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Belly curves carve lines
outside the waste of her jeans. A reflection distorts, hips much wider than they seem. Objects in mirror bigger than they appear. Wrinkles and skin tags bolster a hag who still feels so alive. How dare she? Don't she know she'll never be? Never live up to what he wants? Bodacious boobs and a little butt. A mouth that never speaks. Sunshine locks on shoulders. Freshly shorn legs that never quit. Good for a drink, or ten. He snagged himself a trophy, again. But trophies are for shelving. Trophies for display. No meat, no vigor, no depth. No layers, no fray. Trophies are for bragging, but then they're put away. Her belly curves laugh out loud, they belly-flop into the crowd with apologies unsent. Her lips a caricature for words with no audible repent. A hairline streaked with silver. A bust all a-quiver underneath the fabric of her being. She is layered. She is frayed. And absolutely no apologies are made.
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This Burger King was just at the base of a heavy interstate exchange. Skirted with buzzing buttresses of concrete and asphalt, and flanked by a myriad of hotel chains; this joint screamed of irregular clientele and lazy staff. We didn't care. Five hours of grinding freeway traffic, construction zones, and fearless drivers had made us rather hangry. A pit stop refill was needed, and BK was the closest place. The floor was sticky, and the counter tops even more so. There was a black sharpied "disinfectant" bucket filled with three-day old sludge, plopped by the napkin dispenser. I wondered which new employee had never cared to move it. My guess was all of them. Had I not been so highway frazzled, I may have chosen a different place to dine. Oh well. We chose our filthy seats, unwrapped our questionable burgers, and dunked our saturated finger foods in stuff labeled "ketchup". We slurped at our plastic straws without caring about which landfill they would inevitably forever lay. Then, she walked in. She was a lone, middle-aged stranger from the random realms of public domain, and wore deep sadness on her face. I watched her gather a beverage from the filmy dispensers, walk into the kid's playroom, and settle at a table that appeared all too familiar to herself. I gnawed on my chunky chicken sandwich and viewed her hands stroke circles on the table top. At first, I thought she was attempting to clean the surface, but a far-off look in her eyes sang a different story. She was reflecting, remembering something, or someone. My daughters poked fun at each other while I stared at our stranger, and pictured a history only a mother would notice. The play area sat empty, except for her. She never drank from her cup, while she laid heavy eyes on a small, vacant seat. How long had she been visiting? Weeks? I'd guessed years, at that point. It was an old Burger King, no question. We dumped our discarded bits and pieces in the hardly emptied receptacle and mosied back to our car. Outside the window, I saw her run thin fingers through her tired hair, and I hugged my girls as they climbed into their travelling seats. "Well, kids, how were your Whoppers?" Harvest came late and early,
all at the same time. Fruits were ripe for pickin' while the first crop lay rotting in the fields, groves, orchards, and urban greenhouses. There was no way to keep up with this burden of blessing. We had to step on the squishiness of it all, just to gather new bounty. Ruined shoes and laces, hot and sweaty faces, an eagerness to unload, to catch our breath, led us in prayer for more time. We wanted a rewind, a step back in time, just so we could be ready, so the mess wouldn't slow us down. But there it was, glaring in the sun like a ton of wasted wishes. All we could do was keep pickin'. Time’s hands were
hooded bandits. Robbers. Thieves. Ticking a time warp that stole precious would-be memories from a plate of what could-have-been. At least there is a Now. Somehow, its hands haven’t taken the Present, the Today, the At This Moment. Those have been left for the gray hairs, the achy muscles, and the scars. Today is all that we have. It is all that we are till the sun gives way to grace us. Someday, we will not be cheated. Someday, we will not be robbed. Someday, we will show the world exactly what we are made of, and our ingredients are glorious. Until then, we remain current and constant for the ones we love. Like a time line that will never fade retrograde, or dissipate. Taps plays out. Melancholy calling. A reverberation rattling my skin, most holy. I am flooded with memory, lapping up images like waves of the Mississippi. Fast upon my banks, the brassy tones invoke your every sacrifice, and I am lost again. But only for a moment. The calling lulls... it settles into the night of cricket chirp concertos, and tires rushing, breezy trees, cicadas buzzing. All is hushing Taps to sleep. Sometimes,
the hurts run deep. Sometimes, scars are too thick to keep inside the skin. A bubbling cesspool surfacing a grin. She never meant to let the storm boil over. He never meant to harm the four leaf clover with a mower of good intentions. Sometimes, signals get crossed in the breeze… and no amount of reprieve can wipe away the sour taste of a confused first impression. So, we learn our lessons, and apply our lotions, and pray our scars give way to a fluid motion that lets the love seep in. And we begin again. She had a basket of bits
and things when she stepped off the boat. She had her papers tidy, and a brogue to boot. But no two stories are the same. Some have a shirt, some just sandy socks. All of them have a name. Footprints for milk and honey, tear-streaked cheeks, bellies hungry. She ordered chips at the deli, her first meal on this soil. A man handed her crisps, and she always recalled the trouble of her confusion. Fried potatoes weren't supposed to be crunchy. Little feet hollering for momma. Small cold eyes full of fright. Crinkly silver blankets rustling strangers in the night. Chastised and caged needing a better way just to feel safe. No two stories are the same. We really do have enough to share. We have dumpsters of food, plastic packaging, fruits for picking, Tupperware. We have water, freshly bottled. We have sheets, freshly laundered by some lady named Maria, or Lucy, or Clare. But we don't care until every other one born here gets the choice of throwing their own dinner away. To this, I say... She had a basket of bits and things when she stepped off the boat. She had her papers tidy, and a brogue to boot. But no two stories are the same. Some have a shirt, some just sandy socks. All of them have a name. Where had he been?
Right where he was needed, I suppose. It's that simple, isn't it? Life is twisty, squiggly, and full of prose. Yeah, she never saw his story coming. But then, was he really aware? Where it was landing? Into a loving storm formed from thin air? In medias res? Even the alchemy of time couldn't stop it. Their chemistry was exquisite, undeniable, rare. Where had she been? Right where she was needed, I suppose. It's that simple, isn't it? Swirls of old souls, past lives, passion, scars and smiles are never simple. Oh no...but they are beautiful. She wasn't dainty,
like a bird. Possibly hollowed, and absurd. Twas no man out there quite aligned with her. No muscle-bound white knight scouring the Great Divide searching for her soul. No, no, nooo. Surely not one as spirited as she. Drumming up uncertainty in sure-footed fashion. Loosening up the buckles, to be wounded when they fasten. Cooing at the moon as though it mattered. Grooming thick-boned feathers, distant remnants in a bloodline of Celtic madhatters. To think so, she would be remiss. Mistaken, and a fool. She wasn't dainty like a bird. Possibly hollowed, and absurd. Holding on to hope that her creative soul had a match, in the wide blue yonder. Twas an idea to ponder while she folded lonely socks and tucked her kids to bed. An idea to set on spin cycle in her not-so-dainty head. I will not credit the cards
stacked against me. No. How could I allow those haters to creep inside, when there are other cards gently placed far and wide for all of us to cling to? So go ahead and stack 'em up. I'll just pick 'em up, and pass 'em back to the moles whilst I don my shit kickers. Those do-gooders shouting God's words from their holier-than-thou dirty rat pulpits. We'll have none of it. They can scrub their lives in directions that feed them best. We'll journey the endless miles enjoy the giggles, and wiggles, and we'll smile in our vagrant dress. We'll bask in colors unattained. shine in spectral rays, unglazed, un-phased by their vanity. You and me. Us. We'll drop the Mic when our songs are sung, and not a moment before. Then we'll tread upon their cards splayed and scattered like little lost souls of spiteful haters, flung about the floor. He rocks the cock block
like nobody’s business. Suit and tie. Crooked eye. Aloof and pervasive he dismisses with casual innuendo. Just the hook, not the sinker. Name in the book. A safe way to keep her. A lover with no intro, Segway friends so there’s no end. But she can’t be a girlfriend to anyone else. That would dampen the fire he stokes so solo, in his aloof and pervasive mind. So he cock blocks whatever he finds. Even rats will scatter
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AuthorMolly Roland is a writer by nature, and she enjoys stepping over the invisible lines society loves to draw. Archives
September 2018
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