Category: Nonfiction

Categories
Nonfiction Observations Reflection

Grief.

Shortly after my mother died, a coworker asked me about grief: “What does it feel like?”

I remember looking at her and feeling confused. What does it feel like…?

Words like “terrible”, “awful”, “really sad”, and “numb” didn’t seem quite right. Elements of all those adjectives were true, but none of them captured the fine texture of grief.

“It feels like… a really bad breakup,” I finally said. As the words came out of my mouth I realized that wasn’t quite right. It was also an inane comparison.

“Huh,” she answered.

Nine months later, I found words to describe my grief: It feels like my heart is falling.

During moments of stillness, those spaces between exhalations and inhalations, I feel my heart physically dropping. It is an endless fall; there is no bottom.

I remain surprised with how close to the surface the grief lives. I don’t cry when I talk about my mother’s death. Yet, when people ask me about her, I feel my face scrunching up the way faces do when people are about to cry. The sensations in my face remind me of that week she was in the hospital, when I smiled during the day and wept at night, asking God and the Universe questions that nobody could answer.

Though the tears do not come, my face suggests they will. And I know that the person listening to me sees it. It’s like when you blush: You feel your cheeks flash with heat and hope that the other person won’t make fun of you for it.

Emotions always shift, though: Sometimes, in my mind’s eye, I set an imaginary table and place a pot of steaming tea and two cups on it. I invite Grief to sit down and have tea with me. Grief never declines. I ask Grief how it is doing. Grief never says anything in response, but we sit in silence and enjoy our tea together. When Grief is ready, it leaves.

And then I notice that my heart is no longer falling.

Almost 11 months have passed since my mother died. Since I found words for my grief, my heart doesn’t feel like it is dropping as often. Maybe the time I needed has elapsed; maybe the sensation of my heart falling doesn’t overwhelm me as much as it used to.

Maybe by showing Grief some kindness and acceptance with imaginary tea it has also shown kindness to me.

Categories
Nonfiction

What Goes Around Comes Around.

As my father and I stepped out of the crosswalk onto the curb, I looked up and saw John Doe. I didn’t realize who he was until we had already passed each other.

A baseball cap was on John’s head and a colorful satchel was slung across his torso. He had rolled up the cuffs of his jeans with care and his unbuttoned jacket revealed the bright sweater he wore underneath. He was looking down at the street.

My dad continued to talk to me; he didn’t hear me exhale with relief when John kept walking.

John had asked me to step closer to the door of his cell so he didn’t have to speak as loud.

“I didn’t break her windows, I didn’t set any fires, I didn’t kill her dog, I never said anything scary to her,” John said, his eyes fixed on mine. He smiled at me through the cell window. “You believe me, right?”

The police report stated that several witnesses had seen John smash her windows, set a small fire after he broke down her door, and attack her dog.

I said nothing.

“It doesn’t matter what she said,” he continued. “She lied. What goes around comes around.”

I followed my dad up the small set of stairs that led to the glass doors of the restaurant. When I glanced up, I saw John’s reflection in the glass: He was standing near the base of the stairs, his eyes fixed on me.

My dad looked over his shoulder at me as he approached one of the glass doors. “The food here is supposed to be good.”

“Uh huh,” I replied, my eyes still looking at the reflection in the glass. I placed a hand on my father’s back and gave him a gentle push. Go faster, go faster. John lingered for a few moments before he turned back to the sidewalk.

My dad opened a door and smiled at me. I smiled back. He didn’t hear me exhale with relief when John walked away.

Categories
Nonfiction Observations

Undercover.

My husband was in the aisle seat, I was in the middle seat, and The Man was in the window seat.

The Man had one white earbud in his ear; the other one was dangling in his lap. His right thumb swiped through several screens of his smartphone in less than a second. He heaved a sigh.

“This is f*cking lame,” he muttered.

The plane was supposed to take off 15 minutes ago. At that time the captain had announced that the plane had technical difficulties, but he anticipated that we would be up in the air soon.

The minute hand continued to sweep its arc across the clock face; soon we were 55 minutes behind schedule. The Man spoke into the microphone of his white earbuds:

“Hey, it’s me… yeah, we haven’t taken off yet… yeah, we were supposed to take off like an hour ago…. This f*cking airline sucks… Whatevs….”

The captain picked up the intercom phone. The Man mumbled something and then pulled the earbud out of his ear.

“I’m sorry, folks,” the captain said. “I thought that we could get this situation under control, but we can’t. The plane’s indicators are telling us that the nose isn’t in neutral position, even though other instruments and external measurements say that it is. I can’t risk flying this plane like this. Safety comes first, so we’re going to switch planes. I’m sorry, folks. The flight crew will tell you where to go shortly.”

Quiet murmuring moved through the cabin.

“F***********CK!!!” The Man screamed.

Then he punched the wall of the plane.

Silence filled the aircraft. I could hear The Man breathing.

I forced myself not to turn my head. My husband also kept looking straight ahead.

“I’m sorry that you have to start working,” my husband said, though his lips did not move and no sound came from this mouth. It was a telepathic message. I sighed in response.

I looked over my shoulder. The people seated behind me were staring at The Man with alarm. A flight attendant about five rows away shot a dark look at The Man, but did not move closer.

Don’t reinforce bad behavior, I reminded myself, wondering if I should say something. I didn’t have enough information at this point to know what to do next. Do I ignore him? Do I pretend that nothing happened? But what if he escalates his behavior because no one is acknowledging his distress? But what if he punches me if I ask him what just happened?

I glanced at him. The Man was chewing on his fingernail. His leg was bobbing up and down. The single earbud was back in his ear.

Okay. Go.

“It’s really frustrating, huh,” I said while grabbing the personal belonging stowed under the seat in front of me. If he tried to hit me, at least I could throw my bag at him.

“Yeah! This sucks!” he exclaimed. The woman in front of him turned her head a few inches to look at him. She swiveled her head back around. “I fly back and forth across the country every week and it’s been a sh*tty week and I just want to get some sleep tonight because I have an 8am meeting tomorrow and I usually fly a better airline and this is just f*cking ridiculous.”

“We all just want to get to where we want to go….” I kept my bag on my lap.

His leg stopped bobbing and he pulled the earbud out of his ear.

“Yeah. I mean, I guess this f*cking plane problem doesn’t happen a lot, but why this plane? At the rate we’re going we won’t get into Seattle until 1am.”

My husband’s posture relaxed as The Man shared his duties as the Vice President of Something Important at The Company Where Important People Work. His Important Boss was expecting A Very Important Report. No one seemed to understand how difficult this Important Report was; it was hard for him to get the Important Report done given all of his other Important Duties.

The Man slumped back into his chair and sighed.

“… but, I guess the most important thing is that we get there safely, right?” he said. He flashed a warm smile at me. I smiled back at him. My husband demonstrated an extraordinary fascination with the contents of his bag.

“So, hey, what do you do for work?” The Man asked.

I paused.

“Oh, I do stuff for the county.”

His phone chirped. The Man looked down and his thumbs began to tap out a message as he mumbled, “Oh, that’s cool.”

Categories
Homelessness Nonfiction

Shame.

I was sitting in a seat that faced sideways. Scenes of the city flashed past as the train sped to the airport. I looked down and adjusted my bag so it wouldn’t slip off my lap.

When I looked up, he was seated across from me. He had a small smirk on his face.

“Hey,” he said. His eyes glanced at my bag, then returned to my face.

“Hey.” I knew his name, but did not say it.

“Where are you going?”

“To the airport.”

“For work?”

“Yeah.” It was mostly true.

“I’m going to the airport, too. Trying to get back home.”

The blue sleeping bag was sliding off his lap. He grabbed it as it unfurled onto his dirty white sneakers. His tee shirt was too large for his slender frame: When he leaned forward to stuff the sleeping bag back onto his lap, the neckline drooped. He ran a hand through his hair to push the long locks out of his face. The blue-purple bags underneath his eyes suggested he did not rest in the sleeping bag the previous night. Though red wisps surrounded his blue irises, he didn’t look intoxicated.

He was coming off of heroin when he first became my patient. Cranky and bellicose, he snarled, “Leave me the f-ck alone—you’re asking too many f-cking questions.” After eating a few meals, taking a shower, and getting some sleep at the crisis center, he spoke: His father, whether drunk or sober, beat him; his mother tried to kill herself three times in their home before he was ten years old. His uncle introduced him to marijuana when he was 11; he dropped out of school at age 16. He worked in construction when could get work; he sold drugs when he couldn’t. He eventually got his GED at age 19; he worked in welding, landscaping, and carpentry. He saved enough to buy a motor home when he was 25; his mother succeeded in killing herself in his motor home shortly thereafter. He fled the state and into the arms of drugs for comfort. He slept under bridges and dug through trashcans for food. He and I met about six months later.

“Can I use your phone?” he asked.

“I’ll help you when we get to the airport.”

He looked disappointed. Turning to a man sitting nearby who was using his thumbs to send a text message, he said, “Hey man. Can I use your phone? It’ll be a short call.”

“Oh, no, it’s not personal, I don’t let anyone use my phone, sorry, it’s not personal, it’s just my personal policy—”

“It’s okay. I get it.”

He looked up at the ceiling and sighed. It had been a few days since he had shaved.

The second and third time he came through the crisis center he asked the nurses if I could be his doctor.

“YO DOC!” he shouted at me the last time he was there.

I shot him a stern look and murmured, “Shh!”

He turned the baseball cap so it sat askew on his head. He winked at me. “I’m feeling better. It’s gonna be all right. I’m gonna try to pick up work in construction and save up money so I can go home. The city’s too big here. I can’t be using dope if I wanna buy a plane ticket.”

The doors of the train slid open. No one who entered captured his interest. Leaning forward over his sleeping bag, he said, “The sun’s coming out. You know what happened since I—”

“Have your tickets ready,” the fare police barked. Two of them had stepped into the car moments before the train doors closed.

His shoulders slumped. He looked down.

The fare police scanned my ticket without a word, then asked to see his ticket.

He dug around both pockets of his pants. His sleeping bag slid to the floor. He fished out a ticket stub and handed it to the fare police.

“This isn’t a current ticket.”

He looked down.

“Do you have another ticket? A current ticket?”

“No, sir—”

“You can’t ride the train for free. Everyone who rides the train needs to buy a ticket.”

“Sir, I’m sorry—”

“It doesn’t matter that you’re sorry. Hey, I think I’ve seen you before. We’ve had this conversation before, haven’t we?”

He said nothing. He began to stuff his sleeping bag back onto his lap.

“Do you have money to pay for a ticket?”

“No, sir—”

“—I’ll cover his fare,” I blurted.

He looked at me.

“Thank you, miss, that’s very nice of you,” the fare officer said. Turning to him, he said, “You’re lucky that this lady here is willing to pay your fare.” Without asking me for any money, the fare police then walked on.

He and I sat in silence for the rest of the train ride to the airport. I glanced at him a few times; he was looking out the window. It looked like he was gritting his teeth.

When the train arrived at the airport, he cradled the sleeping bag underneath his arm and squeezed through the mass of people to get out of the train first. He walked with haste to the descending escalator; he was stepping off of it as I was stepping on.

As he walked towards the terminal, he looked up and scanned the crowd. He saw me looking at him. He held my gaze, then turned away before disappearing into the airport.

Categories
Nonfiction Observations

Acts of Aggression.

The curls of his hair fell past his neck and a green knapsack hung from his shoulders. He plodded up the sidewalk and began to drift towards the curb.

His arm shot out and his fist slammed into the window of the vegetable truck. He paused, then punched the window again. The window did not break.

Nobody was seated in the vehicle. The vegetables and fruits painted on the side of the truck continued to smile. The man pushed the button at the stoplight and waited for his turn to cross the street.

Three men, each in a dark business suit, were walking north. Because they were shoulder to shoulder they occupied the entire width of the sidewalk. One held a cup of steaming coffee; another adjusted the trench coat slung over his arm; the third tucked his new cell phone into his pocket.

A man wearing a reflective vest, carrying a broom, and pulling a rolling trash can was walking south. Upon seeing the three men he began to move away from the center of the sidewalk and towards the building.

The three men approached, their paths straight lines. The man in the vest stopped and pressed himself and his supplies against the building. He looked down. The three men brushed past and looked only straight ahead.

The red dot of the laser pointer appeared on the sidewalk. It wobbled in the shadows, uncertain of where to go. Finding a target, it lurched up and landed on the white jeans of a woman waiting for the traffic light to change.

The red dot quivered as it rested on the woman’s butt, as if it were trying to stifle its own laughter. It clung to her as she crossed the street.