Photo by Corinne Kutz on Unsplash
Succulents
When I arrived home from the hospital,
there was a gift box at my doorstep
from my daughter, who recently moved away.
Among its contents: a dark chocolate candy
bar, a vanilla-scented candle and a tiny
moonglow succulent in a white ceramic holder.
Her sister gave me a succulent, too.
The sticker on its plastic container
called it a fairy castle cactus,
with dual spires and 13 pups in their
shadow, some clinging to their mommas,
others striking out on their own, like my girls.
I find it curious that both of my
daughters gave me succulents
instead of flowers. So practical.
Perhaps that’s how they see me:
Tough, prickly surface on the outside,
but soft and juicy on the inside.
Or maybe it’s a commentary on my life: Strong,
sturdy, cannot be killed, unless you overwater it,
the discolored leaves dropping one by one.
All My Doctors Fear My Mother
Long-dead, she arrives to pick me up from one of my many
doctor appointments. My physicians are all there.
Some appear guilty, girding themselves for a fuss.
She drives up in her golden Lexus with Barbra Streisand blaring
“Stoney End,” turns off the turbo engine and gets out, guns blazing.
She wears her signature oversized sunglasses, her turquoise blouse,
those black pants from Talbots. Coach bag flung over her left shoulder,
gold Tiffany bracelets clanking as she walks.
She points to me, my right arm dangling by my side, my fingers
in a permanent fist, my smile crooked, and asks, “Who is responsible
for this?” Of course, no one fesses up, but I told her before who is to blame:
my internist who I fired after my stroke. Standing at the back, he looks
sheepish. So different from my previous pre-incident visit, his false
concentration as he hemmed and hawed over my case. “You!” she points
her bony skeletal finger at his face. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
The other doctors quiver, listen intently for his answer. He thinks, shrugs,
replies, “Sorry?” The other doctors laugh. She walks over and slaps him.
Slaps him again. We drive away. What is the sound of one hand clapping?
For You Are at That Place
Like when you auditioned for the top band but placed
last chair, the world would open up for you and then
disappoint. Knowing that you would have wanted it this way,
as the Chicago song goes. It’s always about the struggle.
Like a foot soldier after a battle, his body riddled
with a million bullets, only to be told he won the war.
It will feel so much better than any cause worth fighting
for. With a rebel yell, she cried, “More, more, more,”
Billy Idol beckoned. Brings you back to the ‘80s,
“A Room with a View” at the Paris theatre, sitting
in the balcony so your friend could smoke, scratching
your head in disbelief that you could actually do that.
Like sailing past the line of people queuing up
at Limelight and into the club like you owned
the joint, your out-of-town college mate amazed
that you actually did that. Those were magical times.
And it could happen again if you dance long and
fast enough, for you are at that place, you fortunate girl.