Mother & David had once been young lovers.
They had walked at twilight on the beach,
went to plays & the symphony,
& then it became a convenience,
but that must have been when they didn’t know
if Patrick would live or die.
They had floated in a Purgatory of sorts—
his life, her life, their lives,
The glory of God was intelligence,
& such shone in David,
I’d thought him my own personal god—
a father without a daughter,
a son, raised by humble ones,
& a heavenly spirit who edified all
he came in contact with.
Mother would surely go to the celestial kingdom,
where she would be exalted & placed
on the path to eternal progression.
David would remain in the terrestrial kingdom—
in the presence of the Man
whose torn flesh & spilt blood
had saved us.
God had been the fundraiser,
but Jesus had ponied up the ransom.
yet she had never known him.
Mother, who had known him intimately,
was stoic & had,
in her own way,
given birth to his grief.
I was like a ghost whisperer,
asking my father to accept the gospel in the next life
so that Mother would have to be sealed to him,
thus unsealing her from David.
He was a wood crafter,
she, a paper one.
For him, hell was a craft store,
she, a hardware,
but their shared love of dead trees
gave them the alone time they needed,
so that the time they did spend together
was spent not boring one another.
He was secular,
& when they became friends,
he showed her the humanity of humankind,
the divinity of the same.
He was into dinosaurs,
He tried to understand a world
that had ended,
she, a world that was only beginning.
When they found one another,
they lived not in the time prior
when they had moved in different orbits,
nor for the time to come
when they would be like
2 neutron stars,
colliding to form a kilanova,
but in the moment
that closed the space
This semester, I chose Professional and Technical Writing as one of my electives.
One of our assignments was to create a set of instructions. Immediately, I thought of something I already knew how to do, which was how to schedule Facebook page posts ahead of time. I spend about a day or two before a new semester starts, scheduling posts three days a week for the next four months. (It helps to have plenty of content.) I also have my Instagram set up to automatically post to my Facebook page.
This instruction set got a 100% and some fab feedback, so I felt confident enough to share it. 🙂 Let me know how it works out for you in the comment box below.
Click here for the full instructions: Resdesigned Facebook instructions
The foundation of our existence shook, the pillars & posts of transparency tumbled around me. I picked up a brick, wanting to hurl it like a weapon, only to find that it had turned to sand.
I knew it was required that she seek my forgiveness before God’s. I also knew God would forgive whosoever He chose to forgive, but that I was required to forgive all.
David’s money had kept my father alive, tethering my mother to the man who stood in their way, or rather, hovered between them.
My mother had lived a life of convenience, of self-flagellation by denying herself the sanctity of marriage but not of the marriage bed. Just as she had wanted to do away with Caitlin, she was now going to do away with my father.
She had never annulled the marriage, for she could not make her children bastards as legitimate children were considered status symbols–just as Mother had chosen the label of widow over adulteress.
She’d convinced herself that because he was brain-dead, his soul had gone on, just as she’d taught her girls that unChristian women, to soothe their consciences, had convinced themselves that unborn babies were nothing but a clump of cells when wasn’t that what we all were–just many more of them.
I grieved for the father who had never been lost to me at all—the father I was just now finding, only to lose him all over again.
Midnight & Noon,
being fraternal twins—
one ushering in the lunch hour,
the bewitching hour—
fought over who was 1200,
& who was 2400.
Five O’Clock always felt he had to be somewhere,
but that mysterious Eleventh Hour—
a lady on the go or a man on the run—
was always in a rush.
Venus’s marriage to Mars was rocky,
for he was gassy,
&, according to him,
she was icy,
but remembering little associations
helped her pass Astronomy class,
sliding into the seventieth percentile
with the knowledge
that the Sun was really big & hot
& Neptune was really far & cold.
Such a course of study changed her lexicon,
for when she gave birth to Halley,
she said it was like passing
a bowling ball the size of Jupiter.
Optimism & Pessimism walked into a bar,
where they came across Realism,
looking fine as dandelion wine.
They each brought her a drink—
Optimism’s glass being half-full,
Pessimism’s being half-empty.
Killing these 2 strange birds
with one shot,
she got what she wanted,
while leaving them wanting more.
Such was genuine Realism.
I grieved for all those years
of going to his grave–
when all along Mother had known
of the machines keeping his body alive–
machines that had more life in their batteries
than he had left in his years.
David was my idol,
in the way Tab Hunter & Troy Donahue
had been for teen girls in the sixties,
but he was more my Mary,
my sacred masculine,
my intercessor to the better life.
Mother was like a blanched almond,
the Catholic holy water & Mormon fairy dust
boiling away, rubbing away the hull,
exposing & releasing something akin to cyanide.
David would do Patrick’s temple work.
It was atonement–
not through his blood
but through the water & the spirit.
With one article from The Ensign,
my mother was able to set her body free
by setting my father’s spirit free.
He was the 30-second man
when it came to the bedroom;
she, the 30-minute (or less) meal woman–
at least when it came to the kitchen
(so long as it was someone else’s).
Yet somehow the kids not only got conceived but fed,
for it was all in (a percentage of) a day’s work.
Life with him was a monologue–
& she was his captive,
if not captivated,
He was a one-man show,
playing the same role
year after year:
Death of a Mailman.
His lamentations were the worst kind of junk mail,
for they couldn’t just be tossed in the rubbish.
How she wanted to stamp him out
& send him packing via airmail.
Drinking was the only thing that kept her
from going postal,
but when she’d finally had her fill,
she left him for a man of much fewer words,
only for him to leave her,
having had his fill of listening to her tell him
about the windbag she’d ditched.
He’d dreamed of Jennie—
all those years in the camp.
Hoping to see her beautiful face again
was what had kept him going,
but when he was released
& saw that her outward appearance
he realized he hadn’t loved her,
but only the memory of the image
that had once made her career.