Mushroom's Elegy

Mushroom had a gentle,

Albeit quirky, manner

Like a magical coyote

Wearing a bright purple beret.

He cherished his spouse

And made her laugh.

“He’s so random, non-sequential,
So much my opposite,”

She’d tout.

And she was correct,

Let there be no doubt.

You felt comfortable being around him,

As if you were with your brother

Or even your sister.

He would sit down next to you

And listen.

And then he would tell you stories

That sparked like a blanket

On a dry desert night.

He had a wicked sense of humor,

A little twisted,

A little dark, at times.

He’d laugh if you tripped

And bonked your head.

And then he’d give you a hug
While giggling the whole time.

He pointed out the silliness

Of life.

Of love

Of words

Of our most tightly held beliefs.

And yet, he cried.

He cried with me

when I was heartbroken.

He cried when he listened

To heartbroken lovers.

He cried while watching ballets.

And he even cried at cartoons.

He wasn’t afraid to share his tears

Or his laughter.

He enjoyed being around

All his relations,

Regardless of age

Or race

Or form,

Or wealth.

He could sit and listen

To people much older.

And he could get on his hands and knees

And play with cars with little boys

And draw pictures with little girls.

He would pick up little kids

Who stretched out their arms

And called, “Up. Up.”

He even played with kids

In restaurants he didn’t know.

He talked to the tree people

And the rock people.

And they would tell him stories.

He even talked to mosquitoes

And asked them not to bite.
Can you believe it?

They listened

And didn’t bite.

His presence held magic

To heal,

To sooth,

And to draw out a smile

From those who mourned.

He could console grieving parents,

Because he was one.
His heart was big

And his shoulder soft.

Above all,

                                                       He was kind.

When We First Met

My brothers and I hosted our parents' 25th wedding anniversary at thier house. We invited their friends, relatives and neighbors. Our neighbor, Eda Bea, and I chatted while I tended bar at my parents’ 25^th wedding anniversary. “I just returned from Viet Nam,” I said.
“Oh, that must have been horrible,” she said.

“It was,” I said. I wanted to change the subject. I wanted to keep my parents' anniversary happy. “After we left Viet Nam our ship sailed with two other ships completely around the world. We sailed around Africa.”

“That must’ve been fun,” she said. “How long will you be home before you have to leave again?”

“I've been transferred to a ship, whose homeport is here in Long Beach.”

“Oh, good! We’ll be seeing more of you then.” She talked about her children, who I knew, except for one. She didn’t understand how I could not know, Denise, her oldest daughter, since I had been to her house so many times to retrieve my little sister. My sister’s best friend was Holly, Eda Bea’s youngest daughter.  Eda Bea looked at her watch and told me to stay put. “Denise should be home from work by now,” she said. “Wait here and I’ll bring her over for you.”

Why I Don't Cuss

      

             I never heard cuss words spoken in our house when I was growing up. My mother would have washed my mouth out with hand soap, if I had ever used bad words. I grew up in a very devout Catholic household. I went to Catholic school for 11 years, skipping only the 2^nd grade.  I was an altar-boy from the 4^th grade through high school. I spend 4 years in a seminary because I wanted to become a Catholic priest. My father was a Catholic priest. He became one after my mother died.

          Bad words were not allowed in our house, as least not during the time that I lived there. After I moved out, my younger siblings used bad words that I would never have uttered in our house. When I entered the Navy and went to Viet Nam, I was surrounded by shipmates that used foul language as a normal way of speaking. “Sailor speak” is a  subculture characteristic that fits the sailor stereotype. As such, colorful language doesn't offend me. Not all sailors cuss, of course. But no one is shocked when he or she hears a sailor use colorful language.
          I remember trying to use the "F" word over the phone to a friend who uses that word with joyful regularity. I couldn't do it. I started to laugh and I just couldn't say it. I was already in my 40s.
          It is hard for me to write the way sailors speak. I don't do it well, because my tongue isn't used to forming those words. It feels forced and unnatural. I often call on my little sister. She is 15 years younger. She is my cussing consultant. I have to work hard to put myself into my characters when I read aloud in public. And then, when I get home, I wash my mouth out with hand soap.
          That last sentence was a complete fabrication. But it made me feel better to write it.

School Crossing Guards

I am grateful for school crossing guards.

I fondly remember Mrs. Hill, our Saint Mattew’s elementary school crossing guard. I remember her as being old, almost elderly. She had white hair and she was skinny. She had a smile for us every morning, unless we tried to cross the street without her raising her stop sign for us.

I remember my classmates and I making Get Well cards for her when she got hit by a car. She sacrificed herself many times over the years as she raised her stop sign to stop the cars so we could cross Highway 22, (7^th Street) safely. I think about her whenever I drive by Saint Matthew’s on 7^th Street.

Roar

I created this cat on a with AUTOCAD in 1991.

Grief is a cruel companion

Grief is a cruel companion

Who sits in my lap,

Laying her head on my chest,

And then whispers,

"He's dead."

OUCH!!!

Her steely sharp teeth

Chomp into my chest

So fast,

So hard,

All the way into my heart.

I can't breathe.

I can't see

I can't talk.

I need,

Really, really need

To scream.

But I can't.

She squeezes both hands

Around my throat

And I choke.

Tears fall.

"I'm sorry it hurts,"

Grief whispers.

"I'll sit with you,

Stand by you,

Comfort you,

The only way

I know how.

I won't let you forget

Or lose,

Or throw away

The love.

I promise.

I'm sorry it hurts."