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She repotted it--twice--or was it three times and still it refused to thrive, this plant he shoved at her as he walked out the door. Literally opened the door, had one foot, leg and foot, leaving forever, and the other, the non-dominant left leg and foot hesitating until the torso swiveled, and he shoved the orchid at her. 

       "Take it," he said and would have lobbed it towards her, but she, predictably, lurched forward to accept whatever he offered and took the damn orchid.

His last words, "Take it," which she had. She offered no last words, stifled the automatic thank you her father had insisted on for the smallest appearance of a gift.

"Gratitude is free," he had said. "Give it."

Well, well. She hadn't, and she was glad.

But still the little thing failed to thrive. She googled "repotting your orchid," watched an unhelpful video of a woman doing just that, shook the dirt off its roots, rinsed it, packed orchid soil--or whatever it's called, and gently, yes, gently, thrust it in its new pot, its new home, whispered, "Grow, Baby, grow." to it three times.

That was last month. It was down 2 leaves now, half the plumage.  

She took a picture of the dying plant, almost sent it to him, went back to google, to the repotting video, stopped the frame at the spare, beautiful repotted orchid, took a screen shot, pasted it with her picture in an email, and hit send.

    Subject: Thriving

  

Warring Senses

Warring Senses

She smelled of coconut oil, which wasn't bad, not really, never unpleasant. Made him think of beaches, palm trees, mermaids rising out of the sea. He just wished she wouldn't smear it on her face and lips. Even a quick kiss left him feeling he'd just swallowed a health food drink--liquified kelp and the probiotic grain of the month. 
    

    All in his head, of course, made up to swirl around, add to the list of odors he couldn't bear. She'd given up aloe, shea butter, any cream with olive oil in the ingredient list, and all the supplements with no identifiable source. All natural now.

Au naturelle, she said. Tout naturelle.

Why did she talk like that? Her mother was Norwegian for God's sake. She could at least work a few Scandinavian consonants into her speech.

Or he could teach her German, something low, guttural, authentic and human.

He smiled at the thought, practiced a few ochs and ein, vie, drei before the mirror, slapped on his alcohol-based after shave and hoped the bracing odor preceded him for the rest of the day.

Morning Gifts

   

Morning Gifts

The sun is shining.

So?                                                                                                      

Well, look at it, the morning....

I'll go blind if I look at it.

I didn't mean directly. What I'm trying to say is that every morning of our lives....

Did you make coffee?

She nods. I know. But when I look out the window and see that glorious...

Where's my cup? I don't see my cup, the black one with...."

         I know. The Viking. She gets the cup, silently pours the coffee, half a cup the way he likes it, gives it to him. 

        I was just thinking, she said, that the sun is a miracle, a gift that happens....

Every damn day.

She nods. I wouldn't have said "damn."

I know. That's why I said it for you. It is a miracle...

Really? You think so?

And a blessing...

She is silent for a minute, 2 minutes. 

        He waits, doesn't even taste the coffee, let's her take it in, waits.

It's a miracle, she says again. 

        He nods. And a gift every day, freely given.

Yes, she manages to say "yes" and he turns away to drink his coffee, and so she won't know that he sees that his agreeing with the trite miracle of the sun moved her to tears--job done. 

        Pretty good coffee, he says. 

Another gift.

Story Time

Story Time

"Tell me a story."

"Oh. Okay. Well, once upon a time there was...

"No, now. Today."

"Oh, okay. Early this morning an old lady with a crooked nose and one bent finger that...."

"NOW! Not this morning."

"The old lady is in the room now, here with us, her bent finger in her pocket, concealed, hidden safe. She's standing in the corner, not hiding really, but not ready to assert herself."

"What's 'assert?' Like dessert?" Laughter.

"No. Assert means to step forward and demand to be seen and heard."

"And then dessert." Much laughter.

"There is no dessert in this story, but we could put a desert in. Do you want that?"

Pause. Thinking about giving up dessert, then, "Okay, desert. Put in a desert."

"So she has to leave the bedroom.  There's no desert here."

Laughter. "Yes, but in a desert now."

"It was hot in the desert and, of course, sand everywhere. When the wind came up, just a very small wind, but still a wind, she had to walk with her eyes closed, her bent finger hidden in her pocket, guided forward by her nose and especially her ears. She could hear the tiniest mouse sounds, the hidden whispers of the universe that most people miss."

"What happened?"

"Well, what happened is she was walking in the desert, that's what happened. There isn't a crisis in every story."

"No wolves or bears?"

"No, especially not in the desert. And this woman, this very old, bent, blind woman, smelled and heard all the tiny life, the microscopic life around her with every step. Her walk in the desert with ants and mites, flies and fleas, was more interesting to her than if she had encountered a lion."

"No lions?"

"No lions. But wait. Stop. Look. Listen. Smell. There is something. She has slowed down now, only one step every minute, until after 10 minutes...

"And 10 steps!"

"Yes, after 10 steps, she bends her old knees, smiles at the creaking sound her knees make, bends her knees until she is kneeling in the sand. She takes her hands, even the one with the bent finger, out of her pocket and bends over so her hands are buried in the sand and her nose is almost touching...."

"Is she okay?"

"Yes. She is just where she wants to be. Her hands are deep in the sand, her nose is almost touching the sand, breathing the fresh, filtered air, and she rests. She rests. She even stretches out and lies on the sand, not too straight because she is old, and her body doesn't straighten out the way yours does."

"And she had to keep the bent finger in the sand."

"Right."

"I could lie flat in the sand."

"Yes, you could. Straight as an arrow."

Laughter.

"But there she lies in the warm, soft sand, as comfortable as a queen's bed, as warm as a baby's blanket, and as peaceful as sleep. But she doesn't sleep."

"What does she do?"

"Nothing. She is waiting."

"For what?"

"For you to go to sleep so she can go to sleep. She is very tired."

"We're connected?"

"Of course you are. We are all connected. Especially you and the old woman; she's in your story."

"And I'm in her story?"

"Of course. She will go to sleep and dream of you and hope...hope...."     

"That I dream of her!"

"Yes. How did you know?"

~

That was a long time ago, but he still thinks of his old woman who must be very very old, on the other side of the world, in a vast desert, a real desert or an imaginary one. It doesn't matter because she is connected to him, and, really, connected to everything. Just as he is.

Conversation

Conversation

The squirrel was eating the tomatoes. Not the whole tomato. Just a single bite, then tossing it on the ground like a two-year-old. She could see the long track of his rodent teeth, the indentation where his claw had grazed the tomato before casting it across the garden to the patio where she was sure to see it. If he’d just drop the discarded thing where he found it, where he’d stolen it, she would never have noticed. But he made sure she saw the tomato; made sure she saw him.

Once she’d dashed out the back door, clapped her hands, “Go! Go!” she shrieked.

The squirrel leapt to the top of the redwood fence and stretched full length along the warm wood. His red fur gleamed and, if he’d had a toothpick, she could imagine him lying back with his head on the fence post, picking his teeth with one hand and scratching his ample belly with the other.

“He’s driving me crazy,” she said. 

Ralph stopped reading the newspaper, didn't look up, just waited. “Absolutely crazy, the way he steals those tomatoes.”

“Who? The mailman? Mail person?” he corrected himself. He had no idea who delivered the mail, had never seen him/her, but knew Gladys was annoyed with him/her, hadn’t remembered that it was about pinching tomatoes. What did it matter? They had more than they could eat and where did he/she put the tomatoes? In the mailbag? That would smear the mail which was probably a federal crime, crushing U.S. mail with tomatoes, except there really was no mail, just circulars, credit card come-ons, solicitations with gaudy address labels, that sort of thing, all of which could be improved by a little tomato juice and a scattering of seed, but it was a crime anyway, so the mail man/woman was probably just taking a cherry tomato or two, eating them on the spot and then continuing the route which was fine with him. toting that bag of mail, he/she needed the energy a tomato could give. Wonder what it weighed. God, how he/she must hate the holidays—all those catalogs starting in September and by October, if not before, the tomatoes dead on the vine, frozen except for the brown paper bags of green tomatoes lined up in their basement. Gladys should set them out for the mail man/woman as they got ripe. She didn’t can anymore, and they could never eat all those goddamned tomatoes anyway.

So when he finally spoke, he spoke carefully, to deflate her indignation enough to let him finish his coffee and get back to the paper. “It’s only a tomato. He/she can have them all as far as I care. His/her job is hard—wonder what those bags weigh.”

“What bags?” She stood at the window glaring at the squirrel who was now patrolling the top of the fence, the padron surveying his fields.

“Mail bags stuffed with catalogs.”

The squirrel had stopped just above the Japanese eggplant and was bent to the long purple cylinder, batting it with one hairy paw, once, twice, three times. She rapped on the window. “He won’t even eat the eggplant. I know it!”

Ralph was back in the newspaper, half listening, but, through long practice, still part of the conversation. “How do you know he doesn’t like eggplant?” And, he thought, where would he put it, but didn’t he didn't say anything. One question was enough. If he asked two, she’d take too long to answer, expect him to stop reading and look up.

“He took one last week, bit into it, tossed it on the patio.” She beat her hand on the windowpane again. “Get out of here.”

Ralph turned the page, refolded the paper, took a long drink of lukewarm coffee—just the way he liked it—skimmed a quick article about Brittany Spears, whoever she was, wondered why her mother named her after a French province and turned to the sports section.

“Drop that eggplant,” Gladys shrieked.

Ralph lowered the paper and almost got up to get a closer look at their thieving mailman/woman, but the Twins were four games up and if he showed too much interest in the mailman/woman, Gladys would want him to do something and what could he do about a man/woman who ate the odd tomato now and again—all in the service of his/her country. 

“Forget it. We get the mail on time," he said, and Gladys, for once, was speechless