things and things

it's the things

my dad said

sitting at our dining room table

i was home from college

and he had been to louisville and back

to help his siblings sort through his mother's home

after her death

my mom and i stood there

dumb

and confused

until i thought 

someone should hug him

and then

oh

me

i should hug him

and i did

and he let me

i was not as familiar 

with my grandma's things as he was

but i can easily conjure

even today

the set of orange juice glasses with matching pitcher

a collection of mugs that hung on her dining room wall

and four lovely figurines in a china cabinet

all of which

carried

a whisper

of her spirit

we weren't thinking of DNA back then

at least i wasn't

but some things

are not exactly dead

after their owner is

it's the things

you know,

because

you think you're fine

you think you've mourned

grieved

dealt

but then

your fingers 

touch

where their fingers

touched

when you,

you know,

fold up a dishcloth

close pages of handwriting

and consider what to do with a worn leather wallet

-- -- --

sure that i could detach emotionally,

i went through my deceased sister's things this week,

as a favor to my parents,

while i was sheltering-in-(their) place

in Ohio

all summer.

it was the least i could do

a task long overdue 

twenty-five years after her death

i went through her things

the things we had saved

we hadn't saved everything

but some things . . .

so

i went through the remaining things

and you know what I found?

you don't want to know.

but you do, right?

like, i'm going to tell you "you don't want to know"

but you know i'm going to tell you

and instead of shutting off your device

you keep reading

in the same way that i keep writing

like prayer

like penance

like . . .

or maybe you're just bored.

in the basement

of my parents' house

there were mostly photos

but there were also

more sentimental things:

- a pair of worn pointe shoes

faded pink satin

- her cheerleading uniforms

which should be easy to part with

but that her embroidered name

is sewn onto some pieces

gottdammitt

you just don't want that 

cursive embroidered name

in a garbage heap

at the curb

at least, i don't

-and a Death Box

(I know there's a better term for it

but sometimes the literal is my favorite choice)

all the contents were to do with her death:

newspaper articles

letters

those small florists' cards 

that come with funeral flower arrangements...

Death Stuff.

- also two nail polishes and one lipstick

what.  the.  FUChsia.

-and then more photos

more?

i thought we'd been through these?

endless, endless snapshots from the 90s

the era after 

cameras and photo development 

were really expensive

but before we harbored our images digitally

and, at a time,

when photo developers were offering

free double prints!!

so

not only endless snapshots

but their doubles

and the doubles

of well-meaning friends

who took photos

of the same subject

at the very same events

from a perspective

at an angle

only different 

by a few degrees.

endless photos

endless denim shirts,

and backward baseball hats,

and Busch Light

and it made me

so 

snapshotting

mad

are you angry?

i am

angry a lot

all the time, in fact

living my anger

riding it out

or

hoping i will ride it out

but it keeps hopping on 

and riding me 

another 1,000 miles

down the road of 2020.

i don't expect 

that my feelings

feel the way your feelings feel,

but do report back...

i'll tell you mine

and then you tell me yours, okay?

my anger feels like 

a sprawling right hook

from my little

middle-age arm

like,

i'm just walking down the street, right?

in my parents' neighborhood

in the middle of

middle america

and my right hook flails wildly

into the air before me.

(i don't think i'm actually physically 

swinging at air,

but if the neighbors told me they witnessed it,

i'd believe them.)

sometimes the heel of my hand tremors 

to shove an invisible someone

off the sidewalk beside me.

it could be anyone.

it could be a human.

or not.

it could be...

oh let's pick an easy one...

covid.

shove

it could be politics, 

the whole idea of politics.

shove

memories.

stupid shit i said

stupid shit i did

shove

shove

shove

the heel of my hand throbs;

it doesn't hurt

because i haven't touched anything

it's just an impulse.

but kind of a violent one.

now

i can't just go around 

shoving and slapping at the air

all the time

i have to,

you know,

function

despite my anger

or with my anger

or 

(my favorite) because of my anger  

rage 

i later called it 

in a text message 

to my friend

yeah, he texted back, 

rage!  

... anger is so 2019.

"i don't even know who i'm mad at,"

i bitched to my mother after sorting through my sister's things.

is it "whom"?

i guess it could be whom but that's not what i said

that's not how i talk in kitchens

am i mad at her?

it's not her fault.

is it the things?

they're just things

the 90s?

yeah, i'm a little mad at the 90s.

i did my own photos next

so no one i love has to do it for me someday when i am dead.

my five year old helped, though

in exchange for a $14.99 

My Little Pony app.

she peeled photo after photo

off of sticky album pages.

she got a cut near her fingernail.

she said, "mama,

you have more memories than anyone!"

nope

just more photos.

when all of my photos were out of the albums

i sent her off with

Rainbow Dash

and Fluttershy

and a pair of headphones plugged into my phone

so, solo,

i could sort

and save

or shed

and shed i did

i was particularly brutal

against the 90s

i went down into the basement,

turned on Spotify's Top 40 hits from 1994

and i didn't just shed,

i shredded those fuckers to bits

-- -- --

in the end

i threw out a lot of pictures

i saved a few

of mine

of my sister's

i sent many of her's

to her friends 

who would appreciate 

the denimandbackwardhatsandcrapbeer,

i could not be the one to throw away 

the whispers

the point shoes

the embroidered polyester cheerleading uniform

the things

but the shreds of my own photos

I put on the curb last night

with their old empty albums,

two nail polishes,

and a stillcan'tbelieveitwasthere tube of lipstick from 1995.

it probably had my sister's DNA on it

(google tells me that 80% of samples provide results)

but 

i do too,

don't i?

(google tells me about 50% is shared between siblings)

so

that's fine

i'll just carry that around 

for the rest of my life

the lipstick can go.

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you can support my work on Patreon at 

ginna's vino & the bean blog.

Messy Circumference

Bemoaning a lack of solitude

Amy and I sit,

masked,

six feet apart

in a grassy area.

(Amy F., that is, not to be confused with Amy V. or Amy M.B.)

Amy sits on a blanket

toys and trinkets scattered 

in a circumference around her.

We are no strangers to a messy circumference.

I sit on a backpack that unfolds to a seat,

a prized possession,

admired solely

by other moms,

and solely

when we are at outdoor playdates.

Otherwise it’s a lot of:

“is your backpack a chair???”

Fuck you. Yes.

So, we are seated

in a grassy area,

in an abundance of fresh air

and still

six feet apart,

discussing

how different this pandemic would have been 

had we not had children

 . . . while our children

run in manic circles

and other patterns

around us

and over us

and through us.

how much shit we’d get done!

writing!

baking!

pilates!

I recall –out loud–

to Amy

how fifteen years ago,

I’d have whole Saturdays in solitude.

Sundays, too.

Whole Saturdays and/or 

Sundays in

solitude.

I’d go to one of the coffee shops;

Columbus Bakery was a favorite

where coffee refills were $1.

Hours.

Literal hours.

(And you know I hate to use “literally”

figuratively.)

Actual, genuine,

sixty-minute spans of time multiplied by three or four.

HOURS.

Then I would jog. 

“Around the reservoir,”

probably.

And then shower.

A long shower.

Then, I’d do, like . . .

what?

I’d do leisure.

Make calls,

listen to music

read a magazine 

that was issued that very month.

And sometime later,

after the day could already be characterized as a day,

I’d meet up with friends,

hardly having voiced an entire sentence 

until 9:00 or 10:00 PM.

We had it all,

Amy says,

as our children bulldoze by

catching more than a wisp of her hair

in the toy airplane.

“Ouch!” she yells.

Then privately to me,

when they are just out of earshot,

“fuck!”

“Sorry!” our two monsters say

in unison without turning their heads back.

We’re so glad they are exercising their legs

beyond the width of a living room

that we don’t demand

a more sincere apology.

Yeah, we had it all.

Well,

we concede,

we had all that time.

But in the immense vastness of hour after unplanned hour

you know what we were longing for?

a husband and a baby.

Or,

at least,

a baby,

and a well-timed, genetically-gifted

one-night stand.

But, 

ideally a baby

and a partner.

I don’t want to do this pandemic alone.

I just want four Saturdays a month.

Okay, two.

Okay, one.

One Saturday a month

of bottomless black coffee

and a generous serving of no-one-needs-me-right-now.

And for all the other hours

the packed-in-a-two-bedroom apartment hours

the all three-meals-together hours

the has-anyone-been-outside-today hours,

I choose

the two I’ve got.

Their pair of faces

their two chins

their four eyes

their everything.

I choose you

I still do

2020

2021

I still do.

I choose you.

Amy and the monsters.

The monsters and me.

messy circumference

just look at them

with Hamlet.

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sidewalk squares

• to hear the accompanying interview with six-year-old katie lu, click here
• for her full collection of blogs and recordings, become a patron at ginna's vino & the bean on Patreon

when the anxieties

of the wee hours 

aren't specifically

about myself

job, income, health insurance,

aging ungracefully especially around the jaw...

they are about her:

does she know to stay away from electrical outlets?

I should remind her today.

what about plastic bags?

she can never play with plastic bags.

and never ever put one on her head.

not even to be funny

not even if another kid does.

I will subtly weave that into conversation this morning.

Over oatmeal.

This most recent 

waking wee hour

the worry was handwriting.

she's not getting enough handwriting practice.

small motor skills!

brain development!

young for her class!

falling behind

falling behind

falling

f

    a

        l

            l

                i

                    n

                        g

and I go in

to kiss her sweet cheek.

and then a little higher up

where her temple meets her hair.

sometimes I lift a little hand

heavy with sleep

and I place the cuppy palm

against my own ungracefully-aging cheek

I have this

I have you

I am me

much because

you are you.

When she was a baby

she would rest her little hands on me.

she was carried by me 

much of the time,

at that time,

and her little hands

with little strength

rested on my shoulders

rested on my chest

and sometimes

just gently there on my cheek.

I got to loving this little paw

with no pressure to it

so much

that as she got older

and stood on her own,

I'd kneel before her and say 

"put your hands on my cheeks?"

and she'd place

two toddler hands

over my

most self-conscious feature

and bless me.

she,

I was convinced,

who had so recently

been 

in the company of angels.

When I was pregnant,

and far enough along

to recognize her movements,

I knew the difference

between a big thump

-a knee or the heel of her foot-

versus

the fish-fin flutter

of a hand.

They are getting stronger

now,

of course,

as five looks down the block at six.

But she is still young enough

that she must hold my hand 

to cross the streets,

and young enough

that she still elects to hold it,

sometimes

even when we are not crossing.

when we are just passing 

from one sidewalk square to the next.

Don't step on the cracks, Mommy!

Let's skip, Mommy!

Let's run, Mommy!

 

and her hand 

no longer flutters

no longer rests

it grips,

holds on,

squeezes even

and

I

I

I just really like the lady I am

with your hand in mine,

little girl

yes, let's skip

let's run

                                   

                              y

                     l  

            f   

let's 

to hear the accompanying interview with six-year-old katie lu, click here

PREVIEW OF NEXT ENTRY:

lately, at night
citing nightmares
as the cause
of sleeplessness
for trouble sleeping
or trouble getting to sleep,
she delays at bedtime.

remembering
that I’d slept with a little plush pink and green bunny
for a week before we began sleep training
because I’d heard
that some babies
are comforted at night
with a sleep toy
that smells like mama,
I offered my six-year-old
a piece of my clothing
to hold onto in the night.

she liked the idea of mommy’s shirt going to bed with her
and she
really


took


her


time


… and


………..took


……………….her


……………………..time


sniffing out which one had the most mom scent

what has eve been or ever will be more flattering
than someone craving my self-scented
T-shirt to comfort her to sleep?

it’s been going on for a week now.
she reads a book with dad,
he says, “say goodnight to ya mama,”
we hug and kiss,
and she requests
a shirt
or sweater.
last night she said,
“let’s get to sniffin!!”
and she sniffed through
four or five shirts
before landing on
the ginnaest.


I heard her and her dad
discussing the matter.
he said,
“why don’t you want my shirt?”
and she told him
-in whatever way a six-year-old does,
politeness not necessarily prioritized -
that she preferred my smell.
he pushed back
but then she responded,
high-pitched,
putting the matter to bed (as it were):


“I just like mama’s smell best!
I don’t even like my own smell!”

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bone by bone

 PART I

I was hit at the same intersection twice two isolated incidents except that they were exactly the same. both times headed to work. both times certain (at 16, and then 17) I had the right of way. both times my car was hit from the left.

I am not good. I mean, I'm fine. I mean well. I'm not trying to cause harm. But “good” is not the word.

There is that song Only The Good Die Young by Billy Joel and it was kind of my personal anthem for years before I attached any meaning of good and dead versus bad and alive. in the song the thrust- if you will- is a young man pleading for his -- let's say, “ romantic” interest to “come out, come out, Virginia” But, Virginia is too busy being Catholic, being good

I was Catholic I’m named Virginia but if any young man had been crooning at my window I would have fucking jumped

I did lots of jumping over the years into the arms of bad, and ” bad” wasn't always packaged as a teenage boy, but I was only sung to once, as I recall…

If I was good, would I, once struck by a worldwide pandemic, be so wildly without a way?

When I stitch together the adulthood of my whims I get a blanket. and it is warm and “ interesting” and it works but it is not a normal blanket. it is not a blanket one would display slouched over the side of a sofa in her living room. it will never see the pages of a magazine or catalog. no one is buying this blanket. I wouldn't have bought it. it's just what I was left with. Like, I wasn't going to buy a chicken carcass; it's going to make a great stock, but it's only here because I wanted chicken.

Are you following? The blanket = my experiences Chicken meat = the good times

But I am 46

and measuring

my life

in metaphorical fowl . . .

***read more by becoming a patron of ginna's vino & the bean on Patreon

embarassment (or that one day i was rich)

Reading a magazine in the same month it was issued

Sunset

A quality nap

A long run in great weather

Tomatoes from the garden

Laughter until it hurts

or you pee

Please don't pity

the out-of-work

please don' call me a

"starving artist"

those of you who know my appetite

have seen it in action

know that I 

don't like to starve

have never starved

don't aspire to starve

there will be food

and all necessities

what I am willing to sacrifice

when income is slim

includes vacations

new clothes

main/pedis

babysitters

and dining out

i can hunker down,

go on "wallet lockdown"

as long as necessary,

and make 1,000

calls letters emails and meetings

to secure health insurance

so we do not have to fear

a trip to the doctor

or heaven forbid,

the hospital.

and when the job appears

the work sells

the money comes in,

we dine out

I replace my shoes

occasionally buy fresh flowers

new toys 

a scooter

a bike

and the wine rack

has company

the wine rack is a pretty good indicator of household income.

This time

in history

-personal and otherwise-

is not so great

-financially and otherwise-

i am among so many unemployed

and while i am not stranger to unemployment

I am not familiar

with 

this

pervasive

un-opportunity.

one by one

the little soldiers that fight to keep 

the accounts balanced

dropped

dead

from Covid-19

my employers were forced to shut down

one

then

another

then

another

then

from one of my sturdiest soldiers:

"closing our doors permanently"

well,

it had been a good fight

and while the soldiers are dead

the resources remain

i mean,

my fingers still type

my laptop still works

did I ever tell you about the time I fell asleep writing and my dear husband brought my wine over and placed it beside me -and the laptop- and when I woke with a start, I knocked the wine over onto the laptop?

i was unemployed at that time, too

and a very new mother

and that was the end of that laptop

and the fucking wine, too.

There was another laptop,

the one before the one that went the way of wine

and it died a much sadder death,

a victim of sexual misconduct

(no, it was not my misconduct)

it was the misconduct of a mentally ill actor

who relieved himself

on the screen of my Apple iBook g-4

it was quite a statement

and 

years later

in response 

I said 

me too

and

me too

said my poor computer.

and to my computer

i said

"yes,

you too"

But here,

now,

I still have my machine

which I keep far away from beverages

and other . . . fluids

and there are other things

things of value

collected

received as gifts

that confuse my low-income 

(no income?)

status

how can a household with over twenty 

Crate & Barrel dish towels be poor?

There was that one day

in the midst of pandemic lockdown

out of work

and with no income

waiting on a royalty check 

that was stuck in an office that no one was entering...

when i was rich.

for months, I had been part of two produce delivery services:

one mails me a box of ugly organic produce for $26.50 a week

--and sometimes it's not even ugly--

the other, "Brighter Bites" offers two bags of produce 

to any family at my daughter's school who signs up.

they call it "rescued produce."

we signed up, and i have made it my mission

to see that every bite of produce 

nourishes someone in my home or another.

on my watch, no squash will go unrescued!

lots of pickles, people

lots of slaw. . .

one day I handed out seven giant cucumbers at the playground

(it was a weird gesture

but met with smiles.)

Originally families collected their produce at the school on Fridays,

but once schools closed, Brighter Bites

got volunteers with cars

and brought the produce to the homes of families that still wanted it.

I cried on the phone 

when they called to tell me.

That these two services,

which somehow both arrive on Tuesdays,

rescued me from trips to the grocery store,

and that one of them was free,

was an absolute pandemic game-changer.

On the day that I was rich,

i was the only one awake

--fully caffeinated and 

riding the adrenaline waves

of cardiovascular exercise

so the sparkling of the moment

may have been somewhat induced--

and i had just read an email 

reporting that a writing project of mine

would get some exposure

there was no money offered

over a year went into 

creating that piece

and not a penny earned

or promised

and yet

i was elated

functioning!

important!

valued!

It must have been a Wednesday

because

I looked down at the kitchen counter

overflowing with tomatoes, zucchini,

apples, squash, potatoes, onions,

and a jar full of water

which held two giant 

proud and pretty

pink roses

cut fresh from their bushes

and given to us by our neighbors

and i thought

look at me

i'm rich

crying in cars

What if I moved these words somewhere else?

How would you feel about that?

Facebook has certainly helped me announce each blog entry,

but it often feels like a strange place to promote my recent material.

So, I am moving this lengthy monologue to patreon.com,

on a page called ginna's vino & the bean (after my original blog)

which will also give my readers the chance to support me

as I document my experience in the coming months,

develop the material in L&BIQ into a single written work,

share other projects, and generally persevere.

i don’t defend against the claim

that i’m emotional.

i am 

and will always be

a gross little sac of fluids

roaming earth

and trying not to leak 

too publicly

but,

-- and i hope i don’t sound defensive here--

when i’m referred to as emotional,

i wonder

what’s the alternative?

who isn’t?

who doesn’t have emotions?

do you suppose

the claim is not that I have emotions,

the claim is actually

that I express them?

an expression

which, i admit, 

does have an attractive alternative:

no red eyes

no snot

no leaking.

some might say that I’m “in touch”

with my emotions

while others would say “touched.”

some might say “she feels mad”

while others might say “she’s a madwoman”

because yelling in the lunchroom

and sobbing at an airport

are not for everyone

which, I allow

is why i sometimes

stuff

to be on the receiving end of my emotions 

must be exhausting

and so 

if i can’t stuff

i take my less-enjoyable emotions 

-- sister-emotions, Anger and Sadness

two pissed off skinned-kneed twins--

for a walk (Anger)

or a drive (Sadness)

so i don’t,

you know,

scare any nearby children

-- -- --

when we were kids

my older sister had this trick:

she said if you have a big hard cry

and your face is red and splotchy,

the trick to wiping the evidence away

is to swipe your index fingers across your tongue

and then swipe you own spit under your eyes.

it probably didn't work,

but she was my big sister

so i did whatever she said.

mostly.

i distinctly remember applying this method 

riding home after auditions

when i didn't make the dance company,

back in the eighties

in the back-seat of

the burgundy colored station wagon,

and she

--who had made the dance company--

taught me to wipe a little spit under my eyes.

which i did.

there were lots of rejections for me.

my big sister somehow never got rejected.

just never

when I did not make the cheerleading squad freshman year,

she was a junior and she, of course, did make the cut.

then she searched our small Catholic high school high and low

until she found me in a far bathroom stall

a mess of snot and tears.

she laughed a little

which i couldn't understand at the time, but i understand now

because,

as she said,

“it's not that big a deal.”

uh...

easy for you to say, sis.

said late-nineteen-eighties-me

and then she instructed me to wipe my own spit under my eyes

and i did

and we exited the bathroom

only to have me repeat the pattern:

tears, spit, tears, spit

on the way home

--now in a wood-paneled mini van--

and

over and over

over the course

of the rest of that day.

she made the cheerleading squad

(I gave up on the third try)

she made the dance company

(I made it, but had to try out three times)

she made the Nutcracker 

(I had to try out three times)

and so it went...

my acting apprenticeship

(three auditions)

my first Shakespeare company

(three auditions)

for years, when i got rejected,

which I do now for a living

i would think,

"one down, two to go..."

and i'd lick my index fingers

and swipe the soft and puffy space

right below 

my eyes

-- -- --

i didn't cry a lot 

in the first 99 days of lockdown

or maybe i ought to say

"i don't recall crying a lot

in the first 99 days,"

but i do now

in my alternative

shelter-in-place

my hometown

my ohio.

in ohio

in 2020

i take frequent drives

in my car

my car!

yay car!

yay, suburban culture that embraces the automobile over public transportation!

this little spaceship of solitude

where i have the added benefit of crying in private.

where the low-rolling wave is always floating there

right behind my dam face

my damn face

and i never know 

when i drive

how the columbus DJs will factor in.

i have a special relationship with columbus DJs --

a special relationship 

with a collective of individuals

that spans over three decades

of which none of them are aware

it is a fabulous reality

driving west on I-70

and hearing Whitesnake

No, I don't know where I'm goin'

But I sure know where I've been...

or anything that was 

super popular between ‘87 and ‘94.

on I-70,

with the right music,

time 

.

.

is not a thing.

life loops.

i’m forever sixteen,

twenty, thirty, ninety…

Hanging on the promises in songs of yesterday...

i’m living in an overlay

over younger days.

the I-70 west of today

casting a shady filter

on the I-70 of nineteen-ninety-something

we’re both there,

sixteen and forty-six,

singing,

wailing,

(possibly speeding.)

I-70 west

where i am no stranger

to that low rolling wave

(i can’t imagine it feels like this for everyone.

does it?

i look forward to your feedback.

this is what it feels like to me:)

a low rolling wave

that rises

right behind my lips

where I am still safe from a storm,

but then higher, to the space between lip and nostril

where it swells 

where I am less safe.

sadness is pressing from the backside of my face

this is mild danger,

these are potential tears

but not a real threat

until the pressure mounts behind my nose

--the nose knows no strategy

the nose is the weakest defense--

if the swell gets that far

i might as well put on sunglasses

pull over if i am driving.

and if the nose somehow finds resistance

and doesn't give in,

the pressure switches tactics 

switches direction 

to ambush at the throat:

cue the choked and hiccuped speech

forget it;

don't bother trying to talk right now.

try some nose-breathing

and wait it out.

turn on the radio.

dear DJs, what will you do today?

80s rock?

windows down and howling

good old fashioned grunge?

to conjure college

90s ballad?

oh, people,

with a flashback ballad in the background,

i 

cannot 

stuff 

-- -- --

when we were teens

and riding together in the car

Here I go again on my own

Goin' down the only road I've ever known...

my big sister taught me to punch to ceiling 

of the Chevy Nova we shared

when we passed through yellow lights.

i committed to this action the way others commit

to the rosary

to this day,

i 

never

not

punch

at a yellow light

never

my husband teases me 

about this arm-reflex

and for a long time I played it off 

taking the joke

and then one day

he mimicked me

laughing about this completely arbitrary safeguard

and i came back with a disproportionately

emotional response:

i never said it worked!

I was hit by two different cars

two different times

at the same intersection

in the early 90s

did i smack the ceiling of the car?

if i did

it did not prevent me from getting hit

so maybe it doesn’t work

or maybe

because I walked away unscathed

it does.

life loops.

i still hit the ceiling of the car

reflexively

religiously

simply because i have no good reason 

to stop doing things that i did with my big sister

(he still teases me about 

smacking the ceiling

at yellow lights

but i have chilled

so

okay

progress)

-- -- --

on today’s drive

in Ohio

in 2020

it is raining,

(oh, the poetry)

and then

-can you believe it?-

Bonnie Rait on the radio

I can’t make you love me…

DJs, you outdo yourselves.

rain splats in huge drops against the windshield

I can’t make your heart feel

Something it won’t...

i do not pull over

or swipe under my eyes

i got no one to see

i got no one to see me

-- -- --

there was this time

my little sister Kelly had play rehearsal

and my big sister Katie and I were supposed to drop her off.

Kelly was properly buckled in in the back seat

and only a little nervous that we were 

only narrowly on time.

Katie insisted that we lock the car doors

and I insisted that we didn't;

she was keeping us safe by making sure no one could get in,

i was keeping us safe making sure that if necessary, we could get out.

there’s no way to know 

if such precautions

actually

work;

neither approach guarantees safety.

the argument escalated

we ran further late

tears were shed

and Kelly skidded into rehearsal

with about twelve seconds to spare.

i do not remember if the car doors 

were ever locked

or not

we laughed about it later,

but i still could not understand

what about my unlocked passenger car door 

could drive my eighteen year-old sister to tears.

years later when she died in her crushed car,

i’d have bet large sums that her doors were locked

windows up

the ceiling dutifully punched.

-- -- --

i do not understand anything.

every lesson i learn

loops.

i relearn.

or unlearn.

i’m still a seeping sac of fluids

swiping spit

under my eyes.

my way

is not the right way

it is the absence of a right way:

stuff

drive

leak

i never said it worked

it’s just one way

a way

So, what do you think?  

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