In the Fik of it

“A box, inside of a box which is inside yet another box”, he explained to me with a dispassionate stare.   He made no broad gestures with his arms, no sweeping movement of his head, not even a raised eyebrow came with his discussion.   He wasn’t about to whip himself into a Pentecostal fury nor was he going to deliver his case with the conviction of a Southern Baptist preacher.   He simply stated the undeniable truth about his organization’s place within the overall structure.   He was both powerless and unwilling to change “the natural order of things” , and while he knew he was important he also knew he not essential . These last few months have had me thinking about his cold commentary, his “box-in-a box” metaphor and his admission of importance minus the component of essentiality.   Sherry and I have no doubt of our importance in Bethany’s life nor do we question the importance of hers in ours.   What we wonder about is the “essential” par...

Stepping out onto the side porch, I can’t help but notice the billions of clearly defined stars in the midnight sky; so rich and vast they are that the visual weight of it nearly suffocates me.   The clouds cleared out and it looks like it may frost after all, this causes my heart to sink a little as I didn’t take time to cover the flowers.   An early season frost will clip my hopes of a beautiful fall array and while I’ll miss that glorious requiem, I find that deep in my heart, I little care.   I have no time to feel sorry for flowers; I’ve bigger things at hand and all those stars served to do was to remind me of how little in control I really am. Perhaps that’s what really was suffocating me. It wasn’t until I noticed the breath vapor beginning to fog my view that I decided not to walk out into the yard for a broader view; between the cold of the night and the sudden realization that I’m in only my underwear - I simply dump the diapers into the...

He smiled and looked around the room, clearly he wasn't one of the locals.   He was related to no one, had only seen one of us before today, had no roots in this area and yet he was one of us just like the rest of us.   He started his story with a laugh and a tear.   The tear came before the laugh I’m sure, but I didn’t know that till after he’d spoken.   He was at the age where you typically give more advice on living than you get yet somehow his life had to go through a dark night before that privilege was truly his.   In those later years of his life, he explained, there was a failed marriage still to come.   There was confusion and estrangement still to come. When they came he dealt with them like any of us might.   The pain and depression of all this collapse gets coped with though anti-depressants, rightfully administered.   Then more, still rightfully administered, then the ones from friends that were thoughtful...

Why don’t you listen to me!   I have such a small vocabulary; the least you could do is listen closely!   I don’t know your words, and you pour them out so fast that they sound like running water in my brain.   They carry no meaning, they offer me little hope and they don’t help me get what I need.   All I want is my backpack. I’ve said it so many times, but can’t count and I don’t understand time, but I do know that I can’t sleep unless I’m complete and you’re not listening; all I want is my backpack!   I said it going up the stairs, I said it over the bedroom door, I yelled it but you got mad and then you got angry with me.   I don’t know why I thought it was funny , but it was; and it was sad because in your anger, you refused to listen to me; all I want is my backpack. I changed my clothes because that’s what 16-year-old girls do.   I do it because it’s the only choice I have in this life of mine.   You seem to question me on ...

It starts with a nearly inaudible whimper that sounds faintly like “nu-nih”.   “Are you ready for night-night B?” I ask her.   She may repeat the plea “nu-nih ” or she may just burst out in laughter and go back to tapping the plastic toy against her upper lip.  Sometimes she just stands there with a blank stare and an emotionless expression on her face, and other times she simply makes a high pitched squeal which forces you to ask the question again; "are you ready for night-night"? Here begins the nightly dance that could take 10 minutes but more likely will take the entirety of the evening, even into the early morning hours.   We get her ready for the night; upgrade her brief to include multiple layers of absorbency; prepare the proper layers that comfort her obsessive-compulsive tendencies, brush her teeth and pray things go smoothly. In preparation for bedtime, she layers herself like the flaky crust of a baklava starting with a camiso...