I was raised in the shoe family of Januzzi's Shoes. The ditty on the radio in the 80's went something like this: "All over the street, to happy feet. Get your shoozies at Januzzi's."

For some, they put on their writer's hat. For me, I wear my writer's shoes.


Sunday, November 24, 2013

Remember-A-Wish


Remember-A-Wish

Yesterday, I sat with Betty.
More factually, she sat with me.
Just plopped down
in her fuzzy pink housecoat -
large eyes, large breasts, large curls.

She wanted to talk to me
about something at the home
that she felt just wasn’t right.
So I listened, in between
my mother making her own
comments on my sweater’s stripes.

Hey. Where’d get that?
Mother asked.
And while I told her,
I was also nodding my head
at Betty, who swears she was right.
I know I saw her working
somewhere else, she said.

And then went on to repeat
her sworn testimony
interspersed with stories
of a mother with Alzheimer’s
and a father with dementia,
how she was raised on horses
and always had cats,
was now owner of “Itsy” -
a Chihuahua in miniature.

Hey, I like that sweater.
Mother tried to join in.
Your mom repeats a lot.
Betty replied but didn’t pause.

What I mostly wanted to keep
was my horse, Randy.
And here, I couldn’t tell
if the name was tongue in cheek
or named after an old beau.
But I nodded my head
as she spoke fervently about
caring for the horse.

And I wondered later
if there wasn’t some way
to make her wish come true.
But if it happened,
wouldn’t her wish just disappear?
My family asked.
And I agreed, It would dissipate,
go unremembered.

But the universe would not forget.

11/23/13


Wednesday, November 20, 2013

A Walk with the Moon


On long walks,
voices sultry or rasp
often accompany me.

But this morn
I walked with the moon,
her eye, a bleary yellow -
as if staying up all hours
was finally killing her -
trailed me through parking lots
and matted fields.

As she kept pace
and heard my morning moans,
bared her white-gold
wisdom to my complaints.

Miles beyond I reviewed
the mayhem of my day
A glance over shoulder
and she still shone,
wearily, waning and pale,
no match for the bold,
mounting sun.

She tired easily I thought
her nickel-plated shield
that protected the night
now laid down as if
she had stopped fighting
for darkness. Sun seeped in
diffusive and slow.

As I trekked through
the final forest
her glow was now light
for some young child, aside
a seething fire waiting
for tenderness that comes
only with the night.


Tuesday, November 05, 2013

The Face of Fall - A Prose Poem


Leaves of red maple shoot up in flames, against a towering white picket fence.  My mother looks out on them with wistfulness. She begs of me, Come here. Look. She points assertively at the trees.  And that blue, blue sky.  We marvel together for a moment.  Then she begins to count, One, two, three.  Three, she says again with pride, as she turns to me.

So, I think, let me take her out sometime. Drive her through woods or down my home street.  Show her more leaves. Leaves she made my father pile and bag. She never handled a rake. I can’t imagine her long slender fingers, which tightly rolled nuthorns and other delights, have ever wrapped a rake. But certainly, she jumped in mounds of oak and maple, when they were piled high.

I arrive one Saturday, ready for our drive. I have supplies in my car, in case of incidents I used to expect with toddlers, and now plan for with my mother.  I have a few hours space on my schedule. We have all day, I tell her, when I find her. 

She is in Jerry’s room, seated in his rocker chair, watching an old Lawrence Welk show.  There is no cable - someone must have pushed a button on a video player.

I get her to rise. She follows, but that only lasts for several steps. She wants to turn away from the main door. I let her lead for sometime, and she pulls me over to the bulletin board.  Arden Courts News Center, she draws out. See, I told you.

And when she reads, I am supposed to answer, Yes. She is waiting expectantly, a pupil awaiting approval from her teacher. I am anything but.  I miss my clue this time.  She yanks at my arm again. Rereads the headline.  Pushes my arm away. Walks down her corridor away from the exit.  We are not going for a drive today.

Halfway to her room, she stops and stares, I don’t know what to do.  I am lost for a minute, and then I comprehend. She has had an accident. They are happening with more frequency.  Recent medications are speeding up her digestion.  Or is it the disease?  In this I always wonder, am I witnessing the end?  Will I know it, when she is in it?

We toddle to her room.  I struggle to remove her clothes, clean her body. This does not come without pain and heartache. For she often slaps me when she is in pain or shame. When our task is complete, and she feels comfort, my mother reaches out to touch my cheek, and says, I love you, honey.

My name is not at the tip of her tongue. Most names are not.  But honey suffices.  After accidents, embarrassment and exhaustion, she often wants Sinatra and sleep.

I help her to bed. She never sleeps beneath her sheets, as if  preparing to rise at a moment’s note. 

I’ve got you, Frank starts out. And Mom replies, Under my skin.
I’ve got you, he says again, Mom answers, Deep in the heart of me.

The call and respond endures.

I’d sacrifice anything come what might.
For the sake of having you near.

As if she could finish any sentence Old Blue Eyes ever began.

I pull the green afghan up to her chin. Her arms circle around me, and mine, her.  I look deeply into her puffy eyes as she sings herself to sleep. Her childlike face, beaming. Not at me. Not even at Frank.  But at Autumn’s musical of leaves changing colors. Her lit face a reflection of God’s show.


11/4/2013