Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash
Is This Thing Loaded?
It’s late, and I’m doing the last dishes
of the day. I rinse them, swing the door down,
pull out the lower rack, and then
I sigh. Every time.
Someone designed this machine with a lot of thought.
There is a right way to load it.
Fifteen years and my wife still won’t do it.
She’s waging her own private revolution
in this two by two by three-foot box.
Today she’s put the spatula longways
in the top rack. It’s lounging there
across all the little indentations
meant for cups and saucers,
legs crossed, arms behind its flat slotted head,
smoking a joint. She’s put the plates all kinky
and off-kilter. I hate that.
But a couple months ago, she was gone
for a couple days, and I had to load it wrong,
just to feel her close. Now I get it.
I love my wife. She loads with panache:
The plates snap their fingers
like bohemians in black turtlenecks,
clearly enjoying the salad bowl
lying naked on her side,
waiting for the waves.
It’s jazz fusion in there.
Abstract expressionism.
Performance art.
New York City in a Kenmore.
The dishes go anywhere they want.
Junk Mail
Her hands flutter through the junk mail.
She puts down her slice of Fuji apple,
and pulls out the offer.
It’s the sixth time in the last hour.
She puts on her glasses.
“Let’s see what they have to say. . . ”
Reading each word to me, deliberate
and true, factual: “Mrs. M. Terrone,”
(she is so pleased)
“GREAT NEWS. . . M. Terrone. . .
You are officially eligible for a
chance to win the one. . .
million. . . . dollar. . . prize. . .
or one of over two hundred and
seventy-five other prizes. . .
and if you respond by May 28, 2018,
you will also be eligible for the
$2,500.00 early bird prize!”
She folds it carefully, replacing it in the envelope.
“I’ll read this later, when my brains are right.”
A few minutes later, she pulls it out again.
“Let’s see what they have to say. . . ”
Before she got sick, we used to drop in
to pick her up for lunch,
and I did my best to intercept this crap
so she didn’t get sucked in.
I was such a good daughter.
But now, spending the whole day with her,
I feel this piece of mail so differently. She’s reading
something that came to her, that was addressed
specifically to her, with free greeting cards, free address labels!
Giving her such good news!
This was a small moment of relief
from the crushing indignities
of extreme old age.
It’s not crap. Not junk at all.
It’s a flash of bright possibility
struggling for oxygen in the dark sea
of her depression. It’s
someone telling her
she won.
I am a better daughter now.
I let her have it.
But suddenly,
half way through the seventh reading,
she yells, “Ah SHIT!”
ripping open a present
neither one of us wants—
this unending desert of geriatric boredom.
I trudge over to the sink and make her another cup of tea.
She notices an envelope on the table, fusses with it,
unfolds the announcement. “Let’s see. . . ”
New(s) Headlines
Gang Chivalry on the Rise
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Striding Down Street in
Cool, Comfortable Shoes
Seventh Graders Cited for Excessive
Kindness
Online Sting Operation Exposes
Plot to Feed Homeless.