Georgette. I last saw her in 1972, early summer after sixth grade. We sang silly songs in the common playground area on base housing. It was our spot. Our sanctuary within Camp Pendleton, us two military offspring.
I can go there, that swingset spot in 1972. I can close my eyes and hear her voice, her little girl squeakiness not yet fitting into her twelve-year-old body. I can feel the air, hot dry Southern California air warming my face. I can see Camp Pendleton’s sparse landscape with its mountains and dry grassless land. And I can see Georgette’s face, big brown eyes, curly brown hair, chubby cheeks and tanned skin. And always smiling. My best friend. My smiling friend. I made her laugh, she filled my lonely days with girly companionship.
I was thinking about her today, 33 years later.
Back in 1972 again, after almost two months of summer break, and after a little girl tiff that caused our separation, I decided to forget our argument and I skipped to Georgette’s house only a few short military blocks away. It was the end of summer before our seventh grade school year. The newness of junior high styles, teachers, lockers and cute boys were just making their way into our vocabulary.
“Can Georgette come out and play?” I asked, looking at the individual who answered the door.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, those people moved away a few weeks ago. You know the little girl who lived here died,” related the stranger. I didn’t believe what this woman was telling me. It seemed unreal or just wrong. So I ran back home, and asked my mother.
“Yes, honey, Georgette died of Leukemia,” she told me. I sat in my room, and pretended there had been some sort of mistake. It was a different Georgette they were talking about and my friend Georgette was still alive, she had just moved away, like all military families do.
Years later, I cried. My best friend had died in 1972. She didn’t have a 1973 or 74 or wear big hair in the 80s or anything. She didn’t get to experience email or Im-ing or the momentous leap into a new century. She didn’t ever date, or kiss a boy, or marry or have children or grandchildren. She only hung around for twelve years, she mostly just played and grew.
When I was twelve, my best friend was gone. I should’ve almost been used to that feeling of loss, but instead, it crept inside of me, a hole, a damned hole. I had questions, I had no one to ask. So here, I’ll ask now, and I know there’ll be no answers, but maybe Georgette will find this in electronic space:
Do you remember eating bags and bags of M&Ms? Was that a good memory for you, too?
We didn’t get to start seventh grade together, you left too soon, but I held your spot on the bus, just in case. Did you know that?
Do you remember Becky? Her chest was the talk of Wire Mountain One! Did you know James felt her up?
In seventh grade I learned Pig Latin, did you know that? An-ca ou-ya alk-ta ig-pa atin-latn? I’ve been wanting to do that with you. I thought it would be a good way to convey secrets.
For my birthday I received a hot curling rollers set. I wanted to share them with you. We were going to have a sleepover that last summer. Would you have helped me curl my hair at the sleepover?
That last day I saw you, you looked fine. Healthy. You and I had gotten in a fight at the swingset. We twirled each other on the swings, my younger brother was with us. Then the accident, you let go of me, my body was swinging wildly, my legs banged against the swingset pole. Wow, it really hurt. I cried, my brother over-reacted, you bolted. I never saw you again. It was the wrong way to end. I looked for you a lot later, but you were gone. Is it too late to say I’m sorry?
What is leukemia? How did you get it? Why didn’t you tell me you were sick? Why did you leave so quickly? Where did you go? Why didn’t anyone tell me you were going to die?
How is anyone to learn and grow from this? This made no sense to me, as a twelve-year-old me, and it makes no sense to me, now, a mother of girls.
Here is another day, another day of thinking of you, 33 years after your child-death, because this kind of pain is a reminder, that we are connected to each other. It is past and present and we are all part of the hub of love and life. We do so much with each other and for each other. I have much to be thankful for, including old memories, old pains—reminders of humanness and of the goodness that preceded it and will succeed as well.
Do you know I still think of you? Often.
(originally written Sept 6, 2005)
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Greatest Expectations
I expected things to be different.
I was nearly four years old and I expected someone or (thing) was about to whisper eternal secrets in my ear or at least deposit answers to all of mankind's questions. I had felt a sense of having always been alive. I expected to have more answers at age four. I expected to discover that everyone felt the same way. I expected my parents knew we had been together before, somewhere. And some other time period.
I always remained aware of some sort of presence. Yet I wait for those secret answers.
I expected the violence would go away one day, only if the "if onlies" could be fulfilled. I expected that one day my father to settle down into a softer way of living, less abuse, less hitting, less screaming, less drinking. He went away. The violence went away.
I expected my family life to be something like "Leave it to Beaver" or "Father Knows Best." I was fooled by television.
Somewhere around age seven or eight, I expected my father to come home. And then there would be a normalcy that would gently heal the most exposed painful parts of my young self. He did not return. The family was different.
It became something else when my mother remarried.
There was a huge sense of loss throughout my entire life, especially as a child. There was even a larger sense of gain as I learned to love my new father, a rock, a dependable soul who paved an image of stability and togetherness. I learned a lot about relationships.
I had not expected to love my new father as much as I did.
I expected my future husband would be a lot like my father.
When I was nine, I couldn't wait to be ten so that I could enter into that mysterious double digit realm. Truly life was going to be bigger, more adult, less elusive. Ten was barely different from nine. So I waited. I waited for the mysteriousness to manifest.
Even as a teenager I expected to fall in love forever. "This will be different, it will be REAL love." So I made myself fall in love. It was temporary. There were Bills, Bobs, Joes, Johns, a Casey, a Brett, Toms, Franks and I think an Aldo.
I expected to find true love once, but it took a lot of tries before I found it. I expected to keep it.
I expected to always be youthful, like in my late teens and throughout my early thirties, flirting with and loving all sorts of mobile men and dreamlike aspirations.
I expected to always be youthful. I expected to always be thin, and eat what I liked and when I liked.
I expected to always be youthful, in the way of running and building and having all that boundless energy my teachers and later colleagues praised upon me.
I expected to always be youthful in the eyes of my spouse, in the hopes that he wouldn’t stray and find youthfulness elsewhere.
When I was utterly youthful, I expected everything to be handed to me.
I expected that forgiveness would have enter my vocabulary by now.
I expected my first marriage was going to be the end-all and it would save me from all heartache, and monetary worries, all struggles, all everything young women worry about. My first marriage lasted four years. The heartache got worse, the monetary worries multiplied, and struggles were the same.
I expected to fall in love with that husband.
I expected to be swept off my feet.
I expected to be generous.
I expected to have a family.
When I did have a family, I expected I would never yell at my children or spank them, I would be different.
I did not expect to be just like my mother.
I did not expect to say things my mother had once said.
I expected to always feel the ecstasy one feels when so deeply entranced in one’s art, that it is impossible to see the difference between the veiled and what is called “real.” I expected the ecstasy to be constant, everlasting.
I expected my faith to be unquestionable. Yet once in my life, I nearly asked why, and it nearly ended the questioning.
I felt exactly three moments of complete, undeniable spirit-filled ecstasy. My soul was overwhelmed by gifts of love and clear answers to my God-related questions.
I expected to always feel this way. Everyday.
I expected to be less angry.
I expected more encouragement.
I expected to regain what was lost, by now.
I expected to be taken care of.
I expected to be worrying less.
I expected to live longer.
I expected to be a great example for my children.
I expected to be less disorganized.
I expected to paint everyday.
I expected to sit on the veranda sipping tea and looking out at the ocean waves, my little girls in their sundresses dancing along the dandelions.
I expected forgiveness.
I expected to be less cautious, more adventurous.
I expected to travel, to see what this world had to offer.
I expected to be famous and known for something great.
I expected to have longs legs, almond-shaped eyes and a tiny waist like my Barbie doll.
I expected to strive for being great.
I am content being a mother. It is a service I wholeheartedly welcome into this life. I feel like I had waited forever for this completion of love.
I expected to keep, not lose my friends.
I did not expect that hearing my little girls sing silly songs would fill up my heart.
I expected to hear the eternal secrets.
I am aware of what could be called a guardian angel or so, it is always with me, it has helped me to save myself in the worst of times. I expected to hear a real voice talking to me, like when I was four years old.
I expected grace.
I did not expect that I would have gotten so many gifts this soon.
I expected the presences to be louder.
I now know they are loud enough.
I was nearly four years old and I expected someone or (thing) was about to whisper eternal secrets in my ear or at least deposit answers to all of mankind's questions. I had felt a sense of having always been alive. I expected to have more answers at age four. I expected to discover that everyone felt the same way. I expected my parents knew we had been together before, somewhere. And some other time period.
I always remained aware of some sort of presence. Yet I wait for those secret answers.
I expected the violence would go away one day, only if the "if onlies" could be fulfilled. I expected that one day my father to settle down into a softer way of living, less abuse, less hitting, less screaming, less drinking. He went away. The violence went away.
I expected my family life to be something like "Leave it to Beaver" or "Father Knows Best." I was fooled by television.
Somewhere around age seven or eight, I expected my father to come home. And then there would be a normalcy that would gently heal the most exposed painful parts of my young self. He did not return. The family was different.
It became something else when my mother remarried.
There was a huge sense of loss throughout my entire life, especially as a child. There was even a larger sense of gain as I learned to love my new father, a rock, a dependable soul who paved an image of stability and togetherness. I learned a lot about relationships.
I had not expected to love my new father as much as I did.
I expected my future husband would be a lot like my father.
When I was nine, I couldn't wait to be ten so that I could enter into that mysterious double digit realm. Truly life was going to be bigger, more adult, less elusive. Ten was barely different from nine. So I waited. I waited for the mysteriousness to manifest.
Even as a teenager I expected to fall in love forever. "This will be different, it will be REAL love." So I made myself fall in love. It was temporary. There were Bills, Bobs, Joes, Johns, a Casey, a Brett, Toms, Franks and I think an Aldo.
I expected to find true love once, but it took a lot of tries before I found it. I expected to keep it.
I expected to always be youthful, like in my late teens and throughout my early thirties, flirting with and loving all sorts of mobile men and dreamlike aspirations.
I expected to always be youthful. I expected to always be thin, and eat what I liked and when I liked.
I expected to always be youthful, in the way of running and building and having all that boundless energy my teachers and later colleagues praised upon me.
I expected to always be youthful in the eyes of my spouse, in the hopes that he wouldn’t stray and find youthfulness elsewhere.
When I was utterly youthful, I expected everything to be handed to me.
I expected that forgiveness would have enter my vocabulary by now.
I expected my first marriage was going to be the end-all and it would save me from all heartache, and monetary worries, all struggles, all everything young women worry about. My first marriage lasted four years. The heartache got worse, the monetary worries multiplied, and struggles were the same.
I expected to fall in love with that husband.
I expected to be swept off my feet.
I expected to be generous.
I expected to have a family.
When I did have a family, I expected I would never yell at my children or spank them, I would be different.
I did not expect to be just like my mother.
I did not expect to say things my mother had once said.
I expected to always feel the ecstasy one feels when so deeply entranced in one’s art, that it is impossible to see the difference between the veiled and what is called “real.” I expected the ecstasy to be constant, everlasting.
I expected my faith to be unquestionable. Yet once in my life, I nearly asked why, and it nearly ended the questioning.
I felt exactly three moments of complete, undeniable spirit-filled ecstasy. My soul was overwhelmed by gifts of love and clear answers to my God-related questions.
I expected to always feel this way. Everyday.
I expected to be less angry.
I expected more encouragement.
I expected to regain what was lost, by now.
I expected to be taken care of.
I expected to be worrying less.
I expected to live longer.
I expected to be a great example for my children.
I expected to be less disorganized.
I expected to paint everyday.
I expected to sit on the veranda sipping tea and looking out at the ocean waves, my little girls in their sundresses dancing along the dandelions.
I expected forgiveness.
I expected to be less cautious, more adventurous.
I expected to travel, to see what this world had to offer.
I expected to be famous and known for something great.
I expected to have longs legs, almond-shaped eyes and a tiny waist like my Barbie doll.
I expected to strive for being great.
I am content being a mother. It is a service I wholeheartedly welcome into this life. I feel like I had waited forever for this completion of love.
I expected to keep, not lose my friends.
I did not expect that hearing my little girls sing silly songs would fill up my heart.
I expected to hear the eternal secrets.
I am aware of what could be called a guardian angel or so, it is always with me, it has helped me to save myself in the worst of times. I expected to hear a real voice talking to me, like when I was four years old.
I expected grace.
I did not expect that I would have gotten so many gifts this soon.
I expected the presences to be louder.
I now know they are loud enough.
A Journey and A Lesson
In this journey
it is important to know,
but it must be knowledge
that does not conceal
When the journey has led
to the lesson
of unveiling one’s Self,
it should be the Self
seen by the heart.
The mask hides what is me,
and seemingly protects my heart,
and cloaks my recessed Self.
I can remove my mask
to the Universe,
to become a part of the Universe.
I am an infant
I am a Supernova!
it is important to know,
but it must be knowledge
that does not conceal
When the journey has led
to the lesson
of unveiling one’s Self,
it should be the Self
seen by the heart.
The mask hides what is me,
and seemingly protects my heart,
and cloaks my recessed Self.
I can remove my mask
to the Universe,
to become a part of the Universe.
I am an infant
I am a Supernova!
Middleness
Things flying around my big head, lights, flickers
unmentionable things, undeterminable things.
How did this start?
This route, the beginning? The end?
“See here,” a thought happens.
I am a daughter,
and a person of the middle.
I was born in the middle.
I’ve always lived in the middle.
“See there,” I hear now.
Us middlings, not given things,
We work for things.
We acquire middle things
and middle mates and middlenesses of all kinds.
Middlings start from the middle
and move outward and upward
and toward the North to mate with other middlings
and build mansions of straw or bricks or middle things,
groping the way to the middle.
"See where," now all in view.
unmentionable things, undeterminable things.
How did this start?
This route, the beginning? The end?
“See here,” a thought happens.
I am a daughter,
and a person of the middle.
I was born in the middle.
I’ve always lived in the middle.
“See there,” I hear now.
Us middlings, not given things,
We work for things.
We acquire middle things
and middle mates and middlenesses of all kinds.
Middlings start from the middle
and move outward and upward
and toward the North to mate with other middlings
and build mansions of straw or bricks or middle things,
groping the way to the middle.
"See where," now all in view.
Mercy and Grace are Sisters
Unfettered child
See, my Love, I walk for you.
Wandering footman
See, my Love, all plums, almonds and olives - a bounty for you.
Feathered soul
See, my Love, no questions no doubts no dismal sayings.
Softened animal
See, my Love, universal adherence to my brothers, my sisters.
Farmed seed
See, my Love, the words, alphabet of being
My Love, words faithful.
Surely Mercy and Grace are sisters.
See, my Love, I walk for you.
Wandering footman
See, my Love, all plums, almonds and olives - a bounty for you.
Feathered soul
See, my Love, no questions no doubts no dismal sayings.
Softened animal
See, my Love, universal adherence to my brothers, my sisters.
Farmed seed
See, my Love, the words, alphabet of being
My Love, words faithful.
Surely Mercy and Grace are sisters.
Lovely Child
Lovely child,
brightened face,
obey your soul,
find peace and grace.
Lively child,
brilliant one,
gifted and giving,
artfully done.
Playful pet,
instinctually present,
star bound and song-filled,
angel-sent.
Beloved issue,
a romp and a race,
spirited you.
My eternal face.
brightened face,
obey your soul,
find peace and grace.
Lively child,
brilliant one,
gifted and giving,
artfully done.
Playful pet,
instinctually present,
star bound and song-filled,
angel-sent.
Beloved issue,
a romp and a race,
spirited you.
My eternal face.
Dusty Life
I have a dusty life,
dusty dreams,
dusty mannerisms,
dusty recollections,
dusty clothes,
dusty habits,
and a dusty religion.
dusty dreams,
dusty mannerisms,
dusty recollections,
dusty clothes,
dusty habits,
and a dusty religion.
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
(Dedicated and written for Catalina McKay, 2003)
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
Are best of bestest friends.
They run, they scream, they hide, they dream,
They build cardboard forts,
They’re the biggest, most bestest team.
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
Make lively wicked things
Like bows, and arrows, dart guns, too
Shooting fat pumpkins,
Making the gooiest slimey goo.
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
They’re sticky and witty pals.
Their mud, their gum, their love, their fun,
Their doughy recipes
And frothy life of the so-young!
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
Are best of bestest friends.
They run, they scream, they hide, they dream,
They build cardboard forts,
They’re the biggest, most bestest team.
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
Make lively wicked things
Like bows, and arrows, dart guns, too
Shooting fat pumpkins,
Making the gooiest slimey goo.
Billy Boggins and Candy Goggins
They’re sticky and witty pals.
Their mud, their gum, their love, their fun,
Their doughy recipes
And frothy life of the so-young!
Dear Mr. Zinobar
Dear Mr. Zinobar:
Can You forgive the members You know best?
Petty grievances,
petty give-nesses,
petty members best forgivenesses?
For high is their take-ness,
high is their forgetfulness.
Who sings “yes” for these members?
Their inappropriate laughs and lovers
and wreckings and buildings of egos and
broken limbs and broken spirits,
and broken covenants,
and messy selves.
Dear Mr. Zinobar:
Can You forgive a nonmember who is song-less?
My wantings, my beggings, my selfish petty askings,
songless and soundless in this church?
Dear Mr. Zinobar:
Forgiver of members You know best.
Their petty doings
and petty likenesses
and petty hands and petty fingers and petty thoughts.
Petty children adored.
You forgive their wreckings of others’ egos
and self destructive petty manners.
And oh we do love, Mr. Zinobar,
our petty lives.
And we have bungled our choices,
oh, these mysteries of heart.
Can You forgive the members You know best?
Petty grievances,
petty give-nesses,
petty members best forgivenesses?
For high is their take-ness,
high is their forgetfulness.
Who sings “yes” for these members?
Their inappropriate laughs and lovers
and wreckings and buildings of egos and
broken limbs and broken spirits,
and broken covenants,
and messy selves.
Dear Mr. Zinobar:
Can You forgive a nonmember who is song-less?
My wantings, my beggings, my selfish petty askings,
songless and soundless in this church?
Dear Mr. Zinobar:
Forgiver of members You know best.
Their petty doings
and petty likenesses
and petty hands and petty fingers and petty thoughts.
Petty children adored.
You forgive their wreckings of others’ egos
and self destructive petty manners.
And oh we do love, Mr. Zinobar,
our petty lives.
And we have bungled our choices,
oh, these mysteries of heart.
Western Heaven
In fifty years my body will not be here
I will be in Western Heaven
That place you’ve promised to meet me
And greet me in eternity’s capsule
With every bloom from all corners of earth.
In fifty years I will be in Western Heaven
Encouraged by your spectral embrace
Not breathing still consuming nearly dying again
Your specific face, big hands, deep voice and grin
Vivid perdurable portrait my love.
In fifty years I will be in Western Heaven.
Its grand canyons, endless grassy hills,
Snowy mountains and sandy deserts.
We’ll paint lavender feet, cobalt tails and vermilion lilies,
Sing sonnets, hum melodies and cry verses.
In Western Heaven
I will be you, you will be me,
As notes in our euphoric symphony
of lover’s sounds and angelic spines.
(Recall the promise we made that last night.)
I will be in Western Heaven
That place you’ve promised to meet me
And greet me in eternity’s capsule
With every bloom from all corners of earth.
In fifty years I will be in Western Heaven
Encouraged by your spectral embrace
Not breathing still consuming nearly dying again
Your specific face, big hands, deep voice and grin
Vivid perdurable portrait my love.
In fifty years I will be in Western Heaven.
Its grand canyons, endless grassy hills,
Snowy mountains and sandy deserts.
We’ll paint lavender feet, cobalt tails and vermilion lilies,
Sing sonnets, hum melodies and cry verses.
In Western Heaven
I will be you, you will be me,
As notes in our euphoric symphony
of lover’s sounds and angelic spines.
(Recall the promise we made that last night.)
Georgette, Where You Live, I Cannot See
My 12-year-old pal in Camp Heaven
My swingset-pal
Trading fuzzy-headed Barbies and M&Ms
Licking peanut butter and fluff from spoons
and laughing at Joey DiBartoli two rows back with the buck teeth and messy hair.
I wrote you a letter
I knocked on your door
I sat on our swing
And I held a party for you.
My dear, my friend. My laughable-pal
Sleepovers and four-square and Mary Jane shoes
Giggling and crying and chasing lizards in pickle plants
and making faces at MPs and collecting pennies from roadsides.
You wrote me a goodbye
on nothing as you whisked your body some other place
or near, I don't know
where you live now, a place I cannot see
perhaps on the swingset, still?
My swingset-pal
Trading fuzzy-headed Barbies and M&Ms
Licking peanut butter and fluff from spoons
and laughing at Joey DiBartoli two rows back with the buck teeth and messy hair.
I wrote you a letter
I knocked on your door
I sat on our swing
And I held a party for you.
My dear, my friend. My laughable-pal
Sleepovers and four-square and Mary Jane shoes
Giggling and crying and chasing lizards in pickle plants
and making faces at MPs and collecting pennies from roadsides.
You wrote me a goodbye
on nothing as you whisked your body some other place
or near, I don't know
where you live now, a place I cannot see
perhaps on the swingset, still?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
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