May 12, 2014 · 1:07 pm

The Choice

love belly

image by Adam Selwood

 

Fingers splayed wide and palm protectively pressed to her belly, she stood, shocked into silence, staring at the stranger before her, a stranger who, until moments before, had been her husband. Her eyes were wide and surely her jaw was dropped—that’s what people said happened in moments of utter disbelief—as the cyclone whirled inside her head, bouncing thoughts around haphazardly, collecting unrelated debris and shattering existing intellectual structures in its path of mental deconstruction.

Surely she must have felt this storm rising; nothing comes from nothing, there must have been warning signs that she ignored. But while the tempest swirled across her mental landscape, outwardly she made no movement, no sound, perhaps not even a blink of her eye as she stood riveted to the spot where she stood, looking at the man she thought she knew.

Regaining awareness of her physical body, she groped blindly behind her, right hand still protectively shielding her belly, and found a dining room chair with her outstretched left fingertips. She sank gratefully into its stability and closed her eyes momentarily, taking a few deep breaths. He too seemed compelled to sit, as if, perhaps, shocked and, to a certain extent, relieved by his own proclamation.

The argument between them had bounced back and forth over the course of multiple hours; it was approaching midnight and the first iron had been struck shortly before she had tucked her three year old daughter in bed. Neither party was innocent in this battle, both had grievances to air, complaints that had been festering for quite some time—years, she had just been informed.

Exhausted, she needed the battle to halt, not forever—she knew that was an impossibility—but long enough for her mind to readjust to the latest thrust.

She did not reopen her eyes until she could feel some of the color coming back into her cheeks, until she could again sense the steady heartbeat that thumped beneath her breast, until she felt that words—not screams—would come from her mouth. When she did finally peel back the curtain shielding her from the reality sitting before her, she took in the scene in an objective way.

The house was dim, only one reading lamp illuminated the family room behind her and countertop light shone from the kitchen to her left, the rest was engulfed in a quiet but now peaceful gloom. The yelling was over. There would be no need for more.

She looked down at her hands, resting one inside the other in her lap, curled under where soon her belly would expand to make room for the new life growing within. She imagined those hands holding her baby, caressing a cheek, running them through soft hair, holding a tiny hand in her own—and she bit back on her tears. She was done crying. She was done fighting. She was done trying to change his mind. The choice was now with her and she knew there was no real choice to be made.

She looked up at his face, weary, worn, exhausted—unhappy. How long had he looked this way and she had just not noticed? How long had he been silently telling her he needed to leave? How long had his resentment seethed beneath the surface before it bubbled forth and erupted on her consciousness as it had this night?

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, certain of the truth behind her words, but not entirely sure what that sorrow actually expressed.

He looked at her through red-rimmed eyes—although no tears had fallen it was clear that the emotional turmoil of the night had taken its toll on him as well. “I can’t do this again. I just can’t.” His eyes pleaded with her to understand the feelings he could not find the words to express: exhaustion, desperation, imprisonment, resentment, animosity, indifference, detachment. Her anger of moments earlier dissipated looking into his eyes and was replaced with sorrow tinged with compassion.

He’d offered her a choice, but the choice he had voiced was not truly what he wanted; it was what he felt was the only option he could decently express.

It sounded simple enough, but when she looked in his eyes and saw no trace of love, when she thought back to the things he had said—yes, people say what they regret during the course of an argument, but the rarely say what they don’t mean—when they fought earlier that evening, the choice he voiced was not truly the one he was offering.

His mouth said, “It’s me or the baby. You choose.” But his eyes could not lie, “I don’t want either of you. Let me go,” they pleaded. She could not ignore the testimony of those eyes.

“You offer me no real choice here. It’s not the baby you don’t want. It’s this…” right hand sweeping across the landscape of the house, encompassing the life they had created over the past 10 years. “I understand that. I know you think I don’t, but I do. You offer me no real choice when you tell me that you haven’t loved me for years or that you resent me for being pregnant with our child.” She returned her palm possessively to the baby growing within her. “Even if I were willing to consider your choice, what guarantee do I have that you wouldn’t decide this life isn’t what you want anyway? Then I would have sacrificed this life I have wanted for so long on the alter of your confusion. You want your freedom? You can have it. I’m keeping my child.”

His voice cracked slightly as he spoke, “I never meant to hurt you.”

“I’m sure you didn’t—but you have. I’d like to say that I won’t harbor anger towards you for this, but I will. I’d like to say that I forgive you for this, but I can’t—not yet. Someday I will, but not for a long time.” She looked back down to her hands, wiping the moisture from her palms onto her skirt, engrossed in the action.

Silently he pushed back the chair from the table and stood. “I’m the world’s worst father. You don’t need me anyway.” With that her turned from the room, grabbed his jacket and walked out the front door, closing it gently behind him.

Leave a comment

Filed under ancient history, children, memory, parenting

May 5, 2014 · 6:14 am

Water Wings

swim-ring

His little body buoyed in the water by the two green translucent balloons wrapped around each arm, the boy happy, but still nervous, groped his way around the edge of the pool, clinging to the wall like a life support system, shouting at the other children to wait for him. His fair hair was sheared down to the nubs, advertising a scalp shade lighter than his shoulders and arms, suggesting a newly shaved head in preparation for summer and below the surface of the pool blue, black and white designs swirled by the movements of the water hinted at hawaiian floral patterned swimming trunks. Target locked. He reached the island of floating blowup boats and boogie boards on which the other children were playing, nearly. He wold have to let go of the wall and swim to the middle of the pool if he wanted to join the game. The conflict was written on the set of his mouth and the frown of his brow and he determined if joining in the fun was a great enough incentive to run the gauntlet of his fear of swimming. The mental countdown commenced, his little lips moving as the numbers silently went through his head. As he counted down from ten to five, a look of fierce determination formed in his eyes. At five he began to prep for his launch by bounding his knees, feet propped on the wall’s edge, as if to gain momentum. At three the countdown burst loudly from his lips, “Twee, two, one, bwast off!”

Launching himself into space, the boy reached with outstretch fingertips, pumping his little legs as hard as he could, stretching his body as if to make up for the missing inches between himself and his objective. His confidence, so sharp at the start of his flight began to fade as the yawning gap before his safe haven did not seem to be closing. One last hard kick, one last reach of his fingertips. Target acquired! The pride and success beamed from his face but was tempered by a sense of disillusionment as he turned to the child next to him, his senior by at least four years, “They’re called water wings, but you weally can’t fwy in the water.”

The older child patted his fuzzy head and said, “No. But you flew from through space. Come aboard the space ship. I’m going to get the treasure.”

Leave a comment

Filed under characters, children, parenting

Tagged as , , , ,

April 24, 2014 · 10:50 am

Medusa’s Lament

Medusa portrait

Strolling quietly through the garden of rock I run my fingers over a pale shimmering face of marble.  Lifeless, the beauty still shines through: smooth cheeks, virgin to a razor’s edge; a lock of hair curled delicately down the center of a wide, unblemished forehead; large wide eyes framed by impossibly long lashes on either side of a strong, manly and chiseled nose; I try not to look at the mouth.  It would have been succulent once but it was forever drawn tight.  My first visitor.

I visit him often in the daylight hours.  When the sun glints off his hard white frame he looks almost alive.  Pausing in front of him momentarily I wish we could speak.  I ask again all the questions I had asked in the past. Why had he come?  Was it fortune?  I have none.  Was it fame?  A visitation to this desolate land could offer no recompense.  Who had sent him?  Only my sisters know where I am and none could have persuaded them to tell of my whereabouts. What did he want with me?  I had meant the boy no harm.  I have no animosity for any save two.

When  he had first come my hopes had soared.  Maybe he had come to rescue me.  Perhaps she had reconsidered.  Perhaps he had finally taken up my case. I had been alone for so long that the thought of a visitation, by anyone, excited me.  Not even the crows enter my domain.  My only company is the writhing retinue forever attached to my frame.  I didn’t know.  I couldn’t have known. How could I have known?  Since my transformation I had seen neither my own face nor that of anyone else.  My agony at the loss of this young boy’s life weighed on me.  The responsibility that was not mine but had been thrust upon me pressed me to my knees.  If I had tears to shed, I would have.  Alas, my weeping brings forth venom not tears and yet I call it weeping.  I still weep whenever I visit him.  My first companion.

My hand still cupping his cold smooth cheek I let my eyes wander over the landscape before me.  It is gray and brown.  Rocks and dead shrubs.  If they flourished once, they have not since my arrival.  Nothing lives here.  Not for long.  I miss green.  I miss flowers.  I miss birdsong.  I long for the sound of laughter.  The silence of this place is overwhelming.  It crushes me.  There was a time when I wished to know about the rest of the world beyond my island captivity.  The world doesn’t interest me anymore.  I wish for peace.  I wish for conversation.  Mostly, now, when the visitors arrive, I wish for solitude.  I know that no good can come from any stranger setting foot on my island.

One should not question the gods.  All good children are raised to follow this simple constant.  Once I too blindly did my bidding.  I did all that was asked of me and more.  I dedicated myself to her wisdom, her intelligence, her justice.  It was I who first suggested to my mother that my father might want to grant me to her temple.  What a pious offering!  To give his youngest daughter to the great goddess herself.  I sought no fame.  I sought no reward.  I wished nothing but to serve her and serve her I did.  That was not enough.  A woman can never give enough to satisfy a god.  He took everything from me and it wasn’t enough.  She, praised for her justice, her compassion, turned her back on me.  Do I question the gods?  No.  I curse them.

 

(This is the preface to a novel I am currently working on.)

Leave a comment

Filed under fiction, garden, Medusa, mythology

Tagged as , , , , ,

March 10, 2014 · 1:59 pm

One Punch

For months he had been harassing me at every opportunity. “It’s just because he likes you,” I was told by every adult to whom I bewailed my predicament. “Boys at that age are funny that way.”

Well, if that was affection it was a damned strange way of expressing it.

Eventually my limit was reached.

As I stood in the junior high school locker room preparing to head out onto the field for soccer practice, Louise approached me: “Josh is out there waiting for you.” It had been a rough day; everything that could go wrong had and I knew I couldn’t put up with the inane taunts of a mean-spirited boy. With a deep breath I nodded at Louise and she squeezed my arm in silent support before I turned towards the exit and prepared to face what was waiting outside.

I had hardly emerged from the dim fluorescents into the dazzling Miami sun when I heard his recitation of all the earlier jibes about my looks and boyishness. I turned to him and quietly said, “Not today, Josh.  Not today.” He barked a cruel laugh at me and turned to his friends mocking my warning. “What’s wrong? Did the girls realize you were in the wrong locker room?”

All the anger and frustration of my day—-no, of my whole week, month, year thus far—-came bursting to the surface and I felt my face flush with heat and rage.

I think I shouted; maybe I screamed; perhaps it was a cry. Whatever  the noise, I lunged at him, knocking him to the ground while his friends watched in stunned silence. I only remember hitting him once before someone pulled me off of him but that one hit had hurt my hand and as I stood, I looked at him lying there on the ground curled up, bleeding from his nose and mouth.

I shook head to toe with fear at my own capacity for rage.

1 Comment

Filed under memory

Tagged as , , , , ,

February 4, 2014 · 4:00 pm

Castelvecchio

Castelvecchio_full_view_verona

Silent and cross legged she sat, the sun warmed stone feeling good on her bare legs.  Sound and sight obscured the tangible facts of her reality. Purple tinted mountains spotted with white cottages and houses jutted out of the distant grounds, pushing their way skywards. Brilliant, translucent, forrest-covered hills with ancient ruins stood on the opposite shore. And the river: the river churned and burbled; raged and wept; signed and sang as it rushed on its enduring path creating alternate spots of white capped rapids and glass smooth pools.

“My God,” she breathed. Feeling faint and a little unsure, Chadia stared in awe at her surroundings. Over and over her eyes returned to the river, watching the straw-like grass sway and dance in the flowing water. She knew that once outside the castle walls she would be thrown face first into the cold rough wall of reality, but here… here she was on another plane.

The grass, the river, the castle wall, all of these things had stood since a moment in time too far distant for her to comprehend. The mountains and trees, the ruins, none of these things had changed; permanent structures, ancient structures full of history and beauty surrounded by a cramped, boisterous, busy modern society. The contrast astounded her. It rendered her speechless, even thoughtless. Only emotion pumped through her ever absorbing body.

Reason had no place in her fascination of aesthetics.

From somewhere in the distance she heard bird-like squawking. Course and erratic, it had no home in her thoughts of serenity. She shook her head slightly to clear the grating noise from her ears.

“I wonder how it would haven been, in that time long ago, when this castle was first built.”  Closing her eyes to the blemishes of modern life, Chadia pictured the river, mostly unchanged, flowing placidly along its course, not impeded by the annoyances of garbage and waste. The distant purple crests stood nude in the background; no houses, no roads, no industry.  The ruins, well, the ruins would have always been there; since a time before time; a home for the ancient rites and entertainments, still, in this dark medieval hour, standing empty and unused.

The dream came to her in full force now as she watched her young chevalier, sitting erect on his horse, gallop over the bridge, through the gates, coming to a stop below where she sat. She smiled down upon him as he waved at her the white scarf she had given him for luck in jousting competitions. In a hurried flash he spurred his horse forward through the gates to the inner sanctum of the castle.

“My dream world, my castle.” Chadia looked down and saw the massive forms of the swans floating, hovering  in the straw-like grass of the river.  “Each morning I will go to feed them the moment I awake.”

Chadia shifted her weight on the sun warmed smooth marble feeling the deeper cold of the stone, the center core, a virgin to the sun’s heat. Gathering her skirts in her hands she rose to her knees and peered through the slits in the inner defensive wall.  Such a tiny crack.

One eye pressed to the opening she saw directly across from her the guards of the estate dressed in tunics of studded leather.  A young guard noticed the spy and, having seen her flirtatious exchange with the horsed rider, smiled at her, the princess of the castle.

“Days,months, years, I could sit on this wall and watch my world, our world, fall.” The words dreamily drifted off her lips, floating their way through the wall to the guard.

Growing tired all too soon of her obedient observer Chadia returned her attention to the country once more, the afternoon sun fading all around her, the purple peaks disappearing in the distance as night consumed them.

Leave a comment

Filed under fiction, Italy, memory, travel

Tagged as , , , , , , , ,