Just Maybe

He stumbled over his words
Falling over his own thoughts
Repeating, reiterating
Refusing to admit that maybe
Just maybe
She wasn't listening to his windy soliloquy
His professed apologies
His promises to do better

He rambled until he was speechless
Breathing raggedly
Pausing, hoping
Thinking that maybe
Just maybe
She would believe his wasted words
His professed apologies
His promises to do better

He remained quiet
Attempting to make her break the silence
Waiting, Anticipating
Expecting that maybe
Just maybe
She would give weight to his pleas
His professed apologies
His promises to do better

She listened to all he said
Trying to hold hope in her hands
Praying, Begging
Pleading that maybe
Just maybe
He would mean all of it this time
His professed apologies
His promises to do better

But finally she'd learned from their past
Hanging up the phone
Crying, Hurting
Wishing that maybe
Just maybe
He would learn
His professed apologies
His promises to do better

Mean nothing without the actions to substantiate them

Prescribed Pills

Today’s Forecast: Partly Sarcastic with a slight chance of pessimism and a thirty percent chance of honesty.

If anyone were to ask, which they won’t, I would tell them that it wasn’t entirely unexpected. A surprise, yes, but certainly not unforseen. I had thought she’d needed something for years. Wellbutrin, Prozac, Lithium . . . at one point I was even convinced she needed an anti-psychotic like Clozapine. So, opening her purse and seeing the little white Rx page with an illegible signature and the word Seroquel written strongly and underlined twice didn’t throw me off balance. So, what did?

The list of doctors at the top of the page in off-black Bickley Script print.

She was seeing a psychiatrist. She’d always sworn she would never seek the care of a mental health professional. Come to think of it, just last weekend she’d pronounced to all who would listen: "I’m not crazy, I’m Southern. There are no crazies or psychotics down here; we’re called eccentrics or unusual. I don’t need drugs, I need a stiff drink. Now how bout you fetch me a mint julep, sugah."

I could have confronted her. Pulled her small white paper with it’s damning print out of her patent leather bag and waved it in her smug face. Called her a liar and a fruitcake and been justified in doing so. But I didn’t. Why?

So that maybe, just maybe, she would fill the prescription and get the help she seemed to finally realize she so desperately needed.

One and Two . . . . late, as usual

The field behind our house was never a field.

It was a castle with a draw bridge and a moat and dozens of armor clad soldiers coming to save me.

It was a baseball diamond where I played third, my brother played second and our cousin, Andrew, played catcher. You had to pitch the ball to yourself, but you never struck out.

It was a jungle where wild animals lurked and us hunters would hide with our bazookas and bows and arrows waiting for our dad to blow his old elk horn so our safari could begin.

It was a an old farm being overrun by indians during the American Revolution. Johnny Redcorn Laine would tie me up and rustle the cattle, but he wouldn't get away with it. My brother would tear off after him on our only horse and save the farm.

It was lots of things; mostly dreams. But it was never a parking lot . . . .until last summer.


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I’m convinced, at times, that I’ve imagined him. Content to hide inside my own mind, conjuring the things I’ve always wanted but never found. Even in his arms I feel the need to experience everything at once.

I breathe him, I draw him in closer, I open my eyes and absorb everything I’m seeing, I kiss his lips and drink him in all the while listening closely for his heartbeat. I need to know he’s not an apparition.

One second passes, then two, then twelve, I feel him pulling away - not because it’s uncomfortable, but because even the closest of couples need personal space - and I pull him closer to me for a moment more. The moment is brief, but it’s enough. I convince myself that he’s real. That he’s here. And I hope he always will be.

But time passes too quickly when we’re together and soon it’s time to leave. I drive past a small town, an empty field, a bustling metropolis, they’re all the same no matter how different. They’re not where he is and that’s where I need to be. Until then, I will spend my life in periods of disbelief and imagination broken by stolen moments with him.

Stubbornness

"What are you doing?"

He looked up from under the table. "I'm trying to help you look for your keys."

"Give it up. It's useless. I've searched this place from top to bottom, side to side and everywhere in between."

"They're here somewhere. You drove over here, so you obviously had them. I swear to God, Sarah, you'd lose your head if it wasn't attached."

"What?!?! I've misplaced one thing. One. How does this qualify me as someone who'd 'lose their head if it wasn't attached'? And why are you so . . .so . . . ill today? Male PMS?"

He stood up and dusted off his knees, "I've got things to do today and instead of doing them, I'm crawling around the dirty floor searching for your keys."

"Well, Mr. Important, go if you've got to go. No one told you to help me look for my keys. I'll find them myself, thank you very much."

"Go? Go? How would I go? You're-still-here!"

"I do know how to work a doorknob. I think, think mind you, that I can operate a door well enough to let myself out."

"And let you snoop around my house by yourself? Oh. I see. You haven't lost your keys at all. They're probably over there in your purse. You just want to sneak and snoop and see what I've been up to. Forget it. It's none of your business any more. Get over your jealousy, get over your nosiness and get over me!"

"You flatter yourself, really. I was over you the minute we broke up. You ended it and a millisecond later I realized I could do sooooooo much better. I give you another week before you're dating girls that still feather their bangs and tight roll their jeans. You'll be cruising trailer parks and high schools and I'll be laughing my ass off. I was the best thing that ever happened to you and deep down you know it."

He gritted his teeth before grabbing his gym bag and his keys. "Fine. Let yourself out. I don't care what you do or what you find." And with that, he was out the door and slammed it for emphasis.

She threw herself onto the empty couch that smelled of him and cried. Why couldn't she just say, "I love you. I will always love you. Please take me back."

But her pride was stronger than her love.

Fleetwood Mac

Eager to escape even the memory of her, he found himself running for hours. Led Zepplin and Pink Floyd screaming in his ears; the bands she would never listen to with him. His legs numb from the effort, his breath growing more shallow with every step, but his mind still determined to exhaust him past the point of dreaming. He couldn't take another night of smelling her perfume, being caught in her gaze, hearing her apologize and then waking to emptiness and the knowledge she would never be sorry.

The Name of the Game is "Late"

You know who I feel sorry for? The original members of Menudo. I mean, it's not like that racket they produced could be called music, but it was catchy in that wanna-shoot-yourself-in-the-head-cause-they-play-it-so-much kinda way, and those poor middle-aged men don't get credit for it anymore. All the new Menudo fans think the boy-group is just that . . a group of prepubescents who sing snazzy little Latin songs. The only possible thing keeping their fan base of today from skipping over the past members entirely is Ricky Martin. And, let's face it, he's not exactly in the news lately either. Poor past Menudo members. They're probably waiting tables in your local Mexican joint or selling bags of oranges along your beatiful highways and by-ways. They're definitely not Livin' La Vida Loca.

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"What've we got here?"

"Well, Dixie Ann, what you see here is the original Spam burger, hot off the grill."

"The original Spam-burger???? Ummm . . is there an unoriginal Spa . . . on second thought, I'd appreciate you skipping any explanations. I don't think I wanna know."

"Come on, Dixie Ann, give it a chance. You owe it to your Southern Heritage."

"No, no. I think not. I owe a great many things to my Southern Heritage, Jim Bob. My unladylike cheering at sporting events - including tractor pulls, my desire to slather everything in gravy, even my ability at age 6 to shoot a .22 and a 12 gauge with spot-on accuracy. But one thing I do not owe to my Southern Heritage is tasting SPAM. Possibly RC Cola, or Moon Pies, or even *bleck* Vienna Sausages. But not, I repeat not Spam. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Not in a box. Not with a Fox. I will not try your grilled up Spam, I will not try it, no way man."

"Awww, Dixie Ann, why'd you have to go and make such a racket?!?! Now the young'uns'll know it's not really hamburgers. There ain't no way Bobbi Sue's gonna eat this now."

"As well she shouldn't. It's my right as an aunt to warn her away from such atrocities."

Late Again, Oh Bother

It was one of those bright summer days that seemed to blind you with it's brilliance. The sunglasses he wore were twice the size of his face, but he didn't care 'cause they were cool. The combination of high speed and a convertible top had produced a hair style that could best be defined as "wild", but it went well with his eyewear. And though he was a pound shy of the legal limit for the front seat, I didn't suppose the police carried around scales in their cruisers. When he said "Momma, go faster!!!" as he laughed uncontrollably, my heart swelled in my chest until it was painful.

"Baby, can momma have her sunglasses back?" He giggled and clutched them tighter to his face as he yelled above the roar of the wind, "NU UH!" Suddenly, the glare of the sun didn't seem to matter.