an epiphany. I am now ready to do what God wants of me, to go where He wants me to go. Or stay. For the first time in my life, I have actually prayed (and meant it) that whatever God wants me to do, I’m ready to do. Lose my job, my house, health or life? I’ll do it.

The breakthrough for me was—Let me start over:

My name is Renee and I am a cracked pot. But all is not lost; this realization has opened so many doors for me. Just like grief makes happiness seem happier, realizing that I am helpless turns me to God. If I am cracked, I can’t save myself. There’s actually solace in that. I’ve tried for over forty years and it hasn’t worked yet. I’m ready to let someone else take over.

The evening after Donna reminded me that I needed to write my testimony for this service, I heard a song I hadn’t paid attention to in a long time. It’s by Leonard Cohen, a secular Jew, and it’s called Anthem. You won’t be surprised that these two lines seemed written for me and really caught my attention:

“There is a crack, a crack, in everything.
That’s how the light gets in.”

This Old Vehicle

     I know that I am getting older. Sophia, who used to be thigh high is now beyond me, Matthew, who was born just yesterday, is now an airline pilot. I still feel the same inside as I always have, but my external world is growing younger.  Sales clerks, bag boys, waitresses. They all used to be at least sixteen. But now they're twelve. The other month I went through a license check and the police officer appeared to be no more than thirteen. Even my doctor is a teenager. I have yet to need the services of an attorney, which makes me glad; if wisdom comes with age, we're in trouble. These people are in the age range of those who are proud to have paid $60 for a Tommy Hilfiger tee shirt.
     The increasing reluctance to pay retail prices, much less designer prices, is a major indicator that the aging process had begun. I have noticed that my thoughts have changed in this area. I no longer need the status of designer anything. Forget Tommy Hilfiger; I am much happier buying my Beefy-Tee shirt for $6. I am also not impatient in the same ways that I used to be. If Beefy-Tee is only on sale for three days, I am not swayed. There is always another sale around the corner. Unless it is an immediate emergency (instead of a protracted one, like having surgery), I only buy things that are substantially discounted. Ten percent is not really a sale. Twenty percent is not bad, but 40 percent is getting warm. I am quite content to buy something that is 75 percent off. I imagine that my twelve years in retail, combined with a generalized crankiness on my part that for retail sales, I am being asked to pay 100% more than the seller did, is probably the impetus for my attraction to wholesale.
     My penchant for catching a sale extends farther than just for clothing. If there is a generic equivalent of a prescription, I buy it, using my drug store points, of course. I am also frugal in the realm of automobiles. My Honda turned fourteen this past summer, which in vehicular years (the ratio in relation to human age being in my estimation about 4 to 1), is about 56. It is beginning to have arthritis and to creak and squeak a bit more than it ever did before. It groans over bumps in the road. It can't go as fast as it used to. It has had a problem with high blood pressure, which we got under control during the past six months. And I have to take it in to the shop more often than before.
     The older I get, the more I have noticed the distinct correlation between cars and health. I use them both to ease on down the road, perambulate, get places. And the older they get, the more careful I am to change the oil regularly, keep tabs on my gas mileage, take them in for regular tune-ups. But have you noticed how long it takes to make an appointment?! "I'm sorry your muffler is making sparks as it drags the highway but we don't have an opening until February of next year. Can I put you down for that?"
     The aging process of my body (with the corresponding issues of yearly inspections, replacement parts, wear and tear, and expirations of warranty) combined with my feverish inclination to bargain-buy, causes me constant conflict. Have you ever noticed that there is never a sale on mechanic work? Oh sure, you can find tires on sale or motor oil, or antifreeze. But those are peripheral items; what I want to see is a sign out front that says, "Get your engine work done here. Check Engine light coming on too often? Starter worn out? Timer need replacing? Park your car in our bay and get 50% off parts and labor." Heck, I'd settle for 25 percent.
     Over the last eighteen months, I have made multiple visits to my doctors to try to pinpoint the source of some irregularities that have caused substantial physical and mental anguish.  "Oh, that's not abnormal at all," they said. "Especially in women your age." Last month I went in again for the same problem and my pubescent doctor found a mild ear infection she wasn't looking for. I thought I was back at the mechanic's place ("I can't tell what's causing that there motor to rev like a jet every time you come to a stop, but I noticed your windshield wiper blades needed fixing so I replaced them. They're $30."). One week later, I was back in the shop. The irregularities had manifested themselves in a more alarming fashion ("Hell, little lady, this motor's about to blow! You got no brakes either!"). So they plugged me up to a diagnostic machine and after about 15 minutes they said, "Well, I'll be. There's a tumor."
     Of course the repair process involves taking out the offending part, which they assured me is benign. In fact, it is so benign that I can keep it if I want to. (Yeah. I want to keep a hole in my oil line. "It won't hurt anything; you just have to top the oil twice a day and keep an eye on it. 'Course if you lose too much oil, it could cause your motor to seize up.").
     The removal of this pound of flesh involves quite a bit of specialized labor, much like the replacement of a automobile head gasket, which costs a mere $20; the real cost comes from the labor involved in getting to it. I have the choice of removing only the tumor or of taking out the entire offending part, which includes the tumor housing, in my case the uterus. After a nanosecond of intense deliberation, I cried, "The uterus! The uterus!" I could only imagine having only the head gasket replaced only to find later that the entire head was warped. Then I would have to pay twice since each time required the same amount of labor.
     With my current insurance plan this surgery is going to be quite expensive. I called the hospital ahead of time and asked them if they were running any specials on hysterectomies. "Oh, my. No," was the shocked response. "Well, if you aren't having a sale, do you have a program like they do at the barber school where I can get it done cheaper if I have a student do it?" "Oh no, all of our doctors are fully qualified," they said, horrified. I was beginning to get a little desperate. "Okay, what about financing then? Are there any 0% financing programs coming up? A-Year-Same-As-Cash or anything?" "I'm sorry, Ma'am, this isn't Sears." "Too bad it isn't," I said, "Or I'd get back the core charge when I turn in my old uterus."
     Of course they can't operate immediately, either. First they scheduled a conference with the head mechanic, which has not yet occurred. After that, I must watch a video and sign a ream of paper. The actual operation is probably three months away; there are 12 Trailblazers, 4 dually one-tons , 11 Astro Vans, and 42 Hondas in front of me.


Copyright 2002 by Renee Britt

The Magnetic Poetry Kit

     That year was the year from Hades. I got the big idea that I would change my major from Plain English to Biology in order to have a better chance at really getting that technical writing job at the end of school. Easier said than done. For two-and-a-half semesters, I toiled at algebra and chemistry. I was like a salmon, swimming upstream, against a never-ending current of acids and bases, sodium-gated channels, and ionic solutions. To what end? I toiled and struggled every day and there was no reward. My very lungs had wilted flatter than five earthworm hearts in a row. I lost levity. My life had become a long string of problems. Linear equations and titrations. Derivations of the quadratic equation and acid-base reactions.
     Then I found solace for only $18.95, when I was introduced to the magnetic poetry kit. Words again! I tore apart all the words and arranged them in no special order in a big block on the refrigerator door, where I saw them at least twice a day. My mind was so fragmented by its exercise in that foreign language of mathematics, that the mere presence of words was a supreme comfort.
     One day as I opened the refrigerator door, a single line in the block of text jumped out at me. The words were meant for me alone. And best of all, they had complete clarity for my situation:

All so scream.
Leave Grey.
Me true ly springing puppy,
Mist through after life.
Stop:
Cool chant.

     After two long semesters where every day was like a thousand years, the alveoli of my spirit had become numbed by word problems and formaldehyde. But the magnetic poetry kit was to me like the light and fluffy noble-gas words rolling off my tongue: argon, crypton, and zenon. The dreaded weight of gold, copper, sodium, and nickel from the periodic table was lifted occasionally by the succinct yet comforting words wafted toward me from my refrigerator door.
     One day in chemistry class, halfway through the semester, ding! went a bell. Not a lsb-strewn kitchen timer but an epiphany. I could leave this unrewarding life! I could choose to have a new life where the small niceties of living, no longer ruled by timers, could take precedence. Hello again backyard sunshine, sweet honeysuckle from the hammock, and savored coffee with the feet propped up.
     Within twenty-four hours, I was officially an English Student again. I would have nothing but English courses from now on. That day, a thousand years became a day. There was, however, one glitch.
     You may sympathize with my being in that rusty netherland between the two halves of my brain, the Right and the Left. The problem was that although I had begun to think in the Left brain, I had just unplugged it when I yanked myself out of chemistry class, before it had time to finish developing. At the same time, my Right Brain had deteriorated from lack of use.
     However, when my car broke down on the side of the road that week, I was ready to think my way through it. I had had two-and-a-half semesters of hard science; of course I could be investigative and scientific. So I started using what I had learned of the scientific method. I checked the radiator overfill. It was so full that a little bit of water dribbled out when I took off the lid. That meant, of course, that the radiator would not have a water deficit, since the radiator is supposed to suck water from the reservoir whenever it runs short. I could touch the radiator with my bare hands and it was cool as a cucumber, so I knew that everything was okay. Then engine seemed a tad too hot, but engines get hot in just a block or two, don’t they?
     Just to be sure, I decided to get a little help. I called all my autophile friends. He wasn’t home in the middle of the day.  So I called the first person I found in the yellow pages of my abridged car phone book who sounded remotely autophile. I got Tommy from Tommy’s Transmissions. He listened to my list of symptoms and said, “It sounds like your thermostat is stuck.” First of all, I thought about the meaning of the word, “thermostat.” A thermostat is something on the wall in your house that tells you how hot the house is, right? I could visualize a stuck thermostat. So I smacked the dashboard to unstick it, but it held its place a good bit past HOT. “But,” Tommy from Tommy’s Transmissions continued, “it should be all right to drive a little ways, to the first service station you come to.”
     Okay, so a thermostat is a little valve that, by regulating the water flow, cools down the engine. And the radiator reservoir was full because the thermostat had gotten stuck in the off position and when the temperature mounted in the waterless engine, it exploded the water back into the reservoir. Meanwhile the radiator was cool as a cucumber because there was not a speck of water in it.
     Somewhere along the line of events, the radiator had developed a hole and all the water leaked out, except for the water that got spurted into the reservoir. But how was I to know? I had been thinking. Or maybe I had merely pondered. There is a distinct difference. Scientists think. English majors ponder. At any rate, “A sadder and wiser (wo)man (s)he rose the morrow morn” is true.
     In order to get my money’s worth from the lesson I learned, I am going to pass along what I have learned from this experience.
     First of all, if you’re an English major, don’t try to reason with a car. English majors are ill equipped to deal with cars. Period. We ponder too much. And there is nothing in the realm of English degree that has anything to do with cars. Car talk is a foreign language where words take on a drastically different meaning than they do in English class. Cars do not participate in symbolism, plot, theme, or interpretation. Thermostats, for instance, are not interpretive. They are hardware. The only two things that English majors can take from their arsenal of tools for understanding a car are irony and onomatopoeia: you think you are doing what is best for the car and then it makes a wretched noise and dies.
     Second of all, even with the best of intentions, never trust an over-the-phone Tommy from Tommy’s Transmissions to diagnose your thermostat and radiator problems. I drove that “few more miles to the nearest service station.” Yep. And do you know what they gave me there? A pretty bill for $800.00. A new head gasket was only $20, but they charged $600 for the labor. I was able to replace the timing belt, which had melted, for only $40, but the labor was twice that.
     Third and most important, before you even get to the point of trying to reason with a car or calling Tommy from Tommy’s Transmissions, don’t do like I did. Beware “crossing over.” If you were born an English major, stay an English major. Don’t try to fight it. If you’re a true English major, you won’t be successful in the Left Brain. Ever. Just rest assured that those who have gone before, who have tried and failed, have done so for you, so you don’t have to suffer needlessly. Just call Triple A from the beginning.
     If you heed not this tale and try crossing over, you will lose a good bit of your natural English major-ness without gaining anything remotely scientific or logical. In fact, what you think is logical and scientific is only a cheap imitation. In the meantime, you will lose all ability to spell, all ability to connect words into complete sentences, all ability to speak coherently, and what was once familiar will start to look French.
     Even those who cross back into the English-major realm are ruined. For example, I had been out of all Left-Brained classes for almost a full semester when I took my first English course after re-conversion. We were ruminating about the history of poetry and had come to the ballad stanza. The professor was cheerfully acquainting us with the elements of this poetic style. One of the elements was rhyme scheme, which I copied from what the professor was writing on the board: abab or abcb.
A couple of days later, while reviewing my notes, I was completely befuddled:

“Ballad stanza rhyme scheme: a²b² or ab²c”

If you won’t believe me about what crossing over can do to your mind, believe the magnetic poetry kit. The stanza I am about to give you is, on one level, about trying to repair your own car on the side of the road. On a much deeper level, it is about the certain-to-fail journey out from the warm embrace of poetry and prose into the cold world of numbers and logic:

Deliberate (verb) trip of road.
Rip breast.
Put moan behind;
To always feel shine,
You have to language.


Copyright 2002 by Renee Britt

Men are Macs

     I am writing in response to a conversation that I overheard the other day between two girls.  One of the girls was upset because her boyfriend had told her she was All Right.  “All right?” she said.  “What does that mean?  I’ve been depressed all day!”  Since college was for learning, I decided to teach her what I knew.

       There is a chasm between the sexes that can never be bridged until we throw away part of what they taught us in Sunday school. Women should not do unto men what they would have men to do unto them.  They will only get their feelings hurt.  Men should not do unto women what they would have women do unto them either; they will only end up confused and bewildered.

       One thing Sunday school was right about was the definition of conversation.  In the Bible, conversation means “way of life.”  This covers a wide area, including living, thinking, and breathing.  When you think about the basic difference between men and women, it is conversation.  For example, to a woman, “converse” means to tell somebody something.  To a man, it means a pair of sneakers.  No words necessary.
 
       The prime reason that men and women war with one another is because each sex tries to understand the other in its own language, not realizing that there are two distinct ways of life—or conversations.  Men expect women to live, think, and breathe like men, and women expect the same of men. 
       But that will never happen.

     First of all, men are socially underdeveloped people.  Where women have been successfully socialized in the art of conversation—on the telephone, at the grocery store, in the parking lot with strangers, with wrong-number callers, or with themselves—men have not.  Men don’t know what to say most of the time, when, or how to say it.  In fact, they don’t even know that they need to say anything at all.  Women can talk to a stump.  To many women, men are stumps.
 
       Understanding a woman means realizing that although most of what she says in the course of a day is not earth changing, a man can’t always tell at first.  Furthermore his response directly affects the importance of her seemingly inane conversation.  “Of course you have clothes; what’s all that fabric hanging in the closet?” can very well turn a simple observation that never hurt anybody into a real knockdown drag-out involving a monsoon of tears and hours of analytic reconstruction of the situation and its significance for the relationship, an effort that a little intuition on the part of the male could have averted in the first place.

       There is also much that women need to understand about men.  Male people are born with only a certain number of utterances.  They can’t help it. This number varies from man to man, but remains extremely low in comparison to that of women.  Men do not have the innate ability to express themselves the way women want them to, but their very few words actually pack more weight.  Since men are allotted only so many words and very little inclination to put them to use, they believe that men and women should be able to converse by telepathy.  That way, it’s easier for everybody.  Not so.  The minds of men are not readable to women or vice versa.  Men’s brains, simple and uncomplicated, are Macs.  But the brains of women are PCs using OS/2, an operating system best known not for its multi-tasking but for its downright ornery complication and the lack of an understandable manual.  The key is finding the right program that will help you put into your own language exactly what the alien from the other side is saying.
 
      Always remember that when men utter words, they do not mean the same thing as when women say them.  When a woman says something is all right, it means the opposite; she doesn’t really like it, but she is unwilling to offend by saying so outright.  Do you like this dress?  “It’s all right.”  What she really means is “That’s ugly.”  When a man says something is All Right, it is one of the biggest compliments he can give; he wants to take it home.
    
     When a man asks a woman if everything is all right and she says, “I’m okay,” men shouldn’t interpret “okay” in male terms.  For a woman, “I’m okay” has a wide range of meanings, including “Everything is fine; don’t worry about me,” an expression with self sacrificial undertones,  “I’m severely depressed,” or “I’m really miserable, but I’m putting on a happy face because I know you don’t want to talk about it.  You never want to talk.”

         The answer to the man/woman question is learning what the language of the opposite sex means. When a man says he likes that Chevy truck in the car lot, it means that he wants to go truck shopping.  Now.  When a woman says she likes that little baby in the buggy, it does not necessarily mean that she wants one of her very own.
   
     After a woman has asked a man if he’s okay and he has said yes, the woman should accept his response and let him be.  Although there is a chance that subconsciously he is not okay, it is not the job of the woman to find out or to fix it.  It is also surprisingly possible, given the fact that men think so differently from women, that there really isn’t a problem at all.  But ask a guy several times if he has a problem, and if he didn’t have one already, he can certainly get one in a hurry.
 
       Neither men nor women should expect rewards for doing their job.  Men should never expect an “Atta Boy” if they remember their wedding anniversary, no matter how proud they are.  Men are expected to remember such an important date.  After all, it’s their important date, too.  On the other hand, women should not expect to be handed a trophy for pumping their own gas.  Gas, just like the noxious reaction that happens when men and women don’t understand each other, is just part of life.  

       Neither male nor female should assume that the other gender can empathize with their strong emotions.  Men should not assume that women can possible relate to, empathize with, or remotely understand their fascination with things that go.  No matter how much a woman appreciates that her car cranks when she wants to go somewhere, that does not mean that she wants a detailed, mind glazing description of what happens after the spark plug ignites.

     In the same vein, a woman should never expect a man to feel her pain. When women are sad, men can’t feel it.  No matter how loud she clacks the dishes around or yells suddenly at the cat, the guy will never automatically know that all the woman needs is a little hug and that if she has to tell him, it’s completely ruined because then he isn’t really giving her a hug; she is acquiring one.  At best, he will only be dazed and confused.
 
     Once you’ve figured out the language thing, you still have to be careful.  Beware the woman who says she doesn’t like to go shopping.  She might like it once she gets there.  And not liking shopping doesn’t necessarily mean that she doesn’t like to spend money.  Beware also the guy who says he believes in an equal opportunity household.  First thing you know, you’ll be up on the roof feeding him roofing nails while dishes are molding in the sink.  If you’re lucky, you’ll get to hammer.

     When he hits his finger, it is best for both of you if you aren’t overtly sympathetic.  Just say, “Hurt?”  If he is obviously in pain, you may increase the number of words, but not the number of syllables in each.  “Hurt? No? Good.”

Hello Henry - A Welcome to Henry Who is Now Five

Hello Henry,
You’re late.

You were supposed to get here nine days ago at the latest. You’ve been in the outside world now for eight hours. I feel as if I’ve put in a full day’s work but it was your mother (and father) who did the real work. Still, I feel sapped by adrenaline.

When your father looked at you and said to your mother, “Call him Henry?” it seemed the perfect name to fit your little face. You’re a stocky little fellow, all 8 pounds, 10 ounces and twenty-one inches of you. I expected a more angular baby with big elbows and knees, judging by the sudden and frequent mole-like scurryings your limbs made under the cover of your mother’s belly.

When I think of the name Henry, I think it should mean, “Active,” “Latecomer,” “One Who Wrestles with His Own Limbs,” or “One Who Dislikes Confined Spaces Yet Remains Attached to Them.” During much of your mother’s pregnancy it seemed as if you couldn’t wait to get out, your elbows, knees, feet, and hands pushing against your mother’s organs. “Ooommmphh!” she’d say as her belly lit up with movement that made it look like it was an entity apart from her, a progressively larger beach ball filled with an active puppy. As time passed and there was still no sign of you, it became apparent that you were not really in that much of a hurry. I began to think of your confinement as a train ride. All you needed was on board. There was a food a-plenty, adequate seating, and wonderfully soothing rhythms.

After attempting to meet you at the train station on two earlier occasions only to discover that somehow our lines had crossed, you didn’t have your ticket, or that our schedules were out of sync, we were thrilled to hear that you were finally on your way. You had one foot poised for the platform.

At 7:30 AM, I was dressed for navigating the tractor while Devid, your uncle, operated the backhoe. (When you’re bigger, we’ll let you sit on the tractor). It was a Sunday and I had just plopped Boo, the dog, onto the back seat of the truck when the phone rang and we heard that you were coming. In the excitement of the moment, I left your blessing way bead on the night table at home and didn’t have it at your birth. Although it didn’t show up that well, I had dabbed different colors of paint onto an acorn. Blue for peacefulness, green for hope, purple because I wanted your mama to feel like a queen, and some glitter to show that sometimes—though not apparent at first glance—you can always find some sparkles to punctuate regular life with hope and happiness. The acorn itself was for patience. It takes a long time for an acorn to grow into an oak. The bit about the acorn was really for your mama, who has a tendency to expect too much of herself too fast and too perfectly.

When I painted the blessing way bead some months before you were born, I dreamed you as a girl. You were a tiny-boned, green-eyed little girl wearing a soft-laundered, shoulder-crossed summer dress filled with light. But it’s January. Wintertime. Why did I envision you in the summer? My mind had slipped ahead to summertime, to a time of glorious drawn-out daylight ending with the soft dying of light and the gathering of Dragonflies at Dusk, like the name of one of your Grandma Susan’s stamp sets.

But here it is in one of the traditionally coldest months in North Carolina and your finally show up—not a girl at all, but a boy! A beautiful January Henry. I was counting on you to brighten up the drearies of a gray winter. You were going to bring the feel of fleeting sunshine on our upturned faces. You were going to make buttercups appear through the snow. And you did! Somehow you managed to clutch the actual sunshine in your little fist. January 9, 2005, like the days preceding it, reached a sunny high of almost 70 degrees and was as lovely as the first day of the most beautiful and awaited spring.

You’re better than I envisioned you.

Welcome, little Henry.

With love,
Your Aunt Renee (AKA Née Née)

Fist to Palm - to Jonathan

I.
In pompless childhood ritual,
we pricked each other’s fingers,
mixed platelets on a thumb.
Long after, we kept the memory of coerced blood,
learned how to exact it,
and how deep to safely probe.

Ours was civil war,
blood against blood.
Each held out against the conquest of the enemy,
united only against
love-your-brother-as-yourself,
the adage of our father.

As knowledge breeds advantage,
I watched you with my eyes closed,
predicted moves, counter-planned.
I learned your hand:
the shape your fingers held.

As love is hatred’s brother passion,
I loved you deep.
I loved you with my clenched teeth.
You, the battering ram
I, the marble fortress.

II.
Remember the bunker near Metz?
The field vibrated with heat last summer
but the bunker was cool.
Someone had scratched his name in the concrete
in 1941.
I touched your elbow by accident.
And you felt like you were my brother.

Saturday

It's Saturday. It's warmer than it has been all winter but still on the chilly side. The wood stove is breathing out invisible eddies of warmth and Boo, the dog, is stretched out beside the kitchen table like a lumpy carpet of brown and black. She smells faintly of corn chips and fresh air. I prefer the fresh air. She whines in her sleep, as she dreams dog-dreams of kitten chasing and rare feasts...