This is a secondary submission for Poetry Friday as sponsored by the lovely Mona. It doesn’t belong at the cat’s place, so I will store the memory here. The word for Poetry Friday is cut.

After the eight grade, the private school I attended closed. My parents enrolled me in public high school rather than than bus me with my classmates. Transferring from a class of seventeen to a class of two hundred and fifty was sobering. I didn’t fear the diversity, the larger classes or the mysteries of the cafeteria but I resented the Hell out of being torn from my safety zone. At fourteen, the sun practically rises and sets drawn by the force of adolescent ego.

I knew a few kids at the new school, but with varying class schedules and hormonal crashes, I flopped around like a fish out of water trying desperately to find a place to belong. Throughout my tenure, I tried to blend in with various groups ranging from outcasts, to nerds, to cool kids, and foreign exchange students. I was never a good blend with any, but managed to be non-threatening enough to be tolerated by most groups.

As a quiet freshman who doodled constantly in the margins of notebooks, I was quickly recruited to decorate for various dances. I painted backdrops for at least five dances I didn’t attend. It was through one of those after school drawing, painting soda sucking afternoons I met Gwen.

I was drawn to her in one of those adolescent girl crush, you’re older and you have more insight into the high school pecking order, please guide me and rescue me from my own naivety, sort of ways. She was two years older, but she was in my homeroom, so I suspect academics weren’t a priority for her. She was friendly, and what I perceived to be cool, in an off the radar way.

We were painting murals or some such activity and she realized I noticed the horizontal scars intersecting her right and left wrist. She made some flip comment about it, and I was too polite to inquire further. Until that moment, I never considered the purpose which motivated an act of self-destruction. I supposed at the time, that she must have had a reason yet I was too squeamish to consider what it might be. I never thought any different of her because of it. I was intelligent enough to realize my life experience was too limited to grasp the why, but I was relieved she hadn’t been successful. Now, I regret my reasons were largely selfish. The truth is I couldn’t imagine navigating the hallowed halls of education without Gwen’s guidance that first year.

Gwen earned enough credit to move to a junior homeroom the following year, and I didn’t see her as often. By mid-term, she was suspended for bringing alcohol on the bus. A few days into her suspension, she withdrew from school. I never saw her again. I heard a rumor my senior year that she was pregnant, but I never heard confirmation.

Occasionally I wonder where her path led. I was acquainted with her, but I can’t claim to know her or her problems any better than she knew me or mine. At times when I close my eyes, I see her hands, beautiful, delicate, but no less troubled.

It crept up silently. The economy of motion was comparable to one fingering a light switch. Even the Mister noticed it and he’s a guy. I ran out of words. Not sad, but empty. It was like walking through a vacant warehouse, the only sound is the repetition of your footsteps echoing across bare floors, and the only movement, your liquid shadow. A few days passed, my period arrived, and I wrote the whole experience off as being hormonal. I like to fantasize about being unshakably reasonable and above the influence of estrogen, but Mother Nature is a twisted sadist who likes to fuck with me too.

I regained purpose, or rather, busied myself with completing as much painting, and maintenance as I could tackle. Transient thoughts weaving through my mind, in synch with my music playlist, but nothing requiring the capacity to dwell. The Mister came home for a few days, and then departed again. We’re nearing the end of the interior work. It seems I’ve been nesting forever, but in truth it’s mostly a bunch of painting, and a small bathroom facelift, interrupted by trips downtown to eat awesome food, buy fresh produce, or get the Mister a chiropractic adjustment. I find comfort in the ordinary.

Later, when I tackled the bathroom, it struck again. There was a small inconvenience derailing progress, and I almost let it defeat me. It took more time than it should have for me to right my head and get back on track, but for hours, I found myself sliding downhill with the parking brake engaged.

It happens frequently. I engage myself with machine-like precision and endurance completing a series of tedious yet un-glorious task, and I maintain the pace longer than many could, yet ultimately I jump the track due to some inconsequential inconvenience. An inconvenience, that challenges me to get over myself. It’s that minor hiccup, the proverbial straw, that is remembered and dwelled upon, not the head of steam that produced the bulk of the progress. I long to turn off my head some days as I am often my own worst enemy.

***************

A gift to the new bride and groom. I noticed the peacock was a recurring theme in their wedding announcement and invitation. I thought it might be significant. Colored pencil. Not a subject, I would choose for myself, but it was appropriate to honor the occasion, and well received. Part of the joy in making art, is capturing the spirit of the recipient.

I was talking to my sister Friday evening, and she started one of these, “You’re never going to believe what grandma said…” conversations. These are typically entertaining forays into the world of octogenarian logic. Wit and wisdom conveniently sprinkled with bitterness and paranoia. The statements are true, but the incidents that lead up to them are usually built on a crumbling foundation of science fiction and Dr Seuss.

Grandma disclosed to my sister the REAL reason I moved. Apparently, I relocated because I didn’t want to be part of the big decision making. She sort of neglected to mention which big decision making she was actually referring to. She could be referring to herself as she is absolutely paranoid that she will fall asleep one evening in her ginormous king sized bed with her beloved cat, Cry Baby only to wake up the following morning restrained on a single bed, in a sea foam green room, that smells like urine and baby powder. She IS eighty-eight, so it is a legitimate concern. What she doesn’t realize is that is completely out of my jurisdiction. I am her grandchild, not her child, so effectively my voting power is nil.

I have obvious affection for the woman. I gave her eiswein for Christmas, in spite of her protest of being a baptist. I don’t bat my eyes when she says, “shit”, and I still eat her home cooking, though its glory days expired prior to the Y2K scare.

She could have been referring to the situation regarding my in-laws, but let’s face it, I don’t, nor have I ever had, any influence of their care. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s a bad thing. We will never really know, will we?

Maybe she was referring to my responsibilities regarding my own mother’s care. Today, my mother is completely able to handle all her basic needs. It isn’t like she has two feet wedged on the gas pedal trying to outrun the staff at the nursing home. She does need help with larger task: trimming shrubbery, removing pine straw from the roof, taking animals to the vet.

Over the past two years, I have spent as much time preparing my mother’s house to be put on the market (her idea to sell) as I have my own. She changed her mind after the appraisal. Sentimental attachment has no influence over fair market value in the midst of a real estate slump. Frequently, I have shown up at her doorstop to take care of maintenance without being prompted. I have made arrangements, and enlisted help to relocate an ass load of furniture from one antique mall to another one three hours away. I don’t take it upon myself to pitch in because I’m looking for praise or credit (and I’m not looking for credit now). I do it because it is the right thing.

Few things Grandma says surprise me any more, but this one…. I thought she knew me better, or at least had an inkling of type of person I became. I don’t have difficulty accepting responsibility, nor do I have difficulty making decisions and accepting the consequences. I don’t even mind admitting fault when it is clearly mine (this took a lot of work). I can’t be expected to take responsibility of those who CHOOSE not take responsibility for themselves, and as for those confined to a small cell chewing thorazine and creating macaroni and glue sculptures, on some level, they become the responsibility of all. What I struggle with, is determining the best path from where I am to where I want to be. So there is a molecule of truth in what she said, but not enough to merit a sweeping statement. I wish she had listened to me more, so she might have gotten to know me better.