She still smokes.
"All the best people do," Mom says
huddled together like anarchists
outside the party perimeter
before the big fight.
She says they're more interesting
her fellow counter-revolutionaries
steadfast to the death
which, incidentally, is more imminent
perhaps, than yours and mine.
"Don't worry about me,"
she says, "I'll live forever."
Then reminds me she's half Danish.
"We smoke into our nineties."
Which is true, except when it's not.
Down to one every hour and a half
down from two packs a day,
she notes the time like code
in tiny columns on a post-it note
in 2 point font, so she won't forget
Because she knows her memory is crap
like mine and my sisters'
we blame it on the tin foil
that wrapped our sandwiches
cut corner-to-corner all those years.
But she still does the Times crossword
every Sunday, knows the tricks.
"Where's my puzzle?"
she's been known to shout
before her coffee and voice have arrived.
She still buys waxed paper
and insists on twist-tie baggies
single-handedly supporting the industry
the last consumer hold out;
it's rogue.
She sneaks cigarettes to prisoners
who put up the tents
for the big bi-annual rummage sale
she's worked at for twenty-three years
as head of Household; it's leader.
She runs a tight ship
her systems have systems
from the department's wrapping station
to home hospital corners, she's defiant.
Everything has purpose.
So I kneel at the lower foot corner
of the bed, my elbow enveloped
by sheets that may be untucked
to be turned the right way, her way
we'll see. Time will tell.
I never smoked or drank coffee
so as to be nothing like her
and I'm a zip-lock girl and your bed is just fine
but I, too, like the anarchists
and crave purpose.
Friday, July 30, 2010
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Delaware
Would you believe it if I told you that
I didn't truly sleep in the middle
until I was
legally divorced?
And I could lob myself into shoulders
for chemicals, inching a little,
but morning might be
painstaking and forced
***
Oh, I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
So, maybe I've returned to that place
***
No, we'll never know the royal we because
you'll never call and I won't either
and that's because
it's the right thing not to do.
But life is long and folks get hit by
pianos dropped, avoiding ether,
and change their minds
and hearts to name a few.
So cowboy up the herd's 'a running and
take no guff 'cause it takes cunning
and fortitude,
but I know you knew that.
With bass guitars and ballet dancers,
movie stars, I'll take no chances
until you ask me straight,
for less hat
And I'll tell you...
***
That I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face (It's my only face)
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
It may be I'm already in that place
I think that I'm already in that place
***
I didn't truly sleep in the middle
until I was
legally divorced?
And I could lob myself into shoulders
for chemicals, inching a little,
but morning might be
painstaking and forced
***
Oh, I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
So, maybe I've returned to that place
***
No, we'll never know the royal we because
you'll never call and I won't either
and that's because
it's the right thing not to do.
But life is long and folks get hit by
pianos dropped, avoiding ether,
and change their minds
and hearts to name a few.
So cowboy up the herd's 'a running and
take no guff 'cause it takes cunning
and fortitude,
but I know you knew that.
With bass guitars and ballet dancers,
movie stars, I'll take no chances
until you ask me straight,
for less hat
And I'll tell you...
***
That I'll never move to Delaware,
presume the lead, or grow my hair
Because I've resigned myself to my face (It's my only face)
And I can dance the Ode to Joy and
harmonize with the boys
It may be I'm already in that place
I think that I'm already in that place
***
Thursday, July 8, 2010
D-Day
“I'm getting divorced tomorrow,” I said to a friend.
“What are you wearing?” she replied.
I had to laugh. I hadn't given it any thought, but I supposed the time would come when I would be standing in the doorway to my closet, scanning the possibilities, wondering what image to put forth. A slinky red dress and ankle strap heels? No. Ours wasn't about vengeance, but a fundamental discord in basic values, character and opinion as to what constitutes a marriage. And besides, at 8:30am on a Tuesday in Newark, who really wants to be teetering in heels at the metal detector? De trop. By the time one gets to the courthouse to sign a property settlement agreement and be formally declared divorced, trust me, there’s nothing left to prove. To anyone. I could wear a dark suit and Barbara Stanwick hat with a veil but it wasn't a sad day, entirely, either, so I decided I would dress confidently and with resolve for the courthouse. Whatever that looked like.
After three sessions of mediation following months and months of emails with my soon-to-be-ex, I'd finally come to the end of a two-year odyssey and arrived at the courthouse with only the dregs left to decide. I'd packed lightly, grabbing only a single Lego guy for comfort and strength, and ended up wearing warm, bright colors; a below-the-knee skirt and blouse of modest design. My future-former husband arrived focused and unshaven.
Our relations were strained-- it was an uncomfortable day for both of us-- but we handled the administrative loose ends with civility and purpose. Then, just like on TV, we stood up from opposite sides of the courtroom aisle and moved through a thigh-high, darkly varnished swinging gate, taking our seats at separate long tables in front of Judge Sarbito. A uniformed bailiff stood waiting down below him, as well a court secretary and a box of Kleenex. All the other cases had cleared out long ago; the judge had mercifully saved ours for last. Aside from my attorney-- my ex had fired his a few days before-- it was just our cozy little group. No friends, no family, just us. You could say it was the opposite of our big, festive wedding. You could say it was a lot of things.
Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to us. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. He sat way above us, commanding us down below as would the captain of a whaling ship or a priest in a high pulpit. We sat-- unwise to speak unless spoken to-- and listened to his schpiel with the same rapt attention as we had our minister all those years ago. He asked us questions-- first my ex then me-- which we answered simply and with gravitas.
"Do you understand everything put forth in the undersigned agreement you've reached today?" the judge questioned.
"Yes," I said.
"And have you signed the agreement in question without duress or undue pressure from any third parties?"
Ha, I wanted to say. Undue pressure? You're joking, right? My life had been a daily pressure cooker for the better part of a year. Getting divorced had been like a part time freelance job with a nightmare boss-- some would counter that it's a full time job-- which was finally coming to an end. The emotional hailstorm had taken place two years before. This last year was just an extreme administrative time-suck and bureaucratic buzz-kill; one that marred nearly every day in some unforeseen way.
"Did you get married in a church wedding in October of 2000?" Judge Sarbito asked me first.
"Yes," I answered. My throat tightened. He turned to my ex and asked him the same.
"And your marriage produce one child?"
"Yes," I squeaked and reached for a tissue.
No one told me that he would bring up my wedding day or that this exchange would look, feel and sound so much like my marriage vows. I loved my wedding day; it was wonderful and fun. Why hadn’t I arranged to go dancing tonight? Because I didn’t know how I’d feel; still don’t. The judge continued, "Do you understand that this signed agreement is a legal contract recognized by the state and that it's binding forever?"
“Yes I do, your honor,” I said, mindful that I once believed my marriage vows to be binding forever. Tears swelled and I could feel my lips pursing. As long as I could keep my lips from parting, I still maintained some control. Why didn't I ask my mom to come with me today? Where is my Sex and the City gaggle of girlfriends, sitting two rows behind me; giving me the thumbs up whenever I turn around? There would be no champagne brunch, no towels with new monograms. This was a grave day; a lone warrior day. I had gone into this marriage surrounded by friends and family and I was going out very much alone.
But the symmetry was just. Marrying him was a decision I made on my own on the morning that he presented me with a ring, just he and I. He’d asked a simple question and I answered it without counsel. Then, seven years later, I began to ask myself a whole new set of questions. Then asked him the same questions, then answered them for myself. Our marriage was dissolved just shy of ten years and I wondered if the internal Q & A would end today. It felt like it already had. I knew deep down I’d done the right thing, and that that was all that mattered. The marriage was mourned before the divorce process began. Today was a bookend, a seal.
Judge Sarbito thanked us for reaching an agreement before our trial date. Then he pronounced us—by the power vested in him in the state of New Jersey—divorced. It was a truly surreal and singular moment, much like the moment I was pronounced married. But today I felt deeply saddened by the triumph, like the moment a loved one in pain finally dies.
My ex held the varnished gates open for my attorney and me to walk through and I felt proud of us for getting to this point without major operatic incident. We'd both come so far; had accomplished so much together, even in divorcing. (The minor incidents were too many to count.) Out in the lobby I looked at his face for a signal that might cue me to move toward him for a handshake or a hug, but there was no trace, so I stayed still. I knew I would see him tomorrow night for his Wednesday dinner with our son, and every Wednesday for eleven years after that. There was a somber finality to our fresh start and tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our separate lives together.
I felt crushed by the prospect of starting over and exhausted just thinking about square one as I left the large, beige, government-issue courthouse. But outside the sun was shining and I became lighter as I walked to the parking garage. I smiled brightly as I greeted the nice, older African gentleman in the crisp white shirt at the podium. I wished I had something to show off the way a newly engaged woman shows off her ring to strangers. He was the first person I was meeting as a newly unmarried woman and I felt different; sort of new and set free. I wanted to tell him my story like someone who’d just seen a UFO. I’d just come from this strange, unique experience and was willing to buy him lunch in exchange for listening but I knew he was only after my ticket, and that my story would have to keep for now. I handed it over and wondered if he noticed my plain, empty ring finger; unadorned with diamonds and bands. My hands were still just as important and it hadn’t mattered what I was wearing that day. My fingers weren’t empty or naked. In fact they felt alive and very awake.
“What are you wearing?” she replied.
I had to laugh. I hadn't given it any thought, but I supposed the time would come when I would be standing in the doorway to my closet, scanning the possibilities, wondering what image to put forth. A slinky red dress and ankle strap heels? No. Ours wasn't about vengeance, but a fundamental discord in basic values, character and opinion as to what constitutes a marriage. And besides, at 8:30am on a Tuesday in Newark, who really wants to be teetering in heels at the metal detector? De trop. By the time one gets to the courthouse to sign a property settlement agreement and be formally declared divorced, trust me, there’s nothing left to prove. To anyone. I could wear a dark suit and Barbara Stanwick hat with a veil but it wasn't a sad day, entirely, either, so I decided I would dress confidently and with resolve for the courthouse. Whatever that looked like.
After three sessions of mediation following months and months of emails with my soon-to-be-ex, I'd finally come to the end of a two-year odyssey and arrived at the courthouse with only the dregs left to decide. I'd packed lightly, grabbing only a single Lego guy for comfort and strength, and ended up wearing warm, bright colors; a below-the-knee skirt and blouse of modest design. My future-former husband arrived focused and unshaven.
Our relations were strained-- it was an uncomfortable day for both of us-- but we handled the administrative loose ends with civility and purpose. Then, just like on TV, we stood up from opposite sides of the courtroom aisle and moved through a thigh-high, darkly varnished swinging gate, taking our seats at separate long tables in front of Judge Sarbito. A uniformed bailiff stood waiting down below him, as well a court secretary and a box of Kleenex. All the other cases had cleared out long ago; the judge had mercifully saved ours for last. Aside from my attorney-- my ex had fired his a few days before-- it was just our cozy little group. No friends, no family, just us. You could say it was the opposite of our big, festive wedding. You could say it was a lot of things.
Judge Sarbito was a calm, reasoned man with an excellent command of the room and a well-honed, dry sense of humor. I was glad he was assigned to us. He'd been a matrimonial judge for 21 years and had presided over 40,000 divorces. To say he'd seen it all was a vast understatement and I wished I could be seated next to him at a dinner party. He sat way above us, commanding us down below as would the captain of a whaling ship or a priest in a high pulpit. We sat-- unwise to speak unless spoken to-- and listened to his schpiel with the same rapt attention as we had our minister all those years ago. He asked us questions-- first my ex then me-- which we answered simply and with gravitas.
"Do you understand everything put forth in the undersigned agreement you've reached today?" the judge questioned.
"Yes," I said.
"And have you signed the agreement in question without duress or undue pressure from any third parties?"
Ha, I wanted to say. Undue pressure? You're joking, right? My life had been a daily pressure cooker for the better part of a year. Getting divorced had been like a part time freelance job with a nightmare boss-- some would counter that it's a full time job-- which was finally coming to an end. The emotional hailstorm had taken place two years before. This last year was just an extreme administrative time-suck and bureaucratic buzz-kill; one that marred nearly every day in some unforeseen way.
"Did you get married in a church wedding in October of 2000?" Judge Sarbito asked me first.
"Yes," I answered. My throat tightened. He turned to my ex and asked him the same.
"And your marriage produce one child?"
"Yes," I squeaked and reached for a tissue.
No one told me that he would bring up my wedding day or that this exchange would look, feel and sound so much like my marriage vows. I loved my wedding day; it was wonderful and fun. Why hadn’t I arranged to go dancing tonight? Because I didn’t know how I’d feel; still don’t. The judge continued, "Do you understand that this signed agreement is a legal contract recognized by the state and that it's binding forever?"
“Yes I do, your honor,” I said, mindful that I once believed my marriage vows to be binding forever. Tears swelled and I could feel my lips pursing. As long as I could keep my lips from parting, I still maintained some control. Why didn't I ask my mom to come with me today? Where is my Sex and the City gaggle of girlfriends, sitting two rows behind me; giving me the thumbs up whenever I turn around? There would be no champagne brunch, no towels with new monograms. This was a grave day; a lone warrior day. I had gone into this marriage surrounded by friends and family and I was going out very much alone.
But the symmetry was just. Marrying him was a decision I made on my own on the morning that he presented me with a ring, just he and I. He’d asked a simple question and I answered it without counsel. Then, seven years later, I began to ask myself a whole new set of questions. Then asked him the same questions, then answered them for myself. Our marriage was dissolved just shy of ten years and I wondered if the internal Q & A would end today. It felt like it already had. I knew deep down I’d done the right thing, and that that was all that mattered. The marriage was mourned before the divorce process began. Today was a bookend, a seal.
Judge Sarbito thanked us for reaching an agreement before our trial date. Then he pronounced us—by the power vested in him in the state of New Jersey—divorced. It was a truly surreal and singular moment, much like the moment I was pronounced married. But today I felt deeply saddened by the triumph, like the moment a loved one in pain finally dies.
My ex held the varnished gates open for my attorney and me to walk through and I felt proud of us for getting to this point without major operatic incident. We'd both come so far; had accomplished so much together, even in divorcing. (The minor incidents were too many to count.) Out in the lobby I looked at his face for a signal that might cue me to move toward him for a handshake or a hug, but there was no trace, so I stayed still. I knew I would see him tomorrow night for his Wednesday dinner with our son, and every Wednesday for eleven years after that. There was a somber finality to our fresh start and tomorrow would be the first day of the rest of our separate lives together.
I felt crushed by the prospect of starting over and exhausted just thinking about square one as I left the large, beige, government-issue courthouse. But outside the sun was shining and I became lighter as I walked to the parking garage. I smiled brightly as I greeted the nice, older African gentleman in the crisp white shirt at the podium. I wished I had something to show off the way a newly engaged woman shows off her ring to strangers. He was the first person I was meeting as a newly unmarried woman and I felt different; sort of new and set free. I wanted to tell him my story like someone who’d just seen a UFO. I’d just come from this strange, unique experience and was willing to buy him lunch in exchange for listening but I knew he was only after my ticket, and that my story would have to keep for now. I handed it over and wondered if he noticed my plain, empty ring finger; unadorned with diamonds and bands. My hands were still just as important and it hadn’t mattered what I was wearing that day. My fingers weren’t empty or naked. In fact they felt alive and very awake.
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