I watch her from across the room.
She’s contemplating her interior spaces.
Cathedrals filled with stain glass memories
from five countries and more than fifty years.
Elegant experience. She turns heads then, now.
What are you thinking?
I would never presume to ask.
But if I did I know the ghost of a smile I’d receive.
The sadness in the cinnabar eyes.
The “sweetheart” or “honey”
prefacing the “Don’t worry. Nothing.”
It’s the End Times, Mom. You down with that?
She wouldn’t be rattled.
Tired of me writing about my Immortal Madre?
Yeah, Patrick, maybe you’re ripe for another shower scene, huh?
Brianne is rolling her eyes, “Whatev.”
There’s a man sitting alone across the cluster of small round tables.
He is perfectly framed, the image of reflection,
the backdrop of Starbucks mermaids and sirens.
Dear God, he looks so alone.
He’s Greek or Italian or some other olive-skinned,
rugged Mediterranean locale.
When he ordered his drink, his accent was thick, a rumble,
a sound I want to listen to.
His black curls are shot with silver.
His wide brown eyes close for a moment,
thick black lashes like butterfly kisses.
“Why isn’t he drinking, Mom?” I ask impulsively.
She doesn’t look up from the New York Times.
“Because he isn’t here for the coffee.”
Thirty minutes later he leaves.
The full tall-cup drops into the trash.
$2.75. It makes a solid sound. He makes no sound.
I watch him walk away into a crisp winter world.
Tired of me writing with my contemplative muse on my shoulder?
Rather having a rave? A flash of speed? A lap dance?
Launa laughs. “You’re fine, grrl. Just write.”
Christmas bells, Christmas bells, shopping all the day.
Why do we always finds ourselves at the mall?
“How about Victoria’s Secrets?”
I give her an incredulous look and steal the last bite of Cinnabon.
“How about Wilson’s Suede and Leather?”
“Now you’re talkin’.”
She rolls her eyes at me, “So glad I had a son.”
But we wind up at a kiosk with cheap steel jewelry.
I like the heavy weight of the rings on my fingers.
“I want a blank book.”
“Only if it plugs into a USB,” I tell her.
“Sometimes, sweetheart, I write things
that I have no intention of sharing.”
And she walks into Hallmark. Leaving me standing, staring.
Some yuppie in a business suit with a Blackberry
openly cruises her – short feathered hair, cinnamon skin,
tailored jacket and knee-length skirt.
I consider an elbow to the gut and a growl,
“Hey, bud, that’s my mom.”
Tired of the Freudian, Old World vignettes?
Feeling like my life -- unlike your life -- is stuck in rehash?
Wondering why I don't just:
Grow Up
Get Over It
Get a Life, Baby
Looking for a review of Halo 3 (cr*p) or BioShock (uh...)
to put the “Gamer” with “Grrl”?
Slinky pushes auburn bangs out of her face. Looks at me with cool blue eyes. Hands me a cup of coffee because suddenly I can't breathe. “You know I’m always reading.”
Yeah. Don’t I know.
I know so well who’s out there.
