Barefoot Iowa

The first baby I met who wasn’t me was my oldest niece. I didn’t sing to her until she was a grownup.

We were close in age so I didn’t do much more than stare at her for about eight months and wonder what in hell she was thinking or doing.

I do remember one time, before she started to walk, she crawled really fast down a long hallway of the apartment where they lived. So I crawled with her. And she laughed. That’s when I decided I’d love her.

But I didn’t sing to her until Salt n Pepa came out with Shoop and gave me something to sing to her. Now, if it comes on and I’m near her, you can bet your ass Ima Shoop at her. My niece is my witness.

When my next niece was born I decided it was okay to sing to babies because babies don’t care if you are good at it. This niece seemed to like me no matter what I did, so I sang things like Fairies Wear Boots and Highway to Hell at her.

When my son was born, I sang Mississippi Mud to him. He was colicky. Not from my singing.

My mom discovered the magic of that song for him one night while she babysat. She’d walk with him, back and forth through the living room of my apartment. Singing, walking, rocking, bouncing. And he stopped crying.

This is when I decided the magic of music had very little to do with the vocal ability of the singer- the magic of music is the music itself. My mom could sing her curtains off. With me, it’s a toss up.

The words of a song when you sing them, if you believe the lyrics will calm a crying baby- the baby will believe it too. My mom showed me how a song can change the mood of a room.

A song can change the mood of the person singing, too.

My mom always said, “Don’t shush me when I’m singing. It means I’m happy.”

My dad would hear her sing and say, “Listen to that. Your mom is happy.”

When my daughter was little I sang Under the Bridge to her. Or Where Did You Sleep Last Night.

At bedtime, I’d sing to both of them. Dream a Little Dream. Wishing on a Star.

I sang Down in the Willow Garden a few times and decided it was best to just hum that one. A song about a murdered girl, no matter how sweetly sung, is still a song about a murdered girl.

With the oldest grandgirl I sang Waiting for My Ruca, By the Rivers of Babylon, and I Love My Baby & My Baby Loves Me.

But the one song she would not sleep without was Glinda the Good Witch’s song.

Come out, come out, wherever you are…

Once, when she was sobbing great buckets from missing her granny, my daughter called me up and said, “She won’t stop crying until you sing the song,”

And meet the young lady who fell from a star…

I sang it. And my grandgirl’s tears stopped and I kept singing until she was all the way asleep. And when I hung up the phone, I sobbed great buckets.

This next bit I’m just going to hum because it’s a secret… I miss having someone to sing to.

Typically, math is not a topic I invest much time on. Sometimes it just shows up.

Twenty minutes ago I caught myself mathing.

Because I feel fucking old.

My mom got old. She never felt old.

My dad got old. He never felt anything but.

I’ve turned into my dad.

I am 55.

I feel 86.

When my mom was 55, I was 20.

On this date during that year I was 35 weeks pregnant.

My mom had six children and nine grandchildren (almost ten) then.

Actually, she had ten grandchildren (almost eleven) but we didn’t know about Christopher yet.

She’d have been excited about Christopher.

She liked surprises.

She liked parties. Dancing. Getting out of the house and getting the stink blown off. Driving to Oregon by herself.

I can’t remember the last time I went in my own backyard.

20. 35. 55. 86.

The baby will be 35 on his next birthday. The same age my mom was when I was born.

Math makes my heart hurt.

I will talk about things I know and ask questions about things I don’t know. I will learn and research and read and have conversations. I will write and spell and use grammar.

Some day, when I get bigger, no one will say, “You don’t know things, you cannot have a turn to talk,” or, “You are not smart, you cannot learn.”

Some day, when I get bigger, I will have interesting hobbies. No one will say, “You have too many things, they are terrible and boring because they are not interesting to me and they are in my way,”

Some day, when I get bigger, my best friend will be a cat. He will give me long, slow blinks before he naps on my lap. No one will say, “You cannot have a cat because you are nobody,”

Some day, when I get bigger, I will be somebody, even if I am only somebody to my cat.

Some day, when I get bigger, I will have a blog and I will do writing exercises like, “Practice writing in a childish voice,” and no one will say, “What the fuck is she writing about now?”

Maybe every word of this will be a lie                   I'd like to be the me I was with you when I was wrong about you and who I was                             I haven't changed                                                    Faith is an invisible foe                                           This is a window                                                    There are some people who should always be high

Maybe not all of this is a lie                                       I used to like birds                                                       I haven't changed                                                        There are too many songs about sunshine and not enough about books, bells and candles     you should stop peeping in windows                     I used to be birds                                                      they told me to write so I wrote until they told me don't 

Maybe some of this is true                                                               you complain about your gun shy dog as if you are a unicorn                                                                    I have changed                                                           you look familiar and so important but I remember when you were a moth

Maybe every word of this is true                        Fuck you

I don’t believe in luck, I believe in fate. If a person is supposed to win, they will win. If a thing is supposed to happen, it will happen. If it was meant to be, it will happen easy.

And here I am again, realizing the movie on TV is about siblings and legacy. So much for accidental streaming. Sometimes ghosts come through via paid subscription.

I didn’t realize I was not considered a valuable person until I found myself without an income.

And here, again, is another stupid movie about inheritance.

There is always at least one sibling who wants to take the money and run. There is always, usually just, one who wants to keep a thing because it was an important thing to the person who died.

I know which sibling I am. I have nightmares about it.

What is funny, in a not funny way, is the legacy I will leave my children (should I die today) will make the monetary leavings of my parents- look small.

Here I am, with .44 cents in my purse, $5 in my savings account and a pissy fucking attitude and I will be leaving behind three times as much money as my parents did and a house worth ten times what they bought theirs for.

But I can’t touch my value. It’s not a life insurance policy I can cancel. It’s not a cache of funds I can cash in.

But they can. If I’m gone.

I am, literally, worth more dead than alive.

And don’t I fucking know it.

To quote my dad, “Here you go, hon. Buy yourself something nice.”

I sound bitter.

I don’t feel bitter.

I sound angry.

I’m not angry.

I sound sad, like I’m feeling sorry for myself, like I’ve given up.

I’m not any of those.

I’m just an Iowa idiot, missing my parents, watching shit TV about a pair of bitter, angry siblings, arguing over the legacy their parents left them.

As fate would have it.

There is a wall of pictures in my living room of people who are gone. My mother always said her feelings were hurt because her picture was not up there with them.

I tried to explain to her, I couldn’t put her picture up there because she was alive.

She said it was unfair, the number of things she’d never see when she was dead. She made me write her eulogy and read it to her while she was alive.

She said it was alright. But just.

I edited and added and re-read it to her until she was satisfied with it. She told me, “You’re a good little eulogy giver,”

Which is a compliment I could do without.

Is it really apathy if the feeling of not giving a shit makes your bones feel as if they glow?

I only ask because the question exists in my head. I, honestly, don’t want an answer.

I could feel sorry for myself because there is no one left who hasn’t left.

But I don’t and I won’t.

The dumbest question I ever heard was, How many people die while being told comforting lies.

Because… all of them.

I write to the air, to people who are not really there, and I’ll buy a round of nothing for anyone who can make me care.

I’ve never been solid as the earth. This is not in dispute.

When I was water, I was an iceberg. I sank ships.

The only element left is fire.

From here on out, I would like you to treat me like fire.

My mom has been dead four years and her picture is still not on my wall.

If she can’t force my hand, there is no hope for you.

My dreams go away for years. When I do dream, I dream fucking weird. Sometimes my ghosts visit and give me advice or warnings. Sometimes their messages need to be deciphered, but they are never wrong.

For example, when he was alive, my father-in-law was never in an airport. Not once.

But he chose to meet me in an airport on three consecutive nights to warn me I should tell his son not to travel.

I was unable to decipher that message until after my brother-in-law wrecked his motorcycle.

I’ve gotten better at deciphering the messages since then.

Sorry, Brad.

Lately, my dreams have been about one of two things. Alternately. Singing and cats. In my dreams, I am either on stage singing my curtains off or I am a little old cat lady with dozens of cats.

I’m not trusting Freud with these.

When I am awake, I can carry a tune in a bucket. But I don’t always have a bucket.

In my dreams I can belt out a tune like I was born for it. In my dreams, I can sing without a tune-carrying bucket.

When I am awake, I have three cats. They want nothing to do with me. All three of them have obsessive love for my husband. I accept this because when he is occupied with the cats, he does not ask me questions he does not really want answers to.

Questions like, “If naproxen is an NSAID and aspirin is an NSAID, how are they not the same thing?”

I am slightly honored he asks me these things. Especially so because he knows how to Google.

Doubly so because, typically, the most he says to me is a heavy sigh in my general direction.

I am only confused when he asks me things when I first wake up. My answers are unreliable.

In my dreams, my house is filled with cats. They all love me. My dream house also has several rocking chairs I do not sit in. Out of respect for the cats.

This morning when I woke up, it took me longer than usual to be mentally present in this world because last night, I dreamed I was on stage singing to a room full of cats.

In my dreams I am a famous and politically correct pussy magnet.

When I am awake, I need NSAIDS, coffee, and Xanax.

If there is a message in these dreams, I have no fucking idea what it is.

If there are answers to questions like, “Do you have something I can use to make a jump wire?”

I’ve got nothing but the theme song to Cheers to sing back at him.

Perhaps my ghosts are just having a laugh. My cats won’t say.

Mama Kitty is a heartbreaker.

She doesn’t mean to be.

She doesn’t set out every day to do things to break hearts.

She just does things. And they make hearts hurt. Sometimes just a little. Sometimes a bit more.

Mama Kitty has a Husband Kitty and a Baby Kitty.

Husband Kitty is timid and floofy. Mama Kitty likes to clean his ears while he naps in the sun. When she can’t find Husband Kitty I must pick her up and carry her around the house until we find him.

This is the only time she lets me pick her up.

Unless Baby Kitty is misplaced. I am allowed to pick her up to locate him too.

If I don’t help her locate them when they are missing, she will cry until my heart hurts for her. I am unable to deny her when she cries.

Mama Kitty makes nests.

Her nests are random and unexpected.

She has a coffee pod box she puts her toys in.

She naps in an Amazon box, I don’t even remember what came in it.

I am not allowed to throw away the big box from the new air fryer.

She made me cut a door in it.

She chewed a window in a corner while I slept one night.

Sometimes she sits in her air fryer box and stares out the window she made so she can watch her husband and son. She appears to feel stealthy when she does this.

Mama Kitty brings treasures up from the basement to put in her nests.

Several socks. A pair of pants The Babe wore when she was six months old. Scarves. Mittens. Gloves. Underpants. One of my bras.

If I leave junk mail laying around, Mama Kitty shreds it and lines the bottom of her boxes with it.

Currently, Mama Kitty is bapping a potato in the kitchen. She isn’t even mad at it. It is just in her kitchen.

Apparently, this is what getting old is like for me.

Queen of the Cathouse with a broken heart because of the most endearing little Mama Kitty ever.

I think I will make a nest.

Some people live there.

It is just as much a surprise to them as it is to you.

No. That is a lie.

The truth is, the only difference is volume. And visibility.

Sometimes the knowledge of standing at the edge of this and that is so loud, there is no chance to hear anything else. It howls.

It cries like a mother who has lost a child.

Sometimes the edge is the only thing seen.

It looks like an infinity mirror that goes on and on and on.

Sometimes the edge is so quiet, everyone is fooled. Even the person standing there believes it is safe.

Then someone says something, even a stranger, and there it is. That edge. Full volume and visible.

Or someone doesn’t say something or they do something or they don’t do something or nothing happens at all or everything happens at once.

The fact is, the thought returns.

The question.

Do I?

Should I?

Will I?

It’s no one’s fault if someone crosses over that edge.

It is also everyone’s fault.

Because that edge is there.

Even when no one is aware.

Even when everyone believes the fear is over.

Even when everyone is fooled.

There is no safe.

There is only yes, I will, or no, I won’t.

It changes every day.

It has not as much to do with sad as one might think.

It has more to do with there being no more sad.

It has more to do with there being more nothing.

Because sometimes the edge looks like nothing. Sounds like nothing. Feels like nothing.

And that’s when you should worry.

There is a point in every conversation when the person I speak to gets this look in their eyes and I know I’ve lost them. I become something out of focus. I am Charlie Brown’s teacher.

And I want to know why.

Is this a thing that is only mine?

Is it me? Is it the people I have always been surrounded by?

What is it about other people I don’t understand?

How do I learn something I don’t know about myself, if I don’t know what this thing is about myself?

I am no longer sad about it. Not anymore. Being someone who causes other people to lose focus is just a thing about me that makes up who I am.

The panic that used to set in, does not bother me anymore.

Now, I just talk until they’re gone and I retreat back into my head and I finish the conversation with myself.

I am a good listener.

I do not want what I have not got (thanks for that, Sinead). At least, not anymore.

But I would like to understand it.

What is it about those people who hold the attention of others that allows them to hold the attention of others?

I am curious.

Do those people feel more connected to other people? Do they feel heard?

What is that like?

Have they ever been seen and heard as someone who babbles?

Do they know how alone feels?

I am invisible. I am okay with that. It prepares me for later, when I plan to haunt people. If I am seen as confusing now, just wait. My ghost will baffle the shit out of everyone who has ever lost focus in the middle of a conversation with me. My ghost will be glorious.

My ghost will recommend music and movies. She will walk naked down hallways. She will cause red lights to last longer when you are late.

My ghost will knock things off the counter in the kitchen when you are in the living room ignoring your child.

My ghost will listen to your child when she tells the same story seventeen times.

My ghost will distract your dog when you are attempting to teach him to fetch.

My ghost will also be a good listener.

But she will insist on being heard.