My sister called and asked if I was sitting down, and I knew before she said it. 

Mom passed in the night. Her heart failed. She died in her sleep. 

I wonder sometimes, how that is. Did she wake up and feel something was wrong, and experience her own death? Or did she just fade away in a dream? On one hand, I would want, for her, to think it was peaceful, without fear or pain or struggle. On the other hand, you only die once, right? So might as well experience it, as all that is over soon enough. 

She spent the evening before with her new baby grandson. I imagine her going to sleep with a contented smile and Quinn’s baby face filling her heart with love. 

I imagine Allison in the morning, when Mom didn’t come down for breakfast, if she had an inkling. Then going into her room and finding her cold body there. Our mother, gone. 

Quinn has no memory of it, of course. Yet there is a connection between them, he actually did meet her, and I love that. 

When she called, I was on a break from work, outside on the grass. I went to my knees and cried. I hadn’t cried in a long time. A long time. 

We had known that her heart was fragile after her heart attack 14 years earlier, so we all felt blessed for her to have those years. And she only had them because she was diligent about her heart-healthy diet, and faithfully walked every morning, and focused on good and positive things in her life, like making cross-stitch flower bookmarks, and the family calendar with her sister, our dear Aunt Barbara, with family photos and inspirational quotes. 

It was the first such bad thing to happen to me. I mean, the first loss of someone so dear to me. 

I was very close with my mom. When our folks split up, Allison and Shawn stayed with our dad, but I went with Mom. For a lot of my life, it was the two of us together. When she had her heart attack, I was at an age of exploring my own identity, and she was recovering and suffering depression and seeking to find meaning in her life. So we had philosophical conversations about what is meaningful, what is real, what is important, what is ethical. I know that time shaped who I am today, who I have been my whole life.  

We were so close, so losing her was tragic, yet also I felt a sense of peace with it that surprised me. 

A couple months after, she came to me in a dream. No words, just the presence of her face, smiling with full radiance, saying with her eyes: everything is alright, everything is okay. I can still imagine that moment and feel her, feel her warm encouragement and remind myself in the core of my being that, yes Mom, everything is okay. 

My body tenses. I’m afraid to go deeper, but like labor—insistent and inevitable, the feelings come anyway. And I remember...

It’s morning, four or five of us seated on

stools       s                                           Tina’s 
                k
                y         elephant 
                l                kitab 
                I                                           naked 
                g
                h
                t                                        AGAIN.

And, oh my god, do we have to always endure this over breakfast?? She has her arms looped around Chico’s shoulders, in the middle of a squeaky cheek kiss. My spoon hovers between my mouth and the bowl—the wooden kind made up of pressed squares.

Anyway, so we’re choking down breakfast, right? My mom’s smooching my dad while he sips his coffee with a smug look and one eyebrow raised. There’s an empty milk carton on the counter and boxes of Raisin Bran and Grapenuts.

Aaaand apple juice. Because SOMEone will have to compromise. We’re out of milk again. So someone will HAVE to compromise. Compromise is normal in a family this large, but that doesn’t mean it’s easy.

Where was I? Ah, yeah...Tina’s kiss is causing the hairs in my inner ear to rattle, which is comfy, am I right? Chana or Haydon mutters “disgusting” under their breath. And I’m thinkin, true love kinda is, ya know? I mean, am I right?

Love...
                                                        I
                 1/   3  /  2                          love
                 I/love/ you                 you,
                                              Chico...she says.

I exhale at the memory. Allowing my shoulders to drop and the center of my being to unfurl, uncurl, unwind. Allowing peace to mingle with the heartache—bitter, yet sweet. Allowing gratitude for the TMI love sessions/ love lessons of Tina and Chico.

It was 25 years yesterday. 
How long is too long to grieve? How long is too long to call his name and wish he’d answer? How long is too long to look for pictures of him I haven’t seen yet? How long is too long to miss someone taken too soon? HOW LONG???

I am...at a loss. I am lost. I have no compass, no direction, no anchor, no sail. But the wind... The wind brings him back to me, his ashes coating my skin.

Which is beautiful, ya know? His blood’s in my veins, flowing through my broken heart, right...? And it was almost like he came back to give me one last hug.  Anyway. So yeah, it’s been 25 years. But, whatever.

I have many male friends right now.  All but one is the result of a failed romance.  I hate to let people go.  I hold on like plague on a tooth. In my childhood we moved often, sometimes every few months. I would start to make friends or become close with a new adult when we would move again.  My most intimate companions, our cats, were usually left as well. I’m tired of loss, so I hold tight to those who let me.
I get lonely. Romantic partners hurt me or I hurt them, yet I hope for forgiveness so we can continue to be close as friends if not lovers.  So as to be less alone.  I connected to animals early in life to ease the loneliness.  I read voraciously for escape from the loneliness.  I try to please people, especially men, to gain their attention and aproval and alleviate the loneliness for a time.
Yes sometimes I hurt the people I love. I hurt myself. I hurt myself by imagining people don’t like me or find me uninteresting. I hurt others when I withhold truth from them.  Or neglect them.  Or feel uninterested in their problems.  I hurt my animals when I leave them alone for hours at a time. I hurt my plants when I forget to water them.  I feel guilt for hurting others.  I feel guilt for not exercising and for eating junk food.  As a child I felt guilty for stealing a nickel off a table to play pinball.  For eating someone’s yogurt out of the refrigerator.  For making my mom cry when I told her I hated her.
What kind of person am I? I should know better by now.  Adults often said that to me as a child “you should know better”.  And I do know better.  And yet I get lonely, hold on to people, hurt them and myself and feel guilty.  But not always.  Sometimes I feel close and loved.  It feels delicious.  To be loved and intimate with another.  Connection in all its forms from animals to people to nature to the divine.  Then I feel full and complete.  I felt full and complete with my grandparents as a young child when they let me drink milky coffee and play yatzee with them.  I felt full riding my horse through the woods as a preteen, a part of such a powerful being, in rhythm together.  I feel full when I am dancing with others and we smile at one another. I feel full in the lovers embrace, a mutual give and take of pleasure. Then the moment ends and again the insecurities rush back.  Am I enough? What if I reveal too much and people see my flaws?  Better hold on to whoever will stay and show me love.

Vacation. Terminal, security, fly, wait, movies, land. Excited, disorientated, reunited, tired, hotel, bad dinner.  Seattle, pike market, space needle, pop culture museum, Farris wheel, Ferry, Fish, tango. Dispensary for every type of pokololo high.  Mellow, energetic, fun, philosophical, light, heavy, you name it, they got it! Buy cheap pre-rolled, buds, edibles, CBD, oils, Vaupes. Try: True Humboldt, Pioneer nuggets, Blues dream, Purple punch, afghan haze, birthday cake, weedseedsexpress, greenrush. Full of young, good looking, eager, animated, enthusiastic, stoned sellers. This must be a dream.
Gay pride parade, rainbow colors, face paint, flags, motorcycles, floats, marching bands, babies, lovers, breasts displayed wherever you turn.
Dungeness: cool ocean view, spit, deer everywhere, one in yard I named Pono, Alan called “Lunch”.  Hurricane ridge, majestic mountains, say hello to Canada, Green, cool, wet, trees, ferns, moss, rivers, lakes, wild beaches, long hikes down winding trails, streams, waterfalls, log bridges, squatting to pee in the bushes, careful to miss my legs and feet.
I resist uphill trail with no seeming finish and little drinking water.  Alan plays don’t worry be happy. I put my hands on giant trees, greeting them,  trying to soak in their mana.
Ruby beach with Tide pools full of starfish, muscles, Anemones, Sea urchins, barnacles.
Indian reservations, Driving, singing, stories, moving, unpacking, packing, shopping, eating, playing lotto, smoking dobbies, exploring. Sleeping naked next to skinny furry man. Cuddling, kisses, sex, rest. Repeat as necessary. Cottage by beach, bed and breakfast, townhouse, lake resorts. Negotiation, laughter, tension. Massage, hot springs, firework display. Forks, Twilight films; look Vampires!
Billboard signs tell where to get guns, get cremated, eat dinner. RVs on the road, in yards, in parks, for sale, for rent, for fun.
Pic nic lunch p-nut butter, butter, honey, blue berry sandwiches, thin pretzels, dips, chocolate, delious! Last night Room with lake view, 2 queen beds, sleep in one.  Sad trip is ending, just getting good at traveling together. Long drive to airport, separation, each of us visiting family. Good-bye love, good-bye vacation.

At the end of the night I always go home. We drink like boys but hold our glasses like ladies. Don’t make me butternut squash soup. I’ll take the steak. Plates are left dirty. Forks licked clean. We show each other our teeth. Bars stools are made to swivel not steal. Candle flickers messages on the hallway wall. I remember love.
I don’t know the names of flowers. Taking in the heroin effect of a good long pee. Cocaine hides in my front pocket. My thighs are strong. My nose is wet. My eyes glassy and wandering. The bartender talks like a pick pocketer. I don’t know where I parked my car. I remember love.
French patterns mix up the mind. Paintings are for sprinting by. Brown covers the walls and door. Rooms can’t be rented for that amount of time. A girl wears a cowboy hat and red boots. I remember love.
All the booze has been drunk. A kiss ends the dancing. The bar closes. I hug the line and go home. Then I hug the bathroom tile. I remember love.
There are flashes of laughter and red lips. Endless stories of someone else's life. A long blond hair on my forearm. Her perfume stuck in my nose. The tile is damp with 3 drops of tears. Laying in a circle between my fingers. That’s where I keep them. I remember love.
Pictures never stay framed. Weed grows in pots on patios. Knees are meant to hurt. I flush my dinner down the toilet. I remember love.
There’s a map that takes me to the bedroom. Sheets mess up my hair. I wish I had a glass of water. The dreams come but they’re always real. Trains move faster when I’m tired. Art gets in the way. A handstand turns into push-ups. There’s more than one way to wear a dress. Don’t try playing the record backwards. We can never be friends. Close my eyes again. I can’t see to the end of the night. I remember love.

My frustration is beyond resolve. Hitting me in the back of my neck. Causing my head to ache. I’m cold. Inside. Where I inhale icecaps. My heart in a deep freeze. My intestines gridlocked. Not a good time to call me. To ask how I’m doing. To talk about the weather. My thoughts are a dark forest green. Caterpillars crawl across the screen making my eyes itch. Wringing my tongue out. Discarding old stories. He made me sit on his lap. And so did he. And so did he. There was this one time a woman pulled me between her legs. Made my teeth sharp. Fingernails pulled back her skin. Blood ran across town. Now my skin drips while the news yells NAZI as my doors slam shut. Friends keep turning pages. Pretty soon I’ll slide off the scale and need a manufacturer's license to get back on. I have no idea where they makes those. I’ll ask my husband. He’ll have some sort of response that’ll never leave his lips. It’s like that broken chair in the movie theatre that I keep getting stuck with. So I cover my eyes and kneel before it praying to the movie stars like the mangy dog I am. Grafitti replaced the sunset. Fantastic shades of grey and blue with black felt marks across red paint. When I squint I see the words for this year. WAIT. COWARD. HOME. There’s a hand on my thigh pushing my skirt up to the 3rd floor. I need to find the down escalator. I know she’s here somewhere. I’ll look behind the couch. Rivers flow but I can’t find the bridge. I need to get to the other side before it’s too late and my ink turns to snake. Time to chew on his tentacles and quench my lust. Skulls knocking on the beds door. I ask him to grab the crowbar but he forgets what he came back for. My flowers dried up. And coughing is no longer an option. So I smear beeswax across my cheeks and hope for the best.   ​

When I sit real still like the chickens come around
pawing at the earth like naughty puppies
making sounds like gargling under water
seeing me shy like looking through my hair.
When I stay real still like the world comes into focus.
I wonder why I don’t sit in the grass more often.
How I miss girlfriends who talk of their favorite positions.
Or how we may speak of an old lover.
How we laugh at jokes made at our own expense.
When I stay real still like I exhale my shoulders down
pull my pelvis forward so I’m sitting up straight
tilt my head upwards towards the sky.
There’s a quiet. In my beats. In my not so stiff. In my jaw.
No tears to swallow. Or ears to bend.
No explanations needed or tissues.
No I’m not good enough or too emotional.
There’s even a quiet in the howling wind.
I’ve been to the Eiffel Tower. It’s quiet there.
I’ve been to Crater Lake and Mount Shasta too.
I’ve walked the Louve and the Getty and MOMA.
I’ve ice skated at Rockefeller ice skating ring
and hiked Haleakala.
I’ve visited Stone Henge, Monte Alban and Isla Mujeras.
I’ve walked from East Harlem to Midtown
to the Brooklyn bridge.
I’ve gotten lost in the Santa Monica mountains, the San Lucia mountains
and the walled city of Lucca.
I’ve sat on trains watching blurs go by.
Sat on planes watching clouds go by.
Sat on laps watching time go by.
I’ve kissed the ground in Cuba and spit in many a grave.
I’ve sat on tombstones, smoked cigarettes and drank wine.
I’ve prayed in my pillow, stirred the pot, waited on the doorstep.
I’ve stared at my husbands profile.
I’ve held my sleeping baby in my arms.
I’ve washed my fathers body.
I’ve put my forehead on my dying dog.
Staying real still and quiet like as my focus honed in.

My life is a metaphor for something, I can’t remember what, it’ll come back to me later.
It’s not where it’s supposed to be.
“Dónde the fuck está el cráneo de cristal?”
Nobody in the Museum Of Cultures knows what I’m talking about.
I wonder if my wife and kid think I’m full of shit. I’m not even going to ask.
The girl on the bus is a handful. 
When I string plastic beads around her neck, she collapses against me singing little songs in English and Spanish. 
We’re the only Americans on the bus from Mexico City.
Before there was language, there were beads. They were the original mass media. My backpack is stuffed with lapis, coral, silver, bone, seed, and plastic. I can go anywhere, my currency is universal.
Hiro waits at the bus stop, with a peach fuzz attempt at a mustache, skinny, and dark, we might be brothers. 
The girl won’t leave me behind. 
In a suite overlooking the Zocalo in Oaxaca, Hiro takes her hand and says, “Vamos Anna, let your friend rest.” 
I can’t stay in the room, they won’t trade beads in a place like this. 
But Hiro owns the hotel, so…. 
Hiro’s brother rolls joints on the flat top of his Federale cap.
I’m smoking dope with a federal cop.
We need to borrow his car. 
I don’t know why we need to borrow a car. 
I don’t know why so many of my childhood friends had to die. I don’t know anything.
I don’t think that’s a metaphor. 
Smoking weed makes me uncomfortable. 
I always regret it. 
There are unexpected consequences. 
I am underwater stoned, traveling across an empty valley toward Monte Alban. 
Feeling exposed in an open wash of mountain light with no place to hide. 
Like a cockroach on the kitchen floor when someone flips the switch. 
I feel exposed in the produce section if someone asks too loud what I think about broccoli. 
The army is checking all the cars ahead. 
Teenagers with machine guns. 
I could be one of them.
Hiro has his brothers badge in his hand. His brothers gun is under his thigh on the seat. 
I’m not worried about what’s in the trunk. 
I should be worried. 
I worry about rust.
Everything around me is rusting.
I think we might be closing in on my metaphor.
Monte Alban isn’t a mountain, it’s a city built on top of a city, over and over for centuries. 
They’re still digging in the open tomb, collecting, and sending stuff down to the Museum Of Cultures. 
Everyone is covered in dirt and afraid of Hiro. 
I should be afraid of Hiro. 
But I’m thinking about rust. 
This place is rusting.
The giant is laid out on the floor. Buried on a mound of silver and gold, with a crystal skull in place of his head. His bones were hacked to bits. 
Hiro is in the middle, offering a tiny gold bead on the tip of his finger. 
"It’s priceless”
I don’t want anything stolen from the tomb of a giant who was murdered with an axe.
I know I’m safe..... as long as the girl keeps wearing the plastic beads.