if it quirks..

then, I have done my job

Tag: short story

Let’s be frank

Frank, why are you haunting me?

You left us high and dry

Long before I was a twinkle in my father’s eye.

Or a flutter in my mother’s heart.

You left her alone to fend for herself

You left your daughter alone.

But why?

Maybe that’s what haunts me…

The weight of your choice bears down on my shoulders

Rolling them concave.

I have to shake you off all the time.

Rolling my neck and straightening my shoulders.

How desperate can you be to be known when you

left us high and dry. No note. No explanation. No reason.

You strung everything up; tied a ribbon; hung it out to dry.

Never knew you. Never could know you.

I’m sure she wondered why Daddy left the way he did.

But you rejected life and your family rejected your kin.

Now, you hover around for what?

You made your choice.

Go to the light as my mother would say.

Push and pull

I was a ballerina as a child.

Straight back, shoulders rolled back, long limbs, lengthened neck, pointed toes.

Precision and accuracy are key. Timing is key. Self-reliance is key.

Grace, always grace. If you lose your shoe, the show goes on. You keep dancing and make it look flawless. Finish to the end.

I cried backstage once because it wasn’t a perfect show. My shoe came off, and I dragged it helplessly around the stage trying in vain to make everything look flawless.

I eventually kicked the little slipper away down stage. Apparently, this made the audience laugh and giggle. My mother said it was amusing and endearing to the audience. I just thought it was embarrassing. Patty the dance teacher told me I did a good job, but I knew she was supposed to say that to make me feel better.

But I excelled at ballet after that because I learned to rely on myself for the perfect dance routine.

***

I never partner danced until I was an adult.

I was stiff and unyielding as I had been taught by ballet. It’s hard to unlearn something that has been ground into you over the span of 10 years.

I was comfortable relying on myself to make the dance moves happen, anticipate the beat and memorize the next step.

But partner dancing is completely different. I was supposed to follow the lead of someone. I was supposed to feel the intuition of my partner and let him give me subtle cues of where to go next.

This I couldn’t do. Push and pull was foreign to me. Lessons were difficult because my partners were also learning to be confident in leading.

Always the same comment: “You’re so stiff. Loosen up.”

But I always felt my partners were going to let me whirl away on the dance floor. Their grip was not firm.

And firmness is important in partner dancing. If she can’t trust your judgment on the floor, the lady will fly away.

Push and pull.

Firm and flowing

Truth and trust

He and me

These are fundamental in a symbiotic relationship, which is what the dance meant. Dancing with someone is a meeting of wills. Willing the best in the other and reacting to a reaction. It’s physics in the best kind of way.

I had to unlearn the harsh structure of the prima ballerina.

The unknown in a dance is the part that makes you better.

It made me free.

It made me ok with ebbing and flowing.

Push and pull

Tongues of fire

Darkness pushed against her lids.

Or was it a caress?

She put herself last, pushed up against a corner.

She felt suffocated and burning rashes

She scratched and scratched

But the itch wouldn’t flinch

“Out, out, out!”

Her thoughts were all out.

While she reached down her leg for another bout of relief

Her ragged fingernails paused.

She stared into the dark and out of it a shape loomed.

A man with no particular features

Nothing to make him stand out in a crowd.

But a wide mouth

Craven and cavernous

He stood there stock still, wide eyed, and wide mouthed.

She shivered and stared as he raised a hand to his mouth.

He was staring into the air, into nothing.

What was in his hand?

She would find out in a split second as his mouth went ablaze.

He lit his tongue on fire like a flame.

He didn’t wince or yelp or recoil.

His mouth a beacon in the room.

A warning?

A way?

A farce?

A light in the dark?

At least she had forgotten her itch in the absurdity of these pyrotechnics.

13 | Lucky Bunny

Wriggle your nose and twiddle your toes

Father tell me about lucky bunnies born on the 13th

Lucky number 13 they say

He was born on a Saturday; just missed the Friday cut off.

He squirmed around in her arms like a frightened kit.

Alert

Twitching

Fluid and flowing as water elementals

Favored soul

His heart quick

The world so sharp around him, but he would skip through it

Without a care

A lucky bunny born on the 13th can have no cares

Nothing phased him.

Daring and bounding through life’s twists and turns

Deer in the headlights couldn’t stop him

Wending over winding roads

fast like a tornado

Skipping hills

Galloping along with dragons and tigers in tow

The tiger screams couldn’t damper him

No, he was bravado incarnate

Every 13th day a blessing.

That day this lucky Bunny reversed the curse

Unlucky numbers don’t exist to one so unabashed

No curse could ever set in

Because when you’re a lucky bunny born on a 13th day

there is no such thing as bad luck.

13 | 1

January the 13th was a Friday.

Friday the 13th.

We went to get our marriage license.

I thought this day would be turned joyful.

Joyful and celebratory

Eyes shining for our future.

The day was grey, wet, rainy, chilly.

We were hopeful for the sunshine eventually to pierce through the clouds.

[It’s called the Sunshine State for a reason]

We arrived at 7:00 AM and the doors were already crowded.

People arriving for passports, immigration status, marriage licenses

…like us.

We didn’t make an appointment. Didn’t think I would need one.

Rookie mistake

They opened the office space and we all filed in to the waiting room.

10 windows and they opened 4

They began calling numbers.

More numbers

Time crawled by

Inched by

We didn’t get called

We had a number, but they skipped it

They serviced all those people who made the appointment online.

An hour later and we decided to play with the system that played with us.

I booked an appointment online for the exact time and date we were there.

“No same day appointments” the website screeched in red ink.

I submitted the ticket and marched to the kiosk to claim it.

The state would not toil with our future like that.

The moment the slip 101B hit my finger tips, it only took a few moments for the lady at the window to call it.

Five minutes later, two signatures, and one notary stamp, we had our license to wed.

“Not bad for a Friday the 13th,” I thought.

My mom sent a text at 3:30 PM.

“Mia Jo died.”

Ok, good night.

When it’s bedtime, daddy comes to the door. He won’t go further than the doorway.

He won’t come and touch my forehead or tuck me in the way that mommy does.

He stands awkwardly and says, “Ok, good night.”

With my chin popping out of the covers, I look at his silhouette trying to make out his face.

But all is shadow.

I say, “Good night, I love you daddy.”

The air shivers with silence as he shifts before responding,

“Ok.”

He turns and walks away to his room.

//

When you’re a kid, you can’t understand fully the hurt that a parent may be going through.

But you can understand that something is wrong.

And I slept fitfully asking what I could do to get more than just an ‘ok’

Photo by RODNAE Productions on Pexels.com

chapel_ceiling

This is a place of peace.

A cathedral many would officially call it.

But when I stepped inside, I wasn’t here.

I was in another place, maybe another dimension.

Because here I knew that I was in the presence of something greater.

Something larger

Something extraordinary

Something enchanting

Something incomprehensible

Something ancient

But most importantly, something good.

I’m not talking about good like you describe a child that behaves.

I mean goodness.

Something that we can all agree is profound.

But that was a portal.

And I want nothing more than to cross through it.

//

There are times I remember walking through this place

And I can picture her sitting quiet, alone, eyes shut

She was beyond, wandering in solitude.

And she opened her lips and sang. She sang to God.

She sang without looking around for anyone to hear.

She sang without a pulpit. She just sang.

And that struck me deeply.

This one had gotten it right.

She knew who she was.

And how I wanted to be on the other side.

When the Night is Dark Around

I believe in angels and demons.

There was a time when I was young

I had a recurring dream

Late in the night

Pitch black room

Fan whirring

Sister inhaling and exhaling

Her breaths even and peaceful

Not mine.

My eyes were staring

At my covers pulled tight over my head

Only my little nose sticking out

To breathe, of course.

But you know how we tell ourselves those lies

To keep things at bay?

If I cover my head, they won’t know I’m here.

It won’t know I’m here.

It won’t find me, just think I’m some inanimate lump.

But not this time.

I to this day remember

Some dark, shapeless, languid shape,

like a man with no bones,

Sliding up to the window

From the outside

And slithering paper thin through the window.

Pale eyes and paler fangs

I couldn’t scream

Because I was paralyzed

Watching this thing making it’s way across the carpeted floor.

Making it’s way to me.

Silence, stealth and absolute terror swelled inside the room.

Closer and closer

And then I just started praying.

Clasping my hands together and praying as hard as I could.

Hail Mary

full of grace

the Lord is with you

Blessed are you among women

And blessed is the fruit of your womb

Holy Mary, Mother of GOD

Pray for us sinners

Now and at the hour of our death.

I prayed that over and over and over

I didn’t pause.

Screwed my eyes shut and kept on praying

Asking for peace of mind

Asking for it to go away

Asking for sleep to take me into a swift blissful nothing

Take me away from this darkness.

I don’t know when I fell asleep.

But I remember seeing bright sentinel figures holding torches

Around my bed.

Shoulder to shoulder stoic figures that didn’t speak or move.

But they were there and they kept watch through the night.

I drifted away.

And for that I believe.

The Family Thorns

Do you believe that family wounds pass on through generations?

Frank was 20 when he took his life. Nobody speaks of him.

Selma hated pictures of herself so much that she would scratch out her face.

June was basically an orphan caught between two warring worlds of Swedish Lutherans and Irish Catholics.

And let’s be honest, there really isn’t that much difference between those two denominations.

It’s funny the differences people choose to magnify.

Her Swedish aunties took the helm and doted on her.

The Cullens would have nothing to do with her.

Robert and Mary knew how to have a good time and forget it all in a fog of liquor,

Including their youngest child ailing with scarlet fever.

They went out one night to party and came home to a blind child whose fever had taken his sight.

Despite them, he went on to become a talented pianist who hosted his own jazz program on the radio.

Jo has always been jealous, and she had three daughters to bring down with her spite.

God gave her an opportunity to change her green with envy heart for something warmer toned –

The chance to love her daughters and bring them up with confidence.

But she chose throwing tantrums, hiding in her room when she didn’t get her way, and leaving her children to wonder what they did wrong.

Norm was an alcoholic, but he sobered up in favor of cigarettes.

Then, he sobered up from the tobacco to take up gardening and car remodeling.

I can remember the smoke clouds choking the back porch at Mia and Papa’s when we arrived in the summer.

To this day, I find tobacco smoke comforting. Don’t smoke personally, but secondhand smoke doesn’t bother me one bit.

Wanda and Ray had Norm; but nobody knows what happened to Ray. Skipped town?

Norm knew Joe as his dad, but it was far from paternal. Far from filial.

They lived next door to one another for years and never spoke, built up hedge walls, warred about nonsense, and cut each other out of their lives.

Cut the rest of us out, too. At least they kept the hedge trimmed and clipped.

Mom says I met Wanda when I was a baby. I have no memory of her.

I certainly have no memory of Big Joe because Papa described him lovingly as a SOB the day Big Joe died.

Sometimes I wonder if jealousy is a family trait.

I wonder if I am self-conscious because of people who slashed their own image or never grew up in a house with a mother who really cared.

But I also don’t believe in blaming the past for the present – not 100% at least.

People have choices and personal responsibility is paramount.

But sometimes I wonder and sometimes I feel haunted with wondering about all these family thorns.

❣️

Blemish – “Teacher, ugly.”

They say that “beauty is in the eye of the beholder”.  Or does it all boil down to cultural standards for beauty?  In this story, the skin you’re in is a blemish in the eye of the beholder- literally.

ESOL teachers are the people who see the world through rose-tinted glasses.  We imagine that going to a far-flung place, experiencing the culture, learning from the people, eating the food and traveling all over make us enlightened and culturally savvy.

What you don’t expect is some obscure backlash; maybe you imagine some, but it never happens the way you think it will in your head.  Cultural shock is no joke for global travelers, especially ESOL teachers.  For the most part, your experience is positive, but there’s always an asinine moment or two that can make you pine for home.

Freshly graduated. Twenty-one-years-old.  A deep appreciation (slightly obsessive) for Asian culture, in particular, Korean culture.  What else was I supposed to do after graduation?  Teach ESOL in South Korea, of course! 

One of the first things you note about people in South Korea is that sameness and continuity are ingrained in the people.  This is neither bad nor good, it simply is a fact.  It is hard not to notice how people have very similar physical characteristics – barring face shape and other minute details. 

Hair color, eye shape, general skin tone and overall body shape and size.  These qualities are, for the most part, shared across the board. 

What do they prize though in beauty standards? 

First of all, I couldn’t go anywhere without hearing someone compliment me on how small my face was and how big my eyes were.  It was not uncommon for people, Korean women in particular, to have surgeries to make their faces smaller or their eyes larger. 

Second, clean, unblemished, milky skin is the beauty standard hands down.  People bleach their skin, wear all manner of creams and powders, bust out umbrellas in full-sunlight and will go fully covered to the beach.  Tanned skin is undesirable as it is a sign of working in the fields or causes wrinkles.  I don’t know all the reasons, but I do know that pale, unblemished, smooth skin is the standard of beauty in South Korea.  People do their utmost to keep their skin super clean and perfect looking – absolute porcelain. 

Enter the little American with freckles everywhere.  My arms and face are particularly freckled.  Otherwise, I’m pretty white.  However, no one ever commented on my freckles when I was in Korea. 

One day, I arrived at my rural Korean grade school to teach English in the countryside.  At this point, it was all still so romantic to me.

I happened to be wearing no sweater and my arms were uncovered.  Upon entering the classroom, I noted that today was second graders.  “Oh, so sweet, so fun, so cute,” I thought to myself.

They were having some free time before class started – just playing here and there.

My co-teacher and I were standing at the front chatting when a small boy approached.

“Ugh, they are so cute!” Thought I again, beaming at this small child.

He came forward, shyly to me and the other teacher.  He addressed me in the best English he could muster, gesturing to my be-speckled arm.

“Teacher, what is?”

I said, “These?  They are freckles.”  I pointed proudly to them, because to be honest, I always got compliments on my freckles.  I was expecting him to nod in wonder or something.

He did nod.  Then he looked up at me still pointing to my arm and said, “Teacher, UGLY.”

Then, he skipped away smirking.

I was in shock.  My co-teacher was chuckling at his cheek because to her he was a silly child just making a joke to get close to the English teacher.  But I was a little taken aback by it all.  I had never considered my freckles to be ugly.  Now, I was in a place where my skin and the little melanin spots it produced was considered hideous.

What a revelation.

My freckles are blemishes to these people.  I never imagined it would happen to me, but someone told me my skin was ugly.

I was an adult, but it still stung a bit.  That might have been the first time that I was awake to the idea that cultural shock is not always positive.  That day the rose-tinted glasses came off.