The wind coming from the west rakes the few leaves on the ground toward our rickety-sunbeat fence. Their rustle comes in waves and amplifies the creaking of bent nails, old wood and rusty hinges. The posts and beams of the homes 1950s design are starting to shed the heat they collected from a hot California October day and they moan occasionally with a start. There are no street lights so the night is engulfing our lot in all out darkness and pupils struggle to dilate enough to make sense of usually familiar surroundings. There is sound. The low hum of the refrigerator whose coil occasional twangs when the cooling cycle ends. Coos and sighs from the bedrooms. The leaves, the twigs and the branches cause the loudest cacophony and they are conspiring with one another. The home is reveling in its welcome of the shifting winds for those who are willing to listen to her.
Sharp Dressed Man
My mom bought in bulk. Bulk bananas, bulk loaves of bread, bulk frijoles, bulk clothes…etc. Thanks to this I started college with a crisp set of white Hanes t-shirts and about four well creased pairs of tan Dickies and two Levi’s jeans.
With rare exceptions these wears were in my weekly rotation and I got no complaints. That is until the year I met a girl with an eye for patterns and thought it wise to introduce colour I to my life. In a few months
El Pato Feo
At 13 years old I still watched Silly Symphonies and liked them overall except for one. It started a plucky little duck who had lost his way and tried to find love in wrong places. Upon his saddest moment he looked at his reflection on rippling water and the distortion cause his image to shift and thwart. He realized then why he had been rejected by others and didn’t deserve to play with the cute yellow ducklings sliding off momma’s back. I didn’t like that moment because it reminded me of me me and what the mirror showed. I had an odd homemade haircut, too many spots on my chin/nose/forehead, my nose was too long and I had an awkward smile. I didn’t like looking at my self too much in those early teen years and it would take some time before I came to peace with the face I’d be allotted.
I take solace knowing that the little silly duck found his parents eventually and they seemed to love him no matter what.
The Profiles of the Dead
We live in a time when we have self-indexed so well that in seconds any one of us can “pull up” another’s information and have some access to their life.
Today, as the dust begins to settle and the now familiar ebb-and-flow that follows tragedies begins its usual cycle I too joined hundreds of thousands of researching who were the victims and did I have a connection with them. As the names of those lost in Las Vegas this Sunday started to stream into my Twitter feed I easily pulled up the Facebook or the Instagram and punched in names.
There, more often than not, smiling faces easily made their way onto my phone screen. The comments below them were eerie. Some made no mention of a persons loss. Some were inundated with condolences, thoughts and memories of the deceased. It became surreal to think that these messages would never be read by the person who first started the account and had decided to share some of their life with a perfect stranger like me. It saddened me to think that, overall, that last photo of a martini glass, or the pair kissing on a balcony, or the clunky video of a crowd singing would become the last line lines authored persons who would have their mortal coils violently stripped from them.
I mourn the life of strangers because they are like me in so many ways. They seemed to have wanted to share their better selves with friends, families and guys like me who now come to their profile and realize that their stream has been dammed off.
The Don Quixote Episode
Just recently I entered into an on line conversation about a contemporary issue with a complete stranger. I did this on my own volition.
I championed ethics, precedent, and a need for civility in how we dialog as a society. The stranger I willingly approached proceeded to visit my profile make inference about my person from some quickly gathered facts. He was even charitable enough to give me a “pass” because of the neighborhood I grew up in and where I attended High School. Education is drastically lacking in East Los Angeles in his estimate. I found all this mildly ironic and decided to exercise my Troll-Policy and cease to engage the person.
What dawned on me is the lack of discipline to argue arguments on their merit. It also emboldened me with quixotic sense of purpose to not devolve to personal attacks when I engage others. It is a personal policy…feel free to disagree.
Too Far to Help
I have heard and seen my mom cry many a times in the last 40 years. I’ve been responsible for some of her tears.
This past weekend she broke down long-distance on the phone but her sobs were much different from those I’ve witnessed…but still recognized. From a file buried deep in my memory bank I recalled a moment of sadness of hers from over 30 years ago. Late one night I awoke and heard some rustling near my bed. We hadn’t had power for days and I had come accustomed to the darkness so I spotted her faint silhouette quickly. There in her cot she cried. It was silent but distinct and I got the feeling that if my sisters were not sleeping nearby it would have been much much louder.
Last Sunday on the phone this woman I’ve known all my life tried her hardest not to crack but couldn’t help herself. Her Mexico house has intermittent power, my grandmother (who she’s caring after) had a hard fall, she got some odd news from a doctor, there’s no water readily available to her neighborhood and a boy up the street from her died when a light-pole fell. The weight of all this is resting heavy on her shoulders and she had to reach out somehow.
It was hard to hear her. Harder to know that all I could do was just listen and give her what little reassurances I could. I feel like I did that night when I was a kid…not able to help my mom when she needs me most.
Miles to Go
No one ever truly gave us a road map.
We’ve borrowed bits and pieces from others but a lot of it we’ve figured out on our own. I suppose we are and continue to me an amalgamation of all the texts, those late late night calls early on, some shouting matches, tears, the comfortable silences, the hand holding in the car on long drives, the quick pecks before jetting off to work, the longing kisses in the warm Florida rain, the times we’ve played telephone with the kids and all those hearty laughs.
That’s the path we’ve paved for ourselves indeed and still we know there’s many miles left to go before we forever fall asleep.
Pulling Rank
Pulling rank isn’t something we like to do here at Casa Torres.
All members of the clan (including dogs) are encouraged utilize the home’s amenities at their leisure or need.
With that said, there are regular times in the morning when dad has been up a while, he’s been walking about doing morning chores, he’s had second cup coffee and may find himself in need to use the privy.
At those times, that parent reserves the right to commandeer the bathroom over the objection of a yawning and lumbering 6th Grader.
Dog Days
We had a pretty bad argument today as best of friends sometimes do. It involved these two ruffians tearing apart a wax paper square that once held my bagel. There was glaring, yelling and general admonishments.
We seem to be past it now.
On the Day After
While at the kitchen table working on her division homework my youngest paid no mind to the television broadcast on. TV is usually not on during this time at home but I figured that it was old news and she usually tunes them out. Her eye caught the loud and shocking explosion and I noticed that she put her pencil down for a moment and was transfixed on the screen. Then she snapped hear head my way and asked if what she was watching was real and if it was happening “right now.” Her brother, who had been emptying the dishwasher, quickly blurted out to her that what I was watching was 9/11 and not to worry. I paused the re-broadcast and rallied them by my side to talk for a few minutes about that day and what life was like after. When the discussion was done they went about their afternoon and I was proud that I’d assuaged fears.
Later in the eve after a round of riotous tickling had stopped and they were settling into bed, my youngest still breathing heavy, asked me if I was sure mom’s flight back home later in the week would be okay. Before I could answer my son blurted to her to not worry because “mommy always comes back safe.” I nodded to her in agreement, kissed them good-night and flicked off their lights.
I then stood outside their bedroom in the darkness…speechless.