Sheila's Dribs 'n Drabs

“I’m blue” sang the CD player, blue flowers like bad news on the doorstep, sender anon. Machiavellian dreaming I knew, he’s blue; he’s gone.

She used to talk too much. He said he didn’t listen so she grew quiet. She used to think too much. He said she shouldn’t brood and so she cleaned. She used to want too much. He said he was tired of having to do everything and so she stopped.

I walked that road—you know the one—it’s paved with good intentions. I told her I trusted her, valued her, knew she’d succeed. I pushed her, helped her, drove her till she got the job, became all I thought she could be. Shoulda listened though; turned her into me.

Chimes over water, like Christmas bells in summer; “What is it Mommy?” Chiming of ropes and tackles, wires, the song of wind and sails that long to flee. Mommy cries. “What is it Mommy?” Chimes of memory, a night on the yacht; his betrayal; her denial. She loves the child.

She wrote dramatic tragedies in school. Girl standing on a burning cliff, the world devoured by fire; one final plane approaches, one last bomb, and so she jumps. But what sweet tragedy, the pilot was her true love come to save her. She wrote such tragic endings, then she jumped.

Music in his ears, he stomped the beat, oblivious to traffic’s roar. Stars in his eyes, he read the text; dreaming of other places, hit reply. Thoughts in his mind of flowers drove out the stench of everyday; fingers hit keys. Cars tried and failed—can’t stop. Today he died. I just heard from a friend about a young man who died where she works; he walked straight into busy traffic while listening to headphones and texting. It kind of puts that youtube video of the woman walking into the fountain into perspective. If you're reading this, please warn your family and friends.

The last time he saw her she walked backwards away, slim body swaying, hair like mist round her face. He cries for her. Some memories never fade. The last time he saw her she gazed with tears of love lingering in her eyes. But her father told her no and she couldn’t disobey. She stepped away. The last time he saw her the truck barreled into her body and flung her aside in a red mist of pain. He turned his back because her father swore he mustn’t touch her. Memories find him still wishing he’d stayed by her side.

“Four strong winds that blow lonely.” He’d tasted them all, sand and salt, with dry mineral sting. But the fire in his eyes burned for things he had done and “The good times are all gone.” “One day they’ll sing.” He dropped his guitar, took the gun hanging low on his hip, weighing steady like music and strong like chords of a song. “One day.” And the wind-devils floated like nymphs to his end. Beating hooves of the sheriff’s fine steed were his drums and the sun lent a singer. Now he’s bending the trigger. He's bound for moving on.

Do you know why he drinks? In the corner of the ruins with a bottle in his hands? The whole street came down in the air-raid but he wasn’t home. He found her picture, picked out the shards of glass, then found the vodka bottle in shiny silk, layers of luxury that saved it from the blast. So that’s what he’s drinking now, in memory of her, while they sort body parts. They’ll give him a ticket when they’re done but it won’t bring her back. Red silk, a picture, the petals of fifteen roses; and a lonely old man.

Daniel wished he had a brother. All the lucky boys had them; big brothers to help; little brothers to make them feel big. Grandma wished she wasn’t ill. She wanted to watch her children and grandchildren grow, but couldn’t even cook dinner for her youngest son. Mom wished life was less complicated. When Grandma died, Mom cooked and took in her brother like a child of her own. So Daniel got his wish; Uncle Brother was fun. And Grandma looked down from heaven and got hers too. As for Mom: “No foolproof wishes,” she said, and “No fools here either.”

“I'm never going back to my old school.” “Why not?” said Pete. “Because…” Lynn sighed. “’Cause what?” She wrapped his arms in a fierce embrace and drenched his face with tears. “Come on. It wasn’t such a bad old place,” said Pete, but Lynn disagreed. Then Peter struggled from her grasp—“Please no!”—strode streets on silent feet, slid shadow-less into the night. The school’s closed doors that stopped Lynn’s following let him pass unhindered. “In memory of Peter Ransom,” said the words on the photograph; should have stayed away. Lynn watched through the window as her boyfriend vanished again.