Today’s guest post comes from Robert Meyer. He’s a fellow member of Kava Writer\’s Collective and blogger at The Writer (Blocked). 

Sharon

Purple was always my favorite color. I wanted everything to be that color. The walls of my bedroom, my stuffed animals, dresses. Everything. Because purple seemed to make my eyes happy somehow.

But the walls of my bedroom were beige. My stuffed animals were long ago given away to the Salvation Army. And I had to wear my brothers’ hand-me-down clothes. Overalls, flannel shirts, tennis shoes.

I had one church dress. It was denim. Pieced together from old jeans my father wore out. Lucky for me, my mother had patched up the holes.

The teasing from other kids was merciless. It didn’t help that she gave me the same haircut as my brothers.

“Ain’t gonna have no girlie girl in my house,” she’d say. “You just teach them kids a lesson. Knock their lights out or somethin’. They’ll leave you alone.”

“But, Mama, they call me a boy,” I’d say, trying my hardest not to cry. “The girls won’t play with me and the boys just push me around.”

“Nothin’ wrong with lookin’ like a boy. You should’a been a boy anyhow. Never wanted a girl. Too much trouble. Now quit your cryin’ and get your chores done.”

I hated her. There was nothing I could do when I was little. I never got to make a decision. She controlled everything. But when I got older, into my high school years, I knew that I needed to take over my life. All I could think to do was rebel. It was how I could fight against her.

Every time I got drunk it was to hurt her. Every time I slept with some guy I hardly knew it was to show her how much trouble I could be. All my friends were having fun. The only thing I wanted was to punish her.

She kicked me out on my sixteenth birthday. I came home from school and my things were packed in a duffle bag on the porch. The door was locked. She sat, looking out the dining room window. Stone-faced.

I left the bag when I walked away.

The next day I was waiting tables at the diner in town and living in the apartment upstairs. I got paid in greasy food and cockroach infested living quarters. Tips were mine. At the time it didn’t seem like such a bad deal. I had a lot to learn.

One thing that I did learn was how much money I could make by playing up my cleavage and tightening the apron around my waist. Red lipstick didn’t hurt either. Neither did the big hair. I made enough money in tips that I bought all the purple dresses I wanted.

My parents and brothers would eat dinner there every Thursday. I’d take their order, pretending they were just another customer. They’d ask for chicken fried steak and lots of gravy. We all pretended that we didn’t know each other.

But my dad would always leave a twenty for the tip. It must have been his way of making up for never defending me. Never telling my mother to back off and let me be a girl. The money was his offering to earn forgiveness for my ruined childhood.

It took me a few years to realize that I had to get away. I left. Moved to a bigger city. Finished high school and went to college. Found a good job and a good man. Every Christmas I’d send a card to my parents. Sent pictures with every child my husband and I had.

Eventually, I forgot that this wasn’t a normal way for a family to work. It just stopped hurting. They were a part of my past that only deserved a couple of letters a year. They never wrote back. Never tried to get a hold of me.

It was just as well.

Myra

            I ain’t never been a soft person. There’s no use in this life for cryin’ and carryin’ on. I had some hard times. Ain’t a person on this earth who hasn’t. Life’s tough. If ya’ wanna survive you gotta be strong.

            My husband and me was married forty years and then he died. Had himself a heart attack and fell down dead. I had a son die a year after he was born. My daughter don’t want nothin’ to do with me. Yeah. Life’s hard. Get over it.

            I’m dyin’. God seen fit to let me get cancer. It’s all over my body now. Ain’t gonna be long before I go to meet my Maker. The pastor been over to the hospital to see me most weeks.

            “You feelin’ at peace?” he asked.

            “Yup. I believe I am, pastor.” I knowed it was a lie.

            I think he could feel that fib on account he asked me every time he seen me. The last time he come he pushed a little more. Got a bit of the truth outta me.

            “I ain’t gonna have no peace ‘til I see my daughter. She done a lot of harm to my family. She best make that right before I die. Else she gonna regret it all her days.”

            He looked at me funny. Kind of sideways. “Do you think it would be good to ask her forgiveness?”

            “Now, what do I need to do that for? You can just walk yourself right on outta here. Accusin’ me of wrongin’ my own daughter.”

            It sent me into a coughin’ fit so powerful bad the nurse come in and sent him away. I been coughin’ so bad they think I got the pneumonia. It made me glad they sent him packin’. Don’t need that kind of talk ‘round me no how. Tryin’ to make me feel like it’s all my fault, Sharon runnin’ off. She never did fit in our family in the first place. I questioned God many a time why He found fit to send her to us. Last thing I wanted in the world was a daughter.

            Bein’ a woman never served me too well. Didn’t want any child of mine to suffer so like I did. Ain’t no use thinkin’ about that now. What’s done is done.

            First time I held her I seen she was a pretty baby. Knowed she would be a beautiful woman. Bein’ beautiful in this day and age is a dangerous thing. I mighta been too hard on her. But it was all to keep her safe. Figured that if she looked like a boy and could fight like a boy nobody’d wanna mess with her.

            Her will was too strong, though. She wouldn’t have none of it. So, I let her go off. I couldn’t do nothin’ for her. She did okay. Got herself through college. She’d send pictures every now and again.

            She done good for herself. Ain’t no reason I should ‘pologize to her. Fact is, she should be thankin’ me for pushin’ her outta the nest a little. Made her the woman she is now.

            But I ain’t gonna see her again before I pass on.

Sharon

A letter came in the mail for me. From my brother, Jimmy. It’s sad when you don’t even know your brother well enough to recognize his handwriting. He wrote that he had news to tell me. That he couldn’t find my phone number or email address. All he had was my home address.

The letter said that my mother is dying.

And, apparently, I’m supposed to care.

He wrote that she didn’t even realize how far the cancer had spread. She didn’t realize that she had less than a few weeks left. He wrote that he was too afraid to tell her.

And, so, I’m supposed to do what?

She would want to die at home. But they would need help. Someone to get the estate in order, set up a hospital bed in her living room, sit with her in between Hospice nurse visits. He asked if I would come.

Why would I come? Wasn’t it too late? Had he not gotten the clue after I’d been gone for thirty years?

His phone number was printed in a careful hand at the bottom of the letter.

“Whatever you decide, give me a call,” he’d written.

I dialed his number. That turned out to be a mistake.

“Come on back, Sharon,” he’d said. “We need you.”

It took me a little over an hour to drive the seventy miles back to that house. Pulling into the drive way put a sick feeling in my stomach. The house looked the same. Just more worn down. Shingles were missing from the roof, the porch sloped, the eaves sagged. I dreaded what the inside looked like.

I was right. When I opened the door, I was smacked by a thick, dank odor. Rotten food mixed with mildew and some kind of animal smells. It hadn’t been like this when I was little. I couldn’t think would might have happened.

The first thing I did was go to the store for disinfectant. And lots of it. No one deserved to die in that kind of filth. Not even her.

Myra

            Never did wanna die in no hospital. Guess I never thought about me dying anyhow. Just ain’t  somethin’ you keep on your mind. But the doctor told me it won’t be long.

            The next week or two an’ I’ll be dead. Makes me feel all kinds of alone. All I wanna do is go home and sit in my chair. Don’t wanna be here no more. Jimmy said he’d get me home today. I never counted on nothin’ so much in all my life.

            What I ain’t happy about is who’ll be there.

            “Mama,” Jimmy said. “Sharon’s at the house gettin’ things ready for ya’.”

            “Now why would she do that?” I asked.

            “We got a hospital bed for ya’. And she wanted to help out.”

            “She ain’t gonna be there when I get home, is she?”

            “Well, course she is, Mama. We all gotta take turns sittin’ with ya’.”

            “You’ll take a extra turn, Jimmy. Don’t you think for a second I’m gonna sit with her alone.”

            “It ain’t gonna be your way right now, Mama. This is how it’s gotta be else you ain’t goin’ home.”

            “She movin’ all my stuff around? I won’t have her throwin’ my things out.”

            “I don’t know. But it don’t matter.” His eyes was tired. “Let’s get you home.”

            So he went to get his pick up. Makes me get to wonderin’ if me dyin’s gonna cause anybody grief. Or if they’ll be glad I’m gone. I ain’t the easiest woman to be ‘round. I knowed that my whole life.

            Makes me glad I ain’t got nothin’ to leave behind for them.

Sharon

It took so many hours to get the living room rearranged for the hospital bed. The cobwebs swiped away and the floor vacuumed makes it look so much brighter. And yet, even with the sunshine streaming in, there’s a darkness inside. But that has more to do with my memories than anything.

Memories made me dizzy. The day my mother found out I started menstruating.

“You ain’t gonna wash them filthy clothes in my washin’ machine,” she’d said.

I had to do all my laundry outside on a wash board. Even in the winter.

I remembered the beatings over burned biscuits, dusty corners, forgotten homework. She’d spit and swear and bite. When she was really mad, her voice would deepen to a growl. Her eyes would narrow and her lips would pucker.

She’d wake me in the middle of the night to scrub the kitchen floor or rake leaves. At meals she would serve me far less food than my brother.

“Don’t want no fatty in my family,” she’d say.

Looking back at all that, I know she was torturing me. Trying to see how much I could survive.

And the whole time, my dad sat in his chair or at the table or in the yard. He did nothing. Just watched, trying to pretend that it wasn’t happening.

He was just as guilty as her.

The memories make me so angry. I got sick in the toilet. This was the last place I ever wanted to come back to.

Myra

            I’m back home and I ain’t happy ‘bout it. They ain’t lettin’ me sit in my chair. Ain’t even lettin’ me have a smoke. I’m sittin’ in this hospital bed doin’ a whole lot a’ nothin’.

            And Sharon’s here.

            Jimmy took off for work. Won’t be back ‘till supper time.

            “Mother, would you like a cup of coffee?” Sharon asks me.

            I ain’t gonna talk to her. Ain’t said not one word to her since I seen her. She brung me daisies from the store. Cleaned up the whole house. Must’a threw out a whole bunch of my stuff. But I ain’t gonna ask. Don’t got nothin’ to say to her.

            “If you don’t want to talk to me then you won’t get anything,” she says.

            I just turn my head away from her. Guess I just gotta wait for Jimmy to get back.

Sharon

I was cleaning my old bedroom. Boxes were stacked from the mildewed carpet to the water stained ceiling. Mostly full of ancient newspapers and spiders.

But there was a photo album. My mother wasn’t one to take pictures. I couldn’t think of a single picture that was taken of me as a child.

I flipped through the pages. The photos were old, brittle, glued to black pages.

“Lil’ Eleanor,” read a caption in curly graphite.

It was a picture of my mother. As a child. Held by what I guess was her father. I look closely at her face. It’s a look of horror in her young eyes. She’s leaning away from him. But his hands seem too strong for her.

Turning the pages I see pictures of corn and cows and pigs. No more of her and that man. I close the album. A few pictures fall loose.

They are new photos. In color. I pick them up. My daughter’s toothy grin. My son’s smiling smirk. Our family by a Christmas tree. On the back of each is written “Sharon’s”.

“Mother,” I say, walking into the living room. “Would you like to look at this photo album?”

Her neck cranes to see me.

“There are some old pictures in here. I thought you’d like to see them.”

I turn to the picture of “Lil’ Eleanor”.

“Put it away.” She turns away from me.

“Was that your father?”

“Put it away, hear?”

“Mother, don’t you want to see this picture?”

She just grunts.

Myra

            Been thinkin’ ‘bout my father. Ever since Sharon found that picture. Ain’t nothin’ I like to remember. He done me wrong. Shouldn’t no one have a father like that.

            Don’t wanna think ‘bout him no more. He can rot in hell. Bet he already is.

Sharon

“How’d she do today?” Jimmy asked, walking in from work.

“She wouldn’t talk to me,” I answered. “The chicken’s almost done.”

“Smells good, Sharon.” He takes off his work boots. “Thanks for helpin’ me today.”

“She slept most of the day.”

“Yeah, the doc said she’d do that.”

“Hey, do you know anything about grandpa? Her father?”

“Huh,” he thought. “Nope. Ain’t never heard her tell a’ him.”

“Interesting. I found a picture of her with him.”

I showed him the album.

“Looks like a scary guy.” He massaged his feet with his hands.

“Jimmy, that you?” my mother called, weakly. “I ain’t feelin’ good.”

We walked to her. She was pale. She looked like she was shrinking.

“What’s wrong, mother?” I asked.

“Jimmy, I need a doctor.”

Myra

            It’s comin’ close. Can’t hardly breathe. They got some tubes up my nose. Sharon’s sittin’ next to me. I won’t let her touch my hand, though.

            Maybe she gonna ‘pologize to me.

            I so scared a dyin’. Don’t like this fallin’ feelin’ I got. Somethin’ makes me think I ain’t gonna get to them pearly gates.

            I must’a done wrong by somebody. Just can’t think what I could’a done. Or how to make it good.

            I’m just so tired a’ livin’. But too scared a’ dyin’.

Sharon

“Mother, I’m leaving for the night,” I say, thinking I’ll get the silent back of her head in response.

“Where ya’ stayin’?” she asks. “That new motel in town?”

“No. I have reservations at the Holiday Inn.”

“Well, ain’t that fancy.”

Her voice is getting weaker. Quieter. Softer. I can tell that breathing is becoming difficult for her. Had Jimmy told me what kind of cancer this was?

“I’ll be back first thing in the morning when Jimmy goes to work.”

“Don’t bother.” She coughs. It’s violent. Brings tears to her eyes, sweat to her brow. “Ain’t gonna make it to mornin’.”

“Would you like me to stay?”

“Why’d I want that?” Another coughing fit. “You gettin’ me all riled.”

I just stand there. Looking at her. Knowing that she’s right. That she’s giving up on living.

“Then, if you’re sure that you’ll die, I’ll stay.”

I go to the kitchen to make coffee. I’m going to need it. Things will be made right tonight.

Myra

            I keep feeling like sinkin’ in the bed. Almost like fallin’ asleep, but deeper.

            “Mother,” Sharon says. “I forgive you.”

            “Ain’t never been sorry,” I says, not feelin’ the words comin’ outta my mouth. “Ain’t never did nothin’ wrong by ya’. I been a good mama.”

            “You can’t really believe that.”

            “What I ever done wrong by ya’?”

            “You didn’t love me.”

            “You don’t know nothin’.” I look away. “It was all ‘cause I love you.”

Sharon

Her words stun me. Like I got hit in the head and the pain hasn’t set in yet.

“I don’t understand,” I whisper.

“I love you. But it ain’t easy lovin’ a little girl. So much fussin’ and carryin’ on.”

Her face sags into the pillow. She’s blinking her eyes so slowly. Even her ear lobes look strange.

“What happened with your father?”

“I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout that.”

“Did he hurt you?”

“I say I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout him.”

“Was that why you were so hard on me? Why you wouldn’t let me be a girl?”

“It wasn’t for fun that I done all that. You gotta be tough if you gonna be a woman in this world.”

The coughing starts up again. “An’ all you could think ‘bout was gettin’ away from me. You shamed me and your father.”

“I was wild because I wanted to hurt you.”

“It was stupid.”

“Yes, I agree.”

“Turn on that t.v., would ya’? I wanna see the news.”

The anchor man is talking about war and gas prices and weather. It all seems so empty. My mother is dying. And we understand each other. At least a little.

The room gets dark. I turn on a light. There’s a purple glow to the sky.

“Would ya’ look at that,” my mother says. “That still your color?”

She remembered.

When the kids are sick in the middle of the night, that’s when I miss having an extra set of hands to help. Or when one has a baseball game at the same time as the dance recital for the other. Sometimes when they have no one to go to the Daddy-Daughter Tea or Father-Son Camp-Out with them.

It’s not so much that I miss him. It’s that I miss having someone.

A nanny could help with some of it. But there will always been that space. That part of their hearts that will just remain vacant. Because he’s gone.

No use thinking about it now. The stomach bug has hit both kids. Which means I have to call in to work. One less vacation day for us. Not that we can ever go anywhere anyway. Now I just have to pray that I don’t get sick. Mama doesn’t get to be sick.

Anthony wasn’t a bad father. Wasn’t a bad husband either. He just wasn’t reallythere. He always seemed so far off. Like there was something else he wanted to be doing. Someone else he wanted to be with. So I let him go. I told him to. We didn’t need him.

He left.

He didn’t call my bluff. I guess he really didn’t want to be with us. We haven’t heard from him in a real long time. But the child support checks still come. That’s all he was ever good for anyhow. Just money.

Now that I think of it, he’d be no good with a barfing child or at a tea. We’re better off this way. At least that’s what I try to tell myself. But there are days when a strong arm around my shoulders would be so comforting. Not necessarily his arms. He was never all that strong.

I need to keep my mind off him. No more Anthony barging into my thoughts. I flip on the tube and zone out.

—

I slept for about 4 hours. On the couch. My contacts still in my eyes. Reruns of TV sitcoms that never quite made it have been playing for hours. A few worked their way into my dreams.

Groggy, I get up. If I call work now I’ll get the voice mail. I won’t have to talk to anyone to explain why. My boss’ kids have a live-in nanny. She never has to worry when they’re sick. Whatever. Good for her. But she doesn’t understand why the rest of us can’t just get a sitter when our kids are sick.

The ringtone is a lulling sound. I’m so tired I could just fall back to sleep with the phone to my ear. One ring. Two rings. On the fourth the voice of the receptionist will invite me to select a mailbox. Instead, someone answers.

“Baynes and Associates,” the voice. Female. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. Good morning.” I’m set off balance. It’s, what, 5:40 am. Why is anyone there already?

“Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“Well, I thought I’d get the voicemail. But, that’s okay.”

“Who is this? Is this Marley? If this is Marley, then don’t even think you’re calling in sick.”

It’s my boss.

“Hey, Sheri. Yeah, this is Marley.”

“You’re not calling in sick. Are you? You can’t. Remember, this is the day Corporate is coming. I can’t do this without you.”

“Sheri, my kids are sick. I was actually thinking of taking them in to see the doctor.” Okay, that was a lie. “It’s been coming out both ends all night.”

“I don’t care what’s going on with your kids. You need to get here. And soon.”

“I can’t. What am I supposed to do with my kids?”

“That’s not my problem. How old are they?”

“6 and 8.”

“That’s old enough to be alone for a couple hours. Just leave them a note and get your butt over here.”

“No. That’s not old enough. Not even close. Especially being sick.”

“Just take them to school. There’s a nurse. Let her earn her money for a change.”

“Hey, I’ve got an idea.”

“What’s that?”

“How about I take them over to your house and let your nanny watch them.”

“Marley, don’t get snippy with me.”

“Sheri, I don’t have any options.”

“Well, neither do I.” She sighs. “If you don’t come in today, then we’ll have to discuss your future with the company.”

“I’m going to have to consult my lawyer.” Another bluff. He’s a divorce attorney. But she doesn’t know that.

I hang up. I’ll worry about that later. One of the kids is stirring. Hopefully not to get sick again.

—

The kids are camped out on the couch. Thank goodness for my endless supply of DVD’s. But I know they’re really not feeling well. They aren’t laughing. Even at the really funny parts. You know, the part in all kids’ movies when the dad gets hit “there”. That isn’t even getting a laugh. Poor kids.

Sheri called back. She apologized. Said that they’d figure things out. My job would still be there for me. Told me to take the rest of the week to make sure the kids were okay. It won’t count against my vacation.

This time the bluff worked.

The things that a single mom resorts to. How many cans have I dented just to get a few pennies off at the grocery store. Or how many times I screamed at bill collectors to get them off my back. I’ve threatened, cheated, lied, manipulated. What else could I have done? I’m alone in all this.

—

The kids ate a little at lunch today. Some broth, crackers, a little soda to calm their tummies. If they get better, maybe we’ll spend the rest of the week at the beach or at the zoo.

How often do you get a free pass from your boss? And during the most stressful season of the work year.

The doorbell buzzes. Probably a salesman. I ignore it. But the buzzing doesn’t stop.

“Mom!” my son calls. “You want me to answer the door?”

“No, I’ll get it.” I walk to the living room and fling open the door. “Listen, I’m not buying anything…”

I stop. There’s no air left in my lungs.

“Anthony?” I say.

“Hi, Marley.”

I step outside the front door, closing it behind me. The kids don’t need to see him. Not now.

“What are you doing here?” I ask. I feel how pinched up my face is. That’s always what happens when I’m angry. It’s an ugly look for me, but I can’t help it. “What on earth makes you think this is okay?”

“What? I can’t come visit my kids?” Anthony’s voice is slimy as ever.

“No. You can’t.” I look at him. He’s exactly the same. Even wearing the same leather coat. “How’d you know we’d be home today?”

“Didn’t. Thought I’d sit on the porch ’till you got here.”

He combs back the gray hair from his forehead with his left hand. He still wears the gold band on his finger.

“Why are you here, Anthony? Just tell me.” My voice softens. My heart beats a little faster. He’s back for us.

“Okay. Fine. I need to talk to you. And the kids. It’s kind of important.”

He’s acting goofy. A little like a school boy. The way he was when we first became an item.

“Sounds good.” I let myself smile at him. I play up the eyes. “Maybe we could order in. The kids are a little sick today. They should be better tomorrow.”

“Maybe I’ll  just come back later?”

“You can if you want.” I didn’t want him to leave. “But we’d like to spend a little time with you. You could keep them busy while I order something. What are you hungry for?”

“I don’t know. Whatever you want is fine.”

We go inside. The kids are so excited to see their daddy. I’d forgotten how much they loved him. He sits between them on the couch and let’s them snuggle up to him. Even though they’re sick, he lets them kiss him. Maybe I’ve been wrong. He might just be good when they’re sick. He would probably do well at the kids’ events and games.

It might just be good that he’s home with us. Would we need a ceremony for our remarriage? I’m sure it wouldn’t be a good idea to live together until we have it all in paper again. I certainly couldn’t fit into my wedding dress from before.

“Marley,” Anthony calls from the living room. “Hey, Marley.”

Just hearing my name from his voice. I’ve missed that.

“Marley, please come here,” he says.

I walk out and see that the kids have both barfed on the floor. Totally missed the buckets.

Anthony is standing across the room with arms crossed over his chest.

“You want to clean that up?” he asks.

—

I get the kids into a bath and clean pajamas then off to bed. Looks like the broth and crackers for lunch were too much. Or it could have been the excitement of seeing their dad. Whatever. I know it’s going to be a sleepless night again for me.

Would it be wrong to ask Anthony to spend the night?

Not for that. You know. That didn’t happen after our 6 year old was born. Not even once.

But would he help? Or would he just watch me take care of everything?

He’s in the living room, sitting on the couch, watching TV.

“You got rid of all the channels,” he says, flipping through the stations. “How am I supposed to find the sports station?”

“I had to cut back on the cable. To save money.”

“How’s that take out coming? Did you order it yet?”

Unbelievable. Did he not notice me cleaning up barf? I want so badly for him to be home, but I don’t want all this junk again. I throw the phone book toward him.

“Find something and order for yourself.” I look at his face. Nothing. No expression. Just like before. “Why are you here, Anthony?”

Something inside wishes that he’s here for me. There must be something to that “one flesh” thing. Because when he left I felt the tearing. I thought I was over that. But now he’s back – maybe for today, maybe forever – and the pain has returned with him.

“Okay, Marley. I’ll tell you.” He looks into my eyes. I can’t read him right now. “It’s about us.”

“There is no us, Anthony,” I say. Something inside makes me want to play games. Manipulate him. It would feel good to make him cry. Would that mean that he still loves us? “Hasn’t been for years.”

He sighs. ”Marley, I wasn’t a good husband to you. Wasn’t even a good dad.”

That’s true. But could he have changed enough for a second chance? Or am I just lonely, groping for whatever I can reach?

“But you were never the best wife to me,” he says. “You never knew how to talk to me.”

“Did you ever learn to listen?”

“Listen, we had some real rough times. But there were some good things, right?”

“I don’t remember any good times with you.” That’s a lie. There were great times. Beautiful times. But I need him to tell me. I want him to remind me. I want him to tell me what he missed about me.

“Not even one? I wasn’t a monster.”

No, not a monster. More like a disengaged sloth.

“Why are you here, Anthony?”

Standing up, putting his hands in his pockets, pacing the room. “I always thought marriage was supposed to be easy. But it wasn’t. Nobody told me it would be so much work.”

“Who told you it would be easy?”

“My parents made it seem effortless. They just did their thing and raised us kids.” He stops and looks out the window. “They never screamed at each other.”

“I didn’t scream.”

He’s looking for something. “Well, close enough.”

“Hey, what are you looking for?”

“Nothing.” He turns around. “Anyway. I thought I’d give up on marriage after you kicked me out.”

“I didn’t kick you out. You left.”

“That’s not how I remember it. You told me to leave.”

“No. I said that you might as well. You were never really attentive to us. There was no difference with you gone. Not a single difference.”

That’s a lie. The difference was in the kids. They folded in on themselves. Didn’t trust, didn’t smile as much. They needed him. Was it really my fault? Did I really send him away from them?

“That’s why I’m here. I want to give marriage another try.”

“I’m confused.” Something isn’t right. “What are you talking about?”

I’m too exposed. But all my defenses are down. Sarcasm, bitterness, snark, biting insults, bluffs. All far too overwhelmed to snap to action. I’ve worked so hard since he left to hide myself, who I really am. I became mean and nasty. A hard worker. Now all that is failing me.

“I don’t want to give up on marriage. You know, I miss being in a loving relationship.”

“Did we have a loving relationship?”

“Once. Yeah, I think we did. At the beginning.”

I don’t want to go back there with him. Or do I? Everything is so confusing.

“So, you’re looking for a relationship?”

“I’ve found one.” He looks outside again.

“I swear, if you look out that window one more time, I’m going to bash you in the head.” Oh. There’s the mean and nasty. “Will you please just tell me what you’re talking about?”

“I got married.”

“You did what?” I try to suck in air without him noticing.

“I met her…it doesn’t matter where I met her. But we got married. I thought you should know.”

I don’t love this man. Can’t even stand him. But somehow there’s pain in my soul. Just knowing that there is a replacement is awful.

“That’s not all. There’s more, isn’t there?” I know this man’s holding back. “Just tell me. I know you didn’t come here just to tell me that you got married.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “We’re moving to Hong Kong. That’s where she’s from.”

“When are you leaving?”

“As soon as she gets here. She’s going to pick me up and we’ll be on our way to the airport.”

So the ring, the shifty behavior, the constant peeks out the window. Now I understand.

“You didn’t say ‘good-bye’ to the kids.”

“Can you do that? Let them know that I love them?”

“Yeah. But they won’t believe it.”

“What? Right. I wouldn’t either.”

“You’re leaving them again. And without even really talking to them. They’re going to hate you no matter what I tell them.”

“Well, I can’t really do anything about that.”

Headlights flash in the window. She’s here to get him.

“That’s her, huh?” I ask. “What’s her name?”

“Cindi. She’s real nice.” He looks at me. “You want to meet her or something?”

“No. That’s stupid.”

“True.” He’s thinking about something. “Should I hug you or something?”

“Just go, Anthony. We’ll be fine without you.”

And this time it’s not a bluff.

Today’s post comes from my good friend Annette Deaton. This lady is talented, let me tell you. This picture and the story that goes along with it moved me. 

[This] picture…is a pencil sketch I did in honor of my Grandfather whom I never met. My Mom’s Dad was a prisoner of war in WWII.  He had a contraband piece of lead that he carried in his mouth for a pencil and a small booklet for paper in which he would log the days and kilometers marched.  The picture is based on a photo I found online while researching POW marches; German officers in front, prisoners behind.  The writing is exactly as he had written it.  A lot of the names of the towns have changed, but I was able to map out a pretty precise route following his notes.  The outline of the map of Germany and his march are the other elements of this piece.  My brother David ‘commissioned’ this drawing and it is the most meaningful and complex I have ever done.  I ended up giving copies to my Mom’s brothers and sisters and my Grandma for Christmas 2007.  Grandma died that next April.  She died in her sleep.  And this picture was on her nightstand.

Does your family have any WWII stories? What kind of military heroes have you known? What made them heroic?

Kedron Rhodes, at Krow Photography has a great eye for whimsy. I, personally, am a big fan of all things humorous, ironic, quirky…you name it!

What makes you smile, chuckle or all out snort laugh? Have a joke to share?

“Next up is little Bobbi Lynn from Rochester Hills. Come on out, Miss Bobbi Lynn!” The announcer had a voice that was radio gold. Smooth, clear and with just the slightest metallic ting.

Bobbi Lynn bounced on the stage. Her cotton candy pink dress swirled around her legs. High heels clicked on the floor. Eyes, lips, cheeks, all plastered with color. Puffy blonde hair, stiff with spray, sat atop her head. A bow as big as a dinner plate and as pink as her dress clipped into her hair. White, straight teeth sparkled through her smiling lips.

She was perfectly pretty.

“Bobbi Lynn is 10 years old. Her favorite food is macaroni and cheese. She loves the color pink and playing with her dollies. Her best friend is her mom,” the announcer crooned. “Now, isn’t that sweet. What a beaut. Right?”

The audience cheered as Bobbi left the stage, winking and waving.

“Next we have little Cyndie Anne…”

The Little Pretty contest was held every year in the spring. Girls from all over the state came with their doting mothers and enough hairspray to keep a yak’s coat standing on end. Tiny Barbie dolls trotting around. Their mom’s in tow, doting and prodding at the same time.

“Remember, audience, this competition is decided on the following categories; evening wear, talent, poise and swimwear. Now, get ready. The Little Pretty contestants are excited to bring you the talent portion of our show!”

Backstage was a bustle with costume changes, extra powder on foreheads, temper tantrums. 20 sets of batons had to be found for 10 nearly identical routines. Tragedy struck when the tappy part of one girl’s tap shoes fell off.

Bobbi Lynn hated these contests. She wanted nothing more than to throw off the ruffles and bows and wigs and false teeth that covered her awkward-growing-in teeth. To scrub off the make up, throw out the wig, pull her real hair into a pony-tail, get into some jean shorts and tshirt. She wanted to climb a tree, scrape up her knees, learn to throw a curve ball. Sit on her bed for hours reading a stack of books, wondering about the world.

But instead, she had a purple tutu around her waist, a top that looked like a corset and cowboy hat on her head.

“Oh, Bobbi,” her mother said. “Your spray tan looks good.”

“I don’t like it,” Bobbi said. “I look too orange.”

“Oh you do not. Now, quick, do your dance right here.”

“No. I won’t do it here.”

“Little Pretty winners have to work hard.”

“I don’t care if I win or not.”

“Well, Bobbi Lynn, if you do win mama will get you that new Barbie you want.”

“I don’t like Barbie dolls.”

“Sure you do.” Her mom stood. “Now run through it.”

During the routines Bobbi’s mom watched the other girls from the audience. She rejoiced when they dropped their hula hoops or had a boot fly off during a summersault.  Each of their errors gave her daughter more of a chance to win. Her feelings of never being good enough were satisfied by Bobbi’s beauty, her talents. Bobbi Lynn’s mom didn’t know that she was pushing her daughter so hard to accomplish what her 40 year old life never could.

And there were a hundred moms back stage, most doing the exact same thing.

They justified false teeth, spray tans, manicures, wigs, teeny-weeny-bikinis, strict diets. And a few paid for the occasional botox to keep a forehead from creasing or a chin from dimpling.

Little Pretty. Little Fake. Little Empty.

“And next,” the announcer boomed into an already too loud microphone. “Bobbi Lynn will grace us with a dance choreographed by her mom!”

Bobbi stepped out onto the stage. Her mom gasped, stood up, hands over mouth. All around her, the audience whispered and stared at the little girl.

All of the fake stuff was off. Bobbi’s dishwater blonde hair was free and with a few messy strands. All her make up was smeared off, her freckles showing even under the artificial tan. She wore the sweatpants and flannel shirt she stuffed into her bag from home. Dirty sneakers on her feet.

She smiled. Beamed. Hers was a real and truly beautiful face. But not for the perfectly swooping nose or the prominent cheek bones. She was radiant in determination, joy.

Music pumped out through the speakers. Bobbi’s mom tried to get her attention, performed the dance moves from her row in the audience.

Bobbi Lynn beckoned the announcer, whispered in his ear.

“Stop the music,” he called out into his muted microphone. “Stop!”

As he yelled louder, the sound tech unmuted him, his microphone squealing and the music stopping.

“Okay, folks. Bobbi Lynn has just informed me of a change in plans. She has a poem she’d like to tell you. She wrote it herself. I’m sure it’s cute as kitties and rainbows.” He handed her the microphone.

“I wrote this poem for my mom.” Bobbi cleared her throat.

The audience “ahh-ed”. Her mom sat down.

“I am just 7 years old

And all my life I’ve been told

To be pretty and cute,

I need to be a little beaut.

But I just want to say

That it’s better to play

Or read a good book.

So please don’t look

At my face or my nails,

My curly pony tails,

My shoes or my dress.

See me through the mess.

I’m smart and I’m funny

I won’t make you money.

I just want you to love me

For who I might be.

Stop trying to make

Me live like a fake.”

Bobbi walked off the stage. She didn’t wink. Didn’t wave.

No one clapped. In fact, no one made a sound.

—

After 20 minutes the competition continued. Bobbi Lynn and her mom were on their way home. It was a quiet ride.

“Mom, I’m hungry,” Bobbi said.

“Yeah, me too.”

Her mom pulled into a McDonald’s.

“Can I get french fries, please?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Sure.”

They walked in. The line for the counter was short. Just a few elderly ladies. They chatted as they waited for food to fill their tray.

“Can I help you?” asked the teen behind the register.

“Yeah,” Bobbi’s mom said. “I want nuggets, a double cheese burger, large fry and large soda.”

“I’d like a cheeseburger kid’s meal, please.” Bobbi was eyeing the toys that came with the food.

“Well, would you listen to those manners?” one of the elderly ladies said. “Little miss, it’s nice to hear young people being polite.”

“Thank you,” Bobbi said.

“Do you like school?” the other lady asked.

“I do!” Bobbi moved closer to them. Her mom, rolled her eyes.

“What’s your favorite subject?”

“I like our reading time. I love to read.”

“Well, that’s a very good thing. What’s your favorite book?”

“There are too many! I can’t pick.”

“Then read them all. And enjoy every one of them. Life’s too short to worry about your hair and clothes. Fill it with great things like books and people.”

“Thank you. I would like that.”

“What would you like to do when you grow up?” the first lady.

“I don’t know yet. But I think I might want to do something that helps other people. Like a teacher or a doctor.”

“Polite and a kind heart. Now that’s a nice thing to see in a little girl.”

The ladies carried their trays to a table. Bobbi and her mom took bags of food to their car for the last bit of their drive.

Bobbi rode in the back, eating her burger.

She felt beautiful deep down into her heart.