Barefoot Iowa

It is easy to believe we are prepared for a thing before it happens. It isn’t until after it happens we realize this is a stupid thing to believe.

My father warned me so many times he wouldn’t be around forever, it turned into, “Oh, that is just something he says,”

And then forever showed up and took him and left me standing there to think, “Oh, that’s what he meant. This.”

Then my brother died. And my husband’s sister. My mother-in-law. Another of my brothers. A third brother.

All that left my mother to slowly lose her mind. I saw it happen. She imagined things that were not there, had conversations in her head she didn’t really have, then referred back to them as proof they’d happened. In her mind, if she remembered them, they must have happened.

My mother never told me she wouldn’t be around forever. She told me she would. And just like I did with my father, I told myself, “Oh, that’s just something she says,”

And then forever showed up and took her too.

True confession, I journal here because this platform is not kind to the editing process. When I am a serious writer, I use the computer. I save rough drafts. I go back, re-read, edit, rearrange, make appropriate changes.

Here, if I were to do proper writing with all the steps included, more often than not my original drafts would float off into the ether. Unsaved, unchanged, unseen, unheard.

Here, if I write, I must post and share or it is gone.

Here, I fight forever.

Here is where I type.

Here has turned into, “Oh, these are just things I say,”

True confession number two: We are all smack dab in the middle of both before and after.

We are in the before of loved ones we have not met yet because they have not been born. We are in the before of missing loved ones whose death has not yet happened.

The problem is, life always feels like we are stuck in the after.

After my father died. After my brothers died. After my mother died.

True confession number three: Now is where we should be.

Unedited, unrearranged, raw rough drafts of ourselves.

Think, type, post.

Now.

Not really. My birthday is in November. Sometimes it does nothing. Sometimes it snows.

It did rain on my 6th birthday. I was in Kindergarten. I walked to and from school every day. Once I got in very big trouble when, instead of walking all the way to school, I stopped at a friend’s house to play. I was in morning classes, she was in afternoon classes so when she said school didn’t start until later, I believed her. Her mom believed us both and said she’d drive me. It wasn’t until I was dropped off for my non-existent afternoon classes I learned my mistake.

My friend gave me a giant geode because we had a fun morning. My mom made me give it back because it was a fun morning I wasn’t supposed to have.

She didn’t yell at me, my mom. She told me I’d played hooky. She explained school was much too important to play hooky. I never played hooky again.

On my 6th birthday, Miss Laverne gave me a certificate that said, “Congratulations on turning 6!”

She also let me make a purple construction paper crown to wear. I wrote my name all over it and covered it in crayon 6’s. Miss Laverne had to work the stapler for me because I wasn’t strong enough yet to squeeze it.

When it was time to walk home, it was raining. On raining days my mom would drive me or pick me up or both. But I didn’t see her car waiting for me in the line of cars so I walked home.

I cried the whole way. I wore my birthday crown and carried my certificate and everything was wet from rain and I did not think turning 6 was very fun at all.

When I got home, no one was there. There was a birthday cake on the kitchen table with 6 candles in it but all the lights were off and no one was there.

So, I walked back to school in the rain, still wearing my paper crown and carrying my certificate.

At some point, my mom found me. She apologized for not seeing me when I came out of the school. It was raining too hard. When she realized what I must have done she drove home. When I wasn’t there, she traced my route, driving up and down every side street until she found me.

When we got home I took off my wet things and took a nap in my parents’ bed. I remember my sister, Kathy, was there when I woke up and the candles were lit for my cake. I remember because it was the first time I was ever mad at my mom. I remember because at that moment, my sister was the only person in the world I liked.

Then I tasted my mom’s homemade peanut butter frosting for the first time and I felt bad for not liking my mom for a minute and I cried all over again.

My brother George came home while I cried into my cake and asked me if I was crazy.

I told him my whole ordeal and showed him my messed up crown and my ruined certificate and I cried all over him. He told me to eat more cake. He told me mom would have plenty of opportunities to make me not like her. He said if he wasn’t allowed to stay mad at her, I wasn’t either. He said it was okay to be mad at her sometimes though. I just should try very hard not to stay mad at her because she really was pretty good as far as moms went and besides, “You aren’t going to be half the fuck up I am,” he said.

I laughed. Mom smacked George on the head and told him not to say the f word. Kathy said, “Ya, don’t be a fuck up like George and say fuck in front of mom and dad,”

But Kathy was smart and waited until mom wasn’t in the room when she said it. She was also eating leftover peanut butter frosting off a spatula. The sun was setting behind her outside the kitchen window and the light on her hair looked like a halo. Kathy, the Patron Saint of Peanut Butter Fucking Frosting.

I don’t like my birthdays anymore. I haven’t had a happy birthday for a very long time but this will be a very special unhappy birthday. George died when he was 54. On this birthday, I will turn 54.

So far, however, the forecast says it will not rain.

It will be a Friday the 13th though. Because fuck.

It may or may not be funny in an ugly, not funny way but not very long ago I told my son, “You should watch the movie, ‘__________,’ if you want to know your mom because the lead character, that’s your mom,” and I don’t remember which movie I told him to watch. (Snuff, Stone Sour)

If I could remember the name of the movie, I would watch it. To get to know Jake’s mom. If I remember anything correct at all, I think I liked her for awhile. She was a good movie. An okay movie. A bit of a pot boiler. Some people like that sort of thing. (Creep, Radiohead)

Susan reminds me I was a teacher. Sometimes Beth does too. Whitney and Kim remind me I was a writer and an audiophile. My ghosts remind me of my soundtrack. (Panoramic, Atticus Ross)

Faith reminds me I was once someone who gave good advice. She remains ever vigilant in the belief I will not fail her. She was named well. (Wings for Marie, Pt. 2, Tool)

Dana reminds me I was once a fairly good caretaker and should not be allowed to wander off and fall in a hole. (Don’t Follow, Alice in Chains)

Ashie checks in, every now and then, to say, “How are you, I hope you are fine,” (Hey There, Delilah, Plain White T’s)

I am still right here. (Hurt, Nine Inch Nails)

If I’d been thinking, when you asked if there was anything I needed, I would’ve asked for time.

Most people, when presented with a request for time, assume it refers to the future. They think, “I need more future,” is the ask. It seems to make sense.

Others think it means the present. They think the requester needs more now. More of this moment right here. Please may I stay right here. Put a pin in this.

But I would’ve asked for more then. A whole bunch of remember when. I would’ve asked to be sent back. So I could do some things again. So I could take more than notes. Find the places where all the things broke.

Everyone always wonders who my words are for. My answer has always been, of course they’re for you, silly.

But they probably aren’t.

But maybe they are.

And that’s how I like them to be.

Because that is how my now is.

And how I’d like your now to be.

If I could go back and do it again, you’d know for sure. But only then. And only if. If only, if only, if only.

I always looked as if I were thinking big thoughts. I maybe really wasn’t. And now we’ll never know because you never really asked. And all the moments passed.

Typical people worry about job interviews. Cross country travel. Blind dates.

My anxiety kicks in on Sunday if I know I have a doctor appointment on Wednesday.

Typical people find me ridiculous.

If I can’t find a bra, my hubby won’t insist I go anywhere. So I accidentally on purpose hid all my bras from myself.

If I haven’t showered, my presence can’t be demanded. We’ll skip this topic in deference to my accidental on purpose dreadlocks.

My daughter messages me to remind me she will pick me up at 3pm for whatever. She knows I will sit in my living room with my purse on my lap all day until she comes. She reminds me to wear a big t-shirt because she knows about my bras.

Granddaughters are unpredictable. They want things like fast food drive-thrus and public swimming pools. My oldest granddaughter has learned I will hide if she says the word shopping.

My youngest two granddaughters just think I’m that weird lady they used to see sometimes who made bracelets with them or painted rocks beside them. They don’t expect anything from me anymore.

Typical people say things like, “That’s so sad,” or, “That’s fucking crazy,” or, “What the hell is wrong with your mom,” Grandma. Sister. Aunt. Wife.

Typical people suggest therapy. Writing. Journaling. Blogging. Xanax. CBD gummy bears. More cats.

Extreme typical people suggest I get a job or go to gatherings.

Typical people are outside. They drive cars and bitch about Karens. They interact with other typical people and make fun of anything atypical.

Atypical people stare at their hands. Forget absolutely everything. Leave their glasses on the living room table so they can’t see too much if they have to go in the backyard. If they are in their backyard it is because there is something back there they can’t avoid going back there for. Like their fucking cat got out because he is a cat bastard and there are squirrels out there and he doesn’t realize his human is a giant squirrely atypical weirdo who will cry for an hour after she gets him back inside.

Heaven might be in those long lonely years when you wonder where everyone went and a hello comes along to change the day. Hell is a quiet house.

Maybe it’s the other way around.

Maybe Heaven is in the side notes. Resting quietly in your scribbled margins where no one but your very best lovie will find them.

Maybe Hell is when you realize you have no lovies left. The ER nurse is your family. A stranger behind a mask whose eyes don’t look like the eyes in their picture. Whose mouth you’ll never see.

The difference between Heaven and Hell is hard to tell.

It could be Hell is missing people. It could be Heaven is having people you remember. It could be those two things are the wrong way around.

It could be there is nothing wrong with you at all.

I don’t think about my dead brothers every day. I try very hard not to think of them at all. But they are persistent.

When my heart beats wrong, I think of George. He, who was the heart of our family, whose heart I knew well, died of a bad heart. One year older than I am now.

When my lungs are weak, I think of Bob. He, who was the life and breath of our family, died of bad lungs. Seven years older than I am now.

When my life is chaos, I think of Clay. He, who was the family’s trainwreck, was killed in a hit and run. Six years older than I am now.

They are with me this morning while my heart beats wrong from dehydration. While I cough my unproductive cough. While I consider my trainwrecks.

I am the family conundrum. The, I don’t fucking know what’s up with her. I am the one who counts the leaves on the trees. I am who they will never figure out.

George would translate me. Bob would calm me. Clay would make me dance.

George would make me dance. Bob would translate me. Clay would calm me.

George would calm me. Bob would make me dance. Clay would translate me.

Without them I am not calm. I do not dance. I am unknown.

Without them my heart is wrong. It is difficult to breathe. I have missed the train.

Without them, I am alone with the trees.

Hello from the other side of the flight you can’t take back

Hello from after, you broken wing bird baby dropped from the nest

From the song you wish you didn’t sing

From the ugly insides on the out oops here is your life without guts

Stare, I dare you, you have earned this

Before you shake your damn head, ruffle your wings, declare there’s nothing anyone could have done

Just look

this is your anthem, your genome sequence, and all the houses below the crows look like DNA markers

This is the test result, the what to your why, the effect to your caw

You, observing, are the reason

This is what happens when you aren’t careful when you fly

This is the voice in your head that yells stop

Hello from the place where no one looks up

On the deck today, smoking cigarettes like I shouldn’t, staring off into space like I do too much, ignoring the rain like I’ve been ignoring everything for I don’t know how long, the sump pump turned on in the grass below and startled me into an existential moment.

I felt the breeze. A cool breeze. The kind of breeze that doesn’t ask for a jacket. The kind of breeze that suggests you take your jacket off. I remembered a stranger on the dance floor years ago who said, “Well, aren’t you a cool breeze,”

For 3.5 seconds, I felt young. I missed my son. He always liked to walk in the rain and jump in puddles. I hope he thinks of me when he does. If he still does.

The scent of lilacs hit me like it was a Mother’s Day. It’s not. But that son I miss always gave me lilacs on Mother’s Day. Sometimes it feels as if it’s been a hundred years since he’s been here.

Then the color red came back to me. On the breast of a bird hopping in the puddle from the sump pump pit. An avian reminder that puddle jumping maybe isn’t such a big deal.

Or maybe it’s a bigger deal than it’s given credit for. Even birds like it.

I watched him for awhile, I swear he danced. He pulled little worms out of the ground and swallowed them whole. He ran at a starling to make it go away. Starlings are bastard birds. Mean. They push eggs that don’t belong to them out of nests they didn’t build and claim them as their own. Lay their own eggs. Starlings remind me of people.

The robin’s red was so red. I didn’t realize how empty everything in my world had been of color until I saw his red.

How empty my world had been of pleasant scents until I caught that lilac on the breeze.

How empty my world had been of comfort until I felt that breeze.

How lonely my daughter must be to know I sit on her deck and miss her brother.

Then she went to the store and brought back strawberries.

I didn’t realize how empty my world has been without me until my daughter gave me those red, ripe, strawberries.

The Virus is a dirty word. It is now, “Whatever that crap is going on out there,”

My increasing ass has not been out of the house in three months. My largesse has not gotten off the damn couch except to go to the kitchen or bathroom.

My fat head decided it was an excellent exercise opportunity to walk twelve blocks to my daughter’s house.

Twelve blocks, pssshhh. That’s nothing. I used to walk ten to fifteen miles, no problem. I used to run stairs. I used to lift weights, swim laps for an hour, carry a laundry basket up from the basement.

I used to not be 53.

The first part of my walk was The Hill. Athletes in training use this hill to get ready for Iron Man competitions. MMA cage fights. Marathons. Members of the National Guard have used it to prep for their month of training.

My old ass argued. Those people use The Hill going up. I would be walking down. Easy peasy.

Fuck that hill. Up and down.

At the bottom, I reminded myself how to breathe. As long as my intake of air did not exceed my oxygen needs, I’d be fine. I told myself this.

Down the hill, turn the corner, toward a street sign, my optimism and oxygen were still with me. When I reached the street sign and saw I’d gone one fucking block, my pessimism called me a dumbass.

Going home meant climbing up The Hill. That was not going to happen. Eleven blocks to go.

The next two blocks were relatively uneventful. Other than realizing I might possibly be getting hot. The block after that, my intake of air increased my oxygen needs.

With seven blocks to go, my 18 year-old self started insulting my 53 year-old self.

I told you not to start smoking.

I told you not to get fat.

I told you not to give up regular, daily exercise.

My 53 year-old self told my 18 year-old self, anorexia is arrogant.

You skinny bitch.

Tapioca tits.

Concave tummies are not sexy.

She came back with fat bitch, bubble tea boobs, and concave is a hell of a lot better than convex.

I couldn’t argue because my left knee gave out a little bit and I had to lean against a landscaped wall to get my breathing slowed down so I didn’t pass out on a sidewalk.

With five blocks to go, my legs felt like spaghetti noodles. Skinny Bitch Me said, “Try fettuccini, you old bat,”

Fat Bitch Me noticed the only other person on the planet walking toward me a block down the sidewalk.

We timed our walking so we passed each other in a business driveway entrance. He went six feet that way, I went six feet this way and, together, we made a twelve foot semi-circle.

Social interaction during a pandemic. He nodded at me, I nodded at him. He seemed nice. In his American flag sunglasses shaped like stars.

With one block left, I was sure I’d die.

So far, I haven’t.

My calves still remind me, two days later, you can’t walk twelve blocks after being sedentary all winter.

My step counter tells me twelve blocks is actually 1.5 miles.

It also tells me I made it to my daughter’s house in 34 minutes.

Which means I have a 22 minute mile.

Skinny Bitch Me just laughs.