Grandpa’s Garden

Before his stroke, Grandpa was my favorite. I would sit on his belly, round like Santa’s, and ask him if the battery above his heart hurt. I’d lightly press my fingers against the square shape protruding from his chest, and Grandpa would smile wide, toothlessly.

“Naw, Baby Girl. That’s my ticker,” he’d say. I imagined a tiny clock inside his chest, sort of like the Tin Man.

Grandpa was a self-proclaimed botanist, without using so many words. He planted tomatoes and other vegetables, mostly for canning to keep Grandma and him fed through the harsh winter months when the junkyard didn’t need his help sorting metals. I used to walk behind him. I watched Grandpa whisper to his green babies and touch the leaves carefully. He taught me about them, but I can’t remember his lessons.

After my grandpa’s stroke, between first and second grade, we moved in with my grandparents. They owned a duplex, and we lived on the second floor so my mom could care for him.

There were times I wanted to climb back on his belly, but Grandpa’s new oxygen tank made my belly do flips. I thought I could catch whatever was making him so sick. If I get too close, I’ll need one of those tubes in my nose too.

I don’t have a single picture of the stairs in my grandparent’s house, but I remember them perfectly in my mind: hand carved wood painted the same shade of red as fallen leaves just before they turn brown and crumble. I wasn’t allowed to play outside, so when I wanted to get away from everyone I would sit on the landing. I could hear my mom on the phone above and my grandparent’s television below. I sat there playing with dolls or staring at the cracks and chips in the yellow walls pretending they were a part of a roadmap to someplace magical where Grandpa wasn’t ill.

His ticker stopped that autumn. I was in school when it happened. He was there when I left and gone when I got home, crumbled and blown away with the leaves.

All I kept thinking was that I didn’t get a chance to hug him once more, or to really listen to his lessons.

This year, I planted an herb and vegetable garden. It’s nothing like Grandpa’s, small in comparison. I thought about him while I was out there with my hands in the dirt. I touched the plants with care like he used to. Small bits of food have managed to grow, regardless of my natural knack for killing anything green. Although, some of them are limp, hanging on for dear life. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, or right for that matter. If only I could remember what he taught me.

If only we had more time.

Photo courtesy of Pexels

When You Mom So Hard…

Today I literally mommed so hard I smelled like corn chips.

***

I was in the middle of some deep, dreamless sleep, drooling like a puppy onto my Egyptian cotton sheets when my kid startled me awake by tapping me on the temple.

“Mommy. I neeeeeed breakfast right now,” she said. I looked at the clock. I slept in again. Crap.

“Okay, okay,” I said groggily, swatting away her hand. “I’m up.” I stumbled down the stairs with one eye opened, served microwaved mini-pancakes for breakfast, and choked down day-old coffee. Once I was adequately caffeinated, the late-start morning routine looked like a circus on speed. Little people were running half-naked, dogs were dancing on their hind legs, waiting for morsels of food and attention, husband was walking a tightrope between all the living things, trying not to get syrup or slobber on his freshly pressed suit, and I was the acclaimed ring mistress at the center of it all.

At that point, I could feel the underneath of my arms moisten. Yes. I said moisten.

After my husband and oldest child headed off for the day, the toddler and I meticulously built a six-foot-tall rainbow Lego tower. Well she watched and chewed on some Legos while I built. Then my half-blind Beagle knocked it over and the toddler cried, so I quickly built it again.

My pits were no longer only moist, but the underarms of my shirt were sticky too.

Then I watched an episode of Shameless during the toddler’s nap while elliptical-ling. Yep. I multitasked the shtuff out of my kid-free time. BOOM. I washed the dishes without breaking any (a feat any day with my butterfingers), mopped the floor whilst calmly shooing the dogs to stay away (thanks to my stress-relieving kava tea), and did two loads of laundry. That’s washed, dried, folded, and placed in a basket until further notice. I don’t bother putting it away, because that, my friend, is a total waste of time.

Sweat was sticking to that…place. You know the one, ladies.

After that, I chased my oversized Double Doodle past two houses, and three acres, down the street in the pouring rain (because it always rains after I mop). The dog, a muddy mess, was chasing an elderly neighbor with a cute little fur-ball of a pup. They were wearing matching rain coats, for God’s sake. I knew he only wanted to play, but their faces were all twisted in terror so I figured it would be best to rein him in before he tackled the frightened pair in a puddle.

When the toddler woke, I corralled my dogs into their kennel, rushed my oldest daughter to dance practice, and shimmied her sweaty legs into tights in the ‘cozy’ bathroom stall.

That is precisely when I noticed the unpleasant smell coming from under my arms – I forgot deodorant.

I know what you’re thinking, but seriously I wasn’t even embarrassed. I had done enough for the day. If the worst thing I did was forget some personal hygiene, then I’m pretty sure I was momming like a master.

I smelled like corn chips and owned that shit like Mary Catherine Gallagher – superstar! I wore my stink like a Girl Scout badge, or a Supermom cape – with pride. I talked with my hands flailing in the air like those inflatable tube people at the car dealers. I let my stench fill that tiny closet of a room with moms and dads piled in like tuna in a can.

“I forgot deodorant, guys,” I said. “My bad. I was in mom-mode.” Every adult shrugged. They knew. They got it. They had likely been there before too.

I smiled.

Photo courtesy of Seth Doyle/Unsplash

(be)tween

We wore wide-leg jeans, baby-doll shirts, and Doc Martens (only when we found them on sale). Brown liner outlined our natural pink lips and Rave Hairspray sealed our big bangs in place. It was after elementary school, before high school. T.L.C. taught us about friendships and sex. Boyz II Men taught us about love. When Tupac died, we hugged and cried. Our generation lost an artist who spoke his mind. We had a connection to him. I remember bike rides to the park at dusk when we were too cool to swing. Instead we coughed smoke from our first cigarettes while leaning against the monkey bars. We were mallrats too. Kayla’s dad drove us there in his four-seater every Friday night. Someone always got hump. No one buckled. We hung out at the mall until it closed, getting only colored gel pens and butterflies in our bellies from holding hands with boys. We always let go because of the sweat between our palms. At school we used our new pens to write notes back and forth signed with messages like T.T.Y.S and L.Y.L.A.S.. Paper was folded into tiny triangles and squares and traded at lockers. Friends forever. On Thursday nights, the school held dances in the gymnasium under disco lights. The Macarana, The Tootsie Roll, and C’Mon N Ride it (The Train) were our favorite songs to dance to because we all knew the moves. We wanted to be included in something, even if that something was a song. When Biggie died, we hugged and cried again. Another artist gone. The violence couldn’t be comprehended by our young minds. There was the time my poetry book was stolen and shared around the school – assholes – and the time I senselessly and stupidly got grounded for dating a Mexican boy. We were in the middle – not children, not teens.

We didn’t care about who we were meant to be, because we were transitioning from what we were.

Photo courtesy of Brooke Cagle/Unsplash

Flight of the Monarch

I was asleep on a bench outside my mom’s hospice room when someone startled me awake by lightly tapping me on the shoulder. It was Easter morning five years ago. I opened my eyes and saw my dad’s best friend hovering over me. He said nothing, but the sadness in his eyes told me everything I needed to know.

My mom died.

My knees knocked together and stomach acid raced up the back of my parched throat. As I put my feet on the floor, the ground swayed, so I half-stumbled, half-ran down the hall to my mom’s room. I pushed my way past twenty somber faces, stopping between my sister and my aunt.

I stood over my mom’s body and waited impatiently for her next breath to come. Waited for her chest to rise and fall. Waited for movement of any kind, but nothing happened. Her body was still, too still. Minutes passed and I knew that there wouldn’t be another exhale from her cancer-stricken body.

The vice around my throat and the fist against my gut forbade me from breathing. And I couldn’t hear anything except for my heart thudding against my ribcage. Then there was the sudden ringing in my ears. Or was that my imagination? I couldn’t tell. My mind was scattered. Nothing was real and everything was wrong. 

The walls of the hospice room spun around me and the ringing in my ears intensified. It was too much too handle, so I screamed. I grabbed my sister and together we tumbled onto the icy tile. I gripped the back of her head, holding a handful of her silky hair. “It’s just not fair!” I shouted. I buried my head in the crook of her neck, rocking us back and forth. “Not fair,” I repeated in a whisper.

My entire world was crumbling around me like rubble after an earthquake. I would never again hear my mom’s voice, see her dance, or smell her perfume. She was gone. Gone forever and I couldn’t make any sense of why. Why her? Why would God take such a beautiful soul? Why would He cut her life short? My mind was grasping for the answers to questions that I’ll never understand. 

After four long years of chemotherapy and weeks of knowing the end was near, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. I don’t know if anything could’ve prepared me enough for her death.

Later, when the tears finally stopped falling I mopped myself off of the floor and went outside to collect what was left of my sanity. I looked up to dry my cheeks under the April sun.
It was the kind of spring day that was warm enough for a light jacket and open windows. My mom loved days like those: where the breeze would gently blow her hair around, where we could work in her garden without breaking a sweat, or swing on her porch drinking lukewarm coffee and talking about whatever crossed our minds.

It was the kind of day my mom would have hand-picked as her last.

I looked at my sister, the only person in the entire world who understood exactly how I felt in that moment, standing beside me. Her face was tightly drawn and her vacant eyes stared at some point in the distance, but she said nothing. I wanted to be strong for her because that’s what big sisters are supposed to do and that’s what my mom would have wanted, but I couldn’t be strong. I was much more unraveled than she looked.

I took a deep breath in through my nose and closed my eyes. It smelled of fresh-cut grass and pond water. I exhaled and opened my eyes to see three Monarch butterflies fluttering in the distance. My mouth tugged at half a smile, because they reminded me of a lesson my mom had once taught me.

In second grade, my teacher brought in small caterpillars for the class to have as pets. We raised them, fed them, and cared for them. The caterpillars eventually wrapped themselves in a chrysalis, went through metamorphosis, and turned into colorful winged creatures.

On the last day of school, we released them back to nature and I was heartbroken that I would never again see them. After school, I ran off the bus, down the street, and into my mom’s arms. She held me tight. Then she wiped my tears and said, “oh, sweetie, setting them free was a good thing. Butterflies have to spread their wings and fly. They will never be truly happy while trapped in a cage.”

My mom wasn’t much different than those butterflies. Sickness caged her, preventing her from a career she loved. It kept her on a regimented twice-monthly chemotherapy schedule that she despised. The constant debilitating pain drained her energy and made it hard for her to remain hopeful for recovery.

It may sound crazy, but I believe those Monarchs were a message from her. Cancer and pain and chemotherapy couldn’t hold onto my mom anymore. Yes, I would grieve. I would scream and punch and curse because she wasn’t there on solid earth with me anymore. But somewhere she was smiling.

My mom was free.

Photo courtesy of Mathias Reed/Unsplash

Light and Love

My daughter shoved her finger at a photo of my mom. “Gigi is up,” she asserted, a story I hadn’t told her.

My mom’s voice echoed, believe in miracles.

That night, darkness unfolded from dusk and I saw her shining among stars.

That Time I Thought I Was Going to Die Parasailing

I should’ve climbed out of the boat when Captain Ron’s doppelgänger had me sign my life away on that little piece of paper, but I didn’t.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “We make sure we take you far enough out to sea.”

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Captain Ron
Far enough for what? I should’ve thought. But not a single alarm went off in my brain.

Why? I’ll blame it on the blue drink.

***

We were on vacation in St. Thomas and I couldn’t just sit there on the beach and relax. NOOOO. I wanted excitement and action.

So, after our second day of lounging around on the sand, my husband and I looked into fun island activities.

“How about parasailing?” Justin asked.

“Sounds great!” I exclaimed.

Truthfully, I had no idea what parasailing was, but it sounded leisurely and fun. I thought perhaps it would include me sipping a special island cocktail on a boat, letting my hair get tousled in the salty breeze.

Boy, was I was wrong.

***

“Why am I signing this?” I asked. The contract mentioned things about death and injury. DEATH! What?! “Are you sure this is safe?” I asked Captain Ron.

“Dude we do this all the time. You should be fine.”

“Should?” I asked. “Well that’s relieving.” Justin and I were new parents. We had a four-month-old daughter at home and all I could think about was leaving her parentless.

Despite my fear, I signed the contract. After that, Captain Ron suited us up with strappy, blue contraptions that went over our shoulders and under our butts. Then he attached some ropes to what looked like a parachute.

The only things that would be keeping me from the sharks were a thin piece of fabric, some rope and a couple of buckles.

“Crap!” I said. “Do we have to do this?”

“We’ll be fine, Danielle,” said my husband. But I think he was trying to convince himself more than me, judging by the crackle in his voice.

“Sit down, legs straight out in front,” said Captain Ron. I listened and quickly assembled myself on the boat floor. The boat accelerated and before I was ready to fly, we were airborne. At first, it was alright. We were hovering just above the boat and the ocean sparkled like a blanket covered in loose diamonds.
“This is nice,” I said as I looked around at the green Caribbean Islands. I liked the way they sliced between the waves.72347_1673462715545_4468506_n

The boat accelerated again, and I felt a
pang of nausea. Suddenly we went from comfortably high to OMFG. The boat wasn’t more than a dot below us. The rope seemed so impossibly thin and possibly frayed, and I was certain it would rip at any second.
Clearly, I was having the time of my life.

Actually I hated it.

I thought I was going to vomit and die from choking on my puke midair just before my rope had a chance to completely unravel and send me plummeting to the ocean below where I would, instead, be savagely ripped to death by the sharks I couldn’t see.

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“Smile for the camera,” my husband said. I squinted my eyes and opened my mouth to expose my teeth, but it didn’t resemble a smile.

“Try and have a good time,” said Justin.

“But I’m terrified!” I whimpered.

“Just try,” he repeated. I tried. And I tried. And it didn’t happen.

Instead, I closed my eyes and waited for it all to be over while I whined like a puppy dangling over a pit of hungry lions.

“Hey,” said my husband. “He’s lowering us. You can open your eyes now.”

I opened my eyes and saw that we were definitely being lowered. But we were also coming in fast and hot. The boat was getting bigger and bigger. The ocean waves were getting closer to the tips of my toes; it didn’t seem like we’d make it. I braced myself, because there was no way this would be a Southwest Airlines clap-your-hands kind of landing. No.

We skidded.

To. An. Abrupt. Stop.

My ass slammed against the boat floor and left bruises for days.

“Sorry about the rough landing, dudes,” said Captain Ron.

I was so happy to see solid-ish ground that I didn’t care about my sore bottom.

“No worries,” I said. I’d had enough excitement and action for the rest of the trip. “Just get me off this boat and give me another blue drink.”

Her Bravery

I distinctly remember the day my mom first showed me her bravery.

We were in my parent’s Chevy Celebrity. I think I was five. The corduroy seats itched the back of my knees, so I kept tugging on my skirt hem. I played with the hand-crank on the window, turning it up and down repeatedly. Each time it was down, warm air seeped inside and got stuck in my nose. And despite the floor being out of reach, I kicked my feet back and forth trying to touch my toes against the carpet.

We were car-dancing to Madonna when my mom gasped and slammed on her brakes. Our heads flew forward then slammed against the seats with a thud. I stopped kicking and car-dancing. Stopped playing with the window. Stopped breathing for the shortest moment.

Everything stood still as our eyes connected in the rear-view mirror. There, I saw concern and love, then determination and strength. All before she blinked.

“Oh, God!” she shouted. I exhaled and the world rotated again. “That car hit the little girl so hard she…” her voice trailed off. I heard the clicking and clacking of the car going into park and her seatbelt being unbuckled, then the slapping of the belt raveling up.

She climbed out of her seat, slammed her door, and stopped in front of my window. “You stay here,” she said, using her voice that meant business. Perseverance filled each line on her face in a way that I had never seen before.

I gulped down a breath bubble and scratched the corduroy seat to feel the fibers under my nails. I nodded yes.

“I mean it, Danielle,” she said.

“Okay, Mommy,” I whispered to her, but she was already jogging away.

I craned my head up to peek out the window and the smell of exhaust fumes overwhelmed me. It was a busy street that felt close to home, but I couldn’t tell which one it was. I saw my mom approach a girl lying face down on the pavement. She wasn’t much bigger than me. And behind the girl was a car. Its windshield was caved in and shards of glass glittered against the street. I looked away, afraid and unsure of what was happening.

Time isn’t the same when you are a child, so I don’t know how long I sat there avoiding the scene out of my window, but it felt like hours. I heard sirens and voices just beyond our car. I saw the flashing lights, but I couldn’t bear to lift my head and watch.

Eventually everything slowed. No more sirens, lights, or commotion.

My mom opened her door, sat back down in the driver’s seat, and cradled her head in her hands. “I couldn’t save her,” she wept. “I couldn’t save the little girl’s life.”

 

Photo courtesy of Pexels