Tide Pool by Morgana BraveRaven

Tide Pool
____________________
by Morgana BraveRaven

Running down the beach at Grandma's, three girls in silly sun hats. Tide's out. Miles to the water's edge. Everything is so far away when you're a kid. I want to run out to meet the tide. Run and run and run through the heavy salt air. But I stay near the warm shallow pools. Patches of deep green, slippery weed caught in shimmering pools, reflect the hot sun. I dig my feet deep into the wet sand. Spin and jump making one foot print, then another. Jump from print to print, then back. The footprints fill with water. Little pools. Foot pools that become little dips in the sand. I watch the prints fill with water. Soon the tide will wash over them. Wash, wash, wash over. You'll never know they were there at all.
* * *
The girl on the bed, wrapped in a sheet, is me. I can remember, if I pretend it's not me. I see her sitting there. Nurse arrives. Tears, big like balloons, slide down her cheeks. She holds a bundle, soft bundle. Blue flannel. The girl takes the bundle. Unwraps him carefully, gently, not to wake him. Sitting cross-legged, she lies the little bundle in the space between her knees, holds his little hands. Examines the tiny foot that grew backwards. Did that hurt? She caresses it. Little ear, too far down. No matter.
Minutes pass, nurse is back. I wrap him back up, careful, so careful. Hold him close, cuddle, squeeze. My cheek rests on his soft dark curls. Nurse reaches for him. I turn away, but her long spaghetti arms still reach. Latch on to blue flannel. Leave us leave us leave us alone! Another nurse arrives, injects me with sleep, and I float float float to heaven. I'm coming, Joshua, Mommy's coming...
* * *

The doctor's office. A woman. My choice. After my examination I ask her if I will be having an ultra sound.
“What? A healthy young woman like yourself. You don't need an ultra sound.”
“But I just have this feeling that something is wrong with the baby,” I tell her, “I would feel better if we could check and make sure everything is all right.”
“My dear girl, there is nothing wrong with your baby. All women in their first trimester are afraid that something is wrong with the baby. It would be a waste of money to send you for an ultra sound. Trust me, everything's fine. Now you just run home and put your feet up. Relax, there's nothing to worry about.”
“All right,” I say, getting up to leave. Knowing that I don't trust her, knowing that I feel what I feel.
I take my neurotic self home to cry in a warm bubble bath.

* * *

I remember the guilt of the girl on the bed. After the birth, which had been longer than anticipated, she had been confused and tired. Exhausted. She thought she was prepared for the whole event, but you're never ready, even when it's expected. She'd been preparing for a birth and even though she hadn't actually wanted to be pregnant, hadn't actually wanted the baby, she hadn't wanted this either.

The guilt never goes away. Even now as I recall the events in my mind through a filter of passing years, I feel the fresh sting of my guilt, the dull anguish of my regret.

After the birth, nurse said I should sleep.
“You’re too tired to tend to baby,” she said.
“Have a bite of lunch and sleep a while,” she said.
Not knowing what else to do, I ate. Mouth opened, food went in. Mouth closed. Mouth chewed. Food fell lumpishly down throat. I slept. Then I woke.

* * *

A man in a white lab coat is standing over me.
“You're awake,” he says.
“Am I?”
“How are you feeling? Any pain or discomfort?” he asks as he stares at me. “It wasn't your fault, you know. Nothing that you did or ate. Not genetic. These things just happen some times.”
“Yes,” I say, wiping my face, “I understand.” But I don't.
“Is there any chance that you would like to donate the body to research. It might help us figure out the cause of these things,” the white coat babbles on.
“Donate the body?” Body?
“Well,” says Dr. White Coat as he leaves my room, “I'll leave this release form here. You can think about it for a couple of days.”
Donate. Donate? Joshua. I reach out my hand, but it's just so much air.

* * *

I remember the phone ringing. I was 22. It was John. He was working in the oil patch. I'd gotten a message to him.
“What do you want?” he asked through the hollow echo of the line.
“Um, John. Do you remember the last time we tried to work things out?”
“Yeah, so. What about it?”
“I'm, ah...pregnant.”
Silence. Click.
Phone kept ringing, ringing, ringing in my head.

* * *

Grace Hospital. Grace. I sit there, waiting. I've been shuffled around all day, like a lost file. I have to pee so badly. Waiting for the ultra sound. Eight and a half months pregnant, full bladder. After the test they send me out to the hallway again, to wait for the specialist
“Oh, you can go to the bathroom now, if you like,” they say.
No thanks, I'll wait till my bladder is so full that it bursts and floods the halls, and I float out of here.
Waiting for the specialist.
The specialist calls me into his office to show me the ultra sound.
“Here's the baby's head, and here are the fingers.” Ten
“Here are the feet. The toes.” Ten
“That's the heart.” Beat, beat, beat.
“And here is where the kidneys should be, but there are none.”
Ten fingers, ten toes, no kidneys, bub-bye...
“None?” I repeat staring wide-eyed at the wall, trying to penetrate its whiteness. “None,” he confirms.
“Uh hum,” I say, “could they have seen that if I had had an ultra sound at the end of my first trimester?” I ask.
“Yes,” says the specialist.
“Oh,” I say as I become unexpectedly aware of a fly buzzing around my head, and my tongue, which is suddenly half a foot long, darts out of my mouth, snagging the fly. I swallow it and leave the specialist’s office.

* * *

Nurse informs that baby is back from autopsy. He has been taken to the hospital chapel. Minister is waiting. My father arrives with the dress I asked for. He pressed it himself. Sweet. I try to brush my hair. It's so tangled. I become very impatient and rip the brush through my hair. Large chunks of hair float to the ground. I throw the brush at the wall. It lands with an echo on the cold tile floor. Dad puts the dress on the bed beside me but it falls to the floor in a wrinkled heap. I fall down beside it, grabbing the fabric into my hands and squish it in tight fists.
“I hate this dress, Daddy. I hate this dress!” I scream as I pound the dress into the floor. Nurse arrives with a sedative. Daddy holds me tight and rocks me. Cold tiles hold us up, prevent me from slipping. Joshua.

* * *

No one can look at me when they speak to me. They stare at the floor. Pat me on the shoulder when I cry. Tell me the grief will pass. Tell me it's good to cry, to let it all out. They don't even know why I'm crying. They think I cry because the baby died, and yes, that is part of it. But only part.

* * *

Sometimes I pretend that what happened that day at the hospital was a mistake. That my baby lived and another baby died. That there was a terrible mix-up. I imagine that I'm fifty years old and I live in an old Victorian house in the country. I live alone with five cats. I have an enormous flower garden full of roses, giant dahlias, snapdragons. A thick vine of clematis, with purple blooms, climbs the arch over the front gate. I sit rocking in my rocking chair and the doorbell rings. When I open the door a young man is standing there.
“Mom?” he says.
I throw my arms around his neck. He looks just like his father.
“Joshua!”
* * *

I don't know which part of the guilt is worse, the guilt associated with the fact that my son died alone, or the guilt of having practically condoned his death. I don't know.
My son died in the arms of a stranger, or possibly alone in a plexi-glass bassinet. The fact is I don't know where he was when he died. But I know now, as I probably knew then, that I should have been with him. But I slept.

What's worse though, is that I let my son die. Yes, I did. Though in fact, he only had half a chance of surviving more than a few hours or days. The doctors at Grace Hospital insisted that I deliver my son there so that they could administer every possible medical procedure to him. But since my son would be born with only one pea-sized shriveled kidney, what would have been the point of so much invasive medical intervention?
My son would never leave the hospital. Never run around outside in the crisp autumn air. Never build a snowman. Never say mama. Never splash through the waves at the beach, chase crabs through tide pools or leave his foot prints in the sand. What would have been the point? They might have been able to keep him alive for four hours or four days. He needed a kidney, they couldn't give him that.

I delivered him in my small, home town hospital. The same hospital that I had been born in, where all we could do was witness his passage though this world.

* * *

In the chapel it's dim. Candles burn. A little bundle rests on the table, wrapped in white. His whole body is covered, wrapped like a mummy. He's a mummy. No, I'm a mummy. I'm supposed to be a mommy!
“I want to see his face,” I say, reaching towards the bundle. “I want to hold him.”
“Don't unwrap his face,” my father begins, “it's... it’s…just leave him.”
For heaven’s sake just say it! Donated. Dissected. Dead.


I stand silent in front of the bundle. Time is frozen. This is my moment of judgement. I believe this even though I'm not even sure that I believe in God.
Too late to change my feelings about the pregnancy.
Too late to express any amount of love towards the baby.
He only ever felt my resentment, and then I abandoned him.
I never meant for things to happen this way. Never hoped for this.

And now it’s too late.

* * *

Years pass. Eventually people can breathe around me again. I buy booties for other people's babies and turn inside out so no one can see the color of my grief. Last week I went to the eye doctor. I hadn't had my eyes checked since the birth of my daughter four years ago. The doctor flipped the little lens things in front of my eyes.
“Is this better or worse?” he asked.
“Worse.”
Flick, flick. “Better or worse?”
“Better, but I can't read the letters on the bottom of the eye chart.”
Flick, flick. “Better or worse?”
“Better, but I still can't read the...” Flick, flick.
“Better or worse?”
“Better, but...” Flick.
“Well,” he said, “You don't need to change your lenses. This is almost exactly what you have now.”
“But...”
“I wouldn't bother if I were you...”
“But I...”
“Be a waste of money to change the lenses for such a small difference in the prescription.”
“All right,” I said as I left the office.

* * *

I never wanted the baby. This is the most difficult aspect of the guilt. When I found out that I was pregnant I was terrified. Horrified. For reasons that I don't understand any better now than I did then, I chose not to have an abortion. I just couldn't do it. However, I did everything I could think of to induce a miscarriage. Threw myself down a flight of stairs. Punched myself in the stomach until I threw up. But he stayed put.

Everyday that I was pregnant I willed the baby to die and drop out of me. Prayed that it would. And in the end, he did drop out of me. He did die.

Somehow, I killed him.

* * *

It’s very bright in the delivery room, or suite as they like to call it. Nothing sweet about it. Everything is sterile, metal, bright. They keep swabbing me with what feels like ice, as though they know my secret and are punishing me. I know this is a ridiculous thought. I’m sure it’s only disinfectant of some kind. I’m tired, ridiculously tired. I fall asleep between contractions. I fall asleep when they tell me to stop pushing. While I sleep I dream of a little boy with brown hair, lots of it. He’s a sweet little chub-chub. We’re at the beach and I make him put on a silly sun hat, like the one my grandmother used to make me wear. He gives me a bucket full of broken shells. I trade him for my bucket, which has a kidney in it. He takes the bucket and as he does the tide sweeps in and pulls me out to sea. He’s safe on shore. He waves good-bye then runs to meet my mother. She waves too, and shouts something to me...
PUSH!
My eyes fly open and a nurse is shaking me, telling me to push. Last big push and it’s over she tells me. The doctor’s face is hovering somewhere below my knees. He’s pulling, prodding, pulling. Then smiling he announces that it’s a boy! The room is silent as we wait for the first squawk...then we hear it, air into lungs, a cry pierces the sterile air. Then stops. The doctor holds the baby up for me to see. The baby, my son, hangs in the air between the doctor’s hands. His tiny arms and legs stir mechanically, every movement an effort. He looks at me through tiny squinting eyes, draws air into his lungs, and whispers “murderer”. Then his head lolls over his limp body and a last wisp of breath escapes quietly into the silence. Murderer.
PUSH!
My eyes fly open. A nurse is holding my hand.
“Last push,” she says, “then it’s over.”

* * *

The other day I was sorting through some old boxes of stuff. Stuff. We collect it, pack it around for years. We sort it out. Keep some, get rid of the what we don't need. And this is life, really, isn't it? -- sorting through stuff.

I found his birth certificate. Joshua David, born October 12, 1981. Weight, delivered by...and so on. My daughter came into the room and found me crying. We talked about Joshua for a while. I cried a little more. She held a tissue up to my nose.
“Blow, Mom,” she said. “You don't need to worry about it, Mom. I'm still your baby. Rock me like I was a teeny, tiny little baby. Ok, mom?”
She climbed into my lap and started sucking her thumb.
I rocked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please feel welcome to leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'Tide Pool'.

Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights, in publication since May 10, 2000

Subscribe to Sykaro Insights
=> http://www.sykaroinsights.com

Hiccup

Hiccup
by Morgana BraveRaven

“It started with a BOOM! man – or… or maybe it was a Crack! I don’t know, but I’m telling you – it was weird.” Reggie muttered, shaking his head anxiously, somewhat in disbelief himself. He sat on the cement step outside the front door and, muttered as he picked away at the label of his Jones soda, occasionally glancing up at Wade who sat on a chair at the top of the porch. “It was just friggin weird”.

“It’s the heat, man. Dun worry ‘bout it”, Wade remarked, as he kicked his feet out in front of the chair while giving a loud “eeeeeaahh,” as he stretched his excessively long legs out in front of him, “it be the heat is all”.

“No, man, yer not listening to me. It’s not the heat. I was in the grocery store, there was a boom, no, it wasn’t a boom, it was a B O O M ! And then everything was so quiet. It was spooky, man”.

“I tell you, it’s the heat. It’s affecting yer brain,” Wade responded as he snapped open a cold can of cola. “I want chips. Where’s the chips you bought?”

Reggie looked over at Wade. “Huh?” he asked as he pulled at the waist of his jeans, noticing that it was beginning to tear apart at the seam.

“The chips, man. You went to the grocery for chips you dumb shit. I want some damn chips. Where are they?”

“Dun know”, Reggie responded, swatting at an excessively large and loud black fly that kept trying to dive into his soda. “Man, this fly is like glue for my soda,” he fretted while swatting obsessively at the fly, knocking the soda over and causing it to spill into his shoe. “Aw damn! Bloody fly!” Reggie cursed as he righted the bottle then removed his wet shoe and sock. “You got some shoes I can borrow till mine dries?”

“No,” Wade replied. “Who the hell wears shoes and socks in this heat anyway? You ought’a invest in a pair of sandals or something. Hey - where’s those chips anyway?”

“I Dun Know ! Are you deaf. I dun know where they are… Hey! Hey, Jimmy, get ‘way from my damn shoe,” Reggie began as Wade’s matted red setter, smelling the sweet soda, tried to make off with the soggy footwear. Reggie reached towards the dog, grabbing the shoe, trying to pull it free of Jimmy’s slobbering grip. “Gimme the shoe, Jimmy. Give Me My Shoe!” Reggie shouted as he pulled at the shoe. “Uuwaaa! Damn it, Jimmy – Give!” he pleaded with the drooling, matted, beast of a dog, giving a last mighty tug on the shoe.

There was the sound of tearing, and a thud as Reggie fell back onto the stair empty handed as Jimmy ran off around the corner of the house to the back yard with the prized shoe. “Shit, man, your dog just ripped my shoe and took off with it”.

There was laughter. Wade was laughing so hard he rolled off his chair onto the porch.

“Shit, man, yer an ass. Yer friggin dog just wrecked my shoe!”, Reggie barked at Wade as he reached over for the remains of his soda, climbed the steps to the porch and poured the last of the now warm soda over Wade’s head.

“Ha! Oh, man, you crack me up! Ha Ha Ha,” Wade replied as the warm soda dripped down his face. He stuck his tongue out to catch a dribble, “Root beer. Man, you know I don’t like root beer. I totally prefer cream soda. Ha Ha Ha! Hey – where’s the chips. I really need some chips to go with this soda,” Wade continued laughing as the Jones dripped from his chin on to his shirt.

“Shit, man, yer an ass,” Reggie said as he tossed the empty bottle at Wade then turned and made his way down the stairs, down the walk to the gate, then onto the street and away from the house.

“Hey,” Wade shouted after him, “shut the gate or Jimmy will get out and steel your other shoe. Ha, ha, ha! Hey, go find those chips, will ya!”

Reggie returned to the gate attempting to close it, but the latch would not catch as the latch pin seemed to be too far from the hook and the gate just kept falling open. He shoved the gate wide open and carried on without looking back at Wade, walking stiffly down the street towards the intersection, wondering to himself where he was going, muttering in the heat of the afternoon, and cursing when his one bare foot landed on an unanticipated sharp stone on the sidewalk, “Ouch! Shit!” he stammered as he hopped along trying to nurse his foot while continuing to walk.

Within a few minutes Reggie stood in the parking lot in front of the grocery store. He hobbled through the parked cars stopping occasionally to look around the parking lot. Everything looked normal. People came and went. No ambulance. No fire or rescue vehicles – nothing … but how could that be? There had been a loud boom. It had happened while he was inside the store. Was he at the check-out, or just walking towards it? He couldn’t remember. Reggie carried on into the store. He walked through the door, and stopped. The automatic door closed behind him. He took a step back, activating the door, which opened again. He continued to walk forward then step back for a minute, the door responding; open, closed, open, closed, until Eaton came over from the customer service desk. “Aahh – whatcha doin Reg?” he asked.

“Huh?” Reggie replied.

“Well, hell, are you coming or going? Shit, man, you don’t look too good. Hey – where’s yer other shoe?”

“Huh?” Reggie continued staring into the store. He appeared to be looking for something, some evidence of the boom he had heard earlier. Spilled groceries in the isles. Injured people – something… but there was nothing. Reggie attempted to take a few more steps into the store, but Eaton stopped him.

“Hey, man, you can’t go into the store with a bare foot, man. That’s a health and safety reg’lation right there.

“But… the boom. What was it?” Reggie queried as he tried to push past Eaton to get a look at the isles in the far corner of the store.

“Reg, you look like crap. I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with you, but just sit here and wait till I get back. Lemme see if I can find you a shoe or something and then you can have a look around,” Eaton insisted as he pushed Reggie into a chair near the entrance of the store. Reggie sat while Eaton disappeared down the soup isle and through the swinging doors in the produce department. Five minutes later Eaton reappeared carrying a single broken red thong and some duct tape. “Here,” he said as he thrust the broken thong at Reggie, “it’s broke, but we can just wrap a bit of tape around it. Should hold till you get yourself sorted out here.”

Reggie fumbled with the thong but managed to hold it to the bottom of his foot as Eaton wrapped the duct tape over the top of Reggie’s foot then under the sole of the thong and back over the top of Reggie’s foot again. The finished product looked like some kind of bizarre bedroom slipper, but the tape held effectively.

“It’s the wrong foot,” Reggie mumbled.

“What are you talking about, man.”

“The damn thong – it’s for a left foot. That’s my right foot.”

“Whatever, man – It works. At least you have somethin on your foot now. So what’s so important in the store then – what were you going on about?”

“The B O O M. You were here, you must have heard it. About two hours ago?”

“No, I heard nuthin, man. Dun know what yer talking about,” Eaton responded as he pulled at the shoulder seam of his shirt which felt like it had stretched apart somewhat.

Reggie pushed past Eaton, into the store. He wandered up and down the isles and past all the cashier’s check-outs, but everything was perfectly orderly, as though nothing at all had happened. But something had happened. He had been walking up to the check-out to pay for his purchase when suddenly there had been a loud BOOM! and everything had changed. The air had become more dense – heavy, and thick – almost buttery, and he himself, his body, had expanded on the outside, but somehow felt as though he had imploded somewhat on the inside, as though all the cells in his body, at a molecular level, had taken a great breath in, in unison, and some had become stuck in a traffic jam somewhere between his throat and his stomach as they rearranged themselves, while others marveled at all the newly created space in his somewhat expanded body.

And then there had been the sound – or rather, the non-sound. The sound of density, just hanging in his ears. The sound of absolutely nothing as though sound had never existed at all, and the very fabric of existence had shifted two inches to the left. Then the non-sound had given way to crackles, and he had become aware of people moving around him, walking in slow motion. Grocery items hung in the air. Bags of chips. Steaks. Apples and bananas. Very Matirx-esque. And then the air and all it’s contents began to rattle and the grocery items slowly settled back down, and a woman began walking towards him taking long, slow strides as she cut through the buttery air, her long hair flowing like thick water behind her, and as she passed him she had said something, but the sound of her voice had been so dense, he could not understand what she had said. He had watched her walk out of the store, and as the automatic door opened to let her pass, a sound like a slow cool wind filtered into the store; wwwwhooowwwip! And suddenly, what ever it was, was over and a normal pace immediately resumed around him like nothing at all had happened.

Reggie stood, looking around. He shook his head. Shit, he thought, something had happened. Something.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please feel welcome to leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'Hiccup'.

Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights
Since May 10, 2000

Subscribe to Sykaro Insights
http://www.sykaroinsights.com

The Marriage of Helen & Bel:

The Marriage of Helen & Bel:
A Dialogue Between Sisters
by Morgana BraveRaven

How can she - my own sister? Geeze, you think you know a person! Jena muttered to herself as she read an email from her sister Alissa. Shaking her head in disbelief she raced through the message, reading so fast that the lines began to blur together: It’s a sin… It’s a crime... It’s a threat to tradition and the sanctity of marriage!

I really had no idea she was so… closed minded? Anal? Cruel and thoughtless? Wow. It’s actually shocking to make this kind of discovery about one’s own sister, she thought. A knot in the pit of her stomach began a slow squeeze. Jena looked at the framed picture of Alissa and Jon on their wedding day which sat on the mantle. Jena was not exactly a diligent housekeeper and the picture was coated in a thin film of dust. Jena drew two smiley faces in the dust, then wiped them away with her sleeve, feeling somewhat disheartened. In the photo Alissa and Jon were both smiling. Beaming, in fact. What a happy day it had been. June 24, 1995. The sun had shone all day, and it was warm, but not too hot. There had been 200 guests, which in Jena’s mind was a huge wedding. Friends and relatives had flown in from all over the continent, and honestly it was the most intimate, romantic wedding that Jena had ever been to.

Alissa and Jon had been married at Jon’s family home, in the garden. Jon’s mother was quite an enthusiastic gardener and the way the garden looked that day made you think that Ella, Jon’s mother, had put her entire life into that garden for just such an event. They had set up a little gazebo for the ceremony, and tents for the reception. The garden itself was huge, with paths and benches scattered over at least an acre of garden. There were flower petals everywhere and on every thing. A string quartette played all afternoon, a harpist played through dinner. Every time you turned around, someone was crying. A whole day of happy tears. Champagne, wine and tissues flowed non stop all day, and all night. It was a bit insane, emotionally, but what an incredible wedding it had been. Jena wiped the rest of the dust off the photograph, replaced it on the mantle, and then returned to her sister’s email. She found it sadly disturbing that Alissa would deny any pair of lovers the right to such an experience, should they desire it.

It’s a sin. It’s a crime. It’s a threat to tradition and the sanctity of marriage! Jena picked up the phone and dialed Alissa’s number. After three rings Alissa picked up. “What?” she said, her voice cold and sharp, obviously expecting her sister’s call.

“That was quite an email you sent. I had no idea you felt that way”, Jena responded.

“Jen, come on. I’m a Christian woman. How did you think I would feel? Besides, what does that have to do with us? Absolutely nothing. I swear to God Jen, you are really a heathen. You need to get you some religion girl. Besides, what does gay marriage have to do with what I was asking you? I merely asked for your support for Ethan Van Der Haggen because he has been nominated to run for the Conservatives as MP for the Cowichan area, and you go off on this whole tangent about not being able to support him because of his stance on the gay marriage issue. Geeze, Jen, you’ve known Ethan your whole life. He is a really solid guy and he would be a great voice for us here if he gets where he is trying to go, and I can’t believe that you won’t support him”.

“Whoa there little sister, how on earth can I support anyone who is strongly opposed to the issues I believe in? That’s crazy. I can’t do it. Oh, and by the by, there are plenty of good Christian women who do support gay marriage”.

“Oh, sting. Ya really got me there, Jen”.

“I’m not trying to get you, Alissa. I’m trying to understand”.

“Jen, marriage is between a man and a woman. Not a man and a man, or a woman and a woman. Man and woman - that’s tradition. And I don’t really hear anyone saying that same sex couples can’t have a life together – they just can’t get married. They would have a civil union which would entitle them the same rights as married couples, but would protect the rights of those officiating over the marriage ceremony should it be against their beliefs to perform a same sex union. So honestly I don’t know why you insist on going sideways on this”.

“Because it’s bull, Alissa. It’s absolute crap! Listen to yourself… tradition, threat, the rights of the officials? Give me a break; it’s not about the officials! It’s not about you and it’s not about me. Please tell me how a same sex marriage could possibly be a threat to anyone? No one is asking you to become involved in a same sex union. Same sex couples are simply asking for the same rights as hetro couples”.

“Ok, so they can have their civil union”.

“Al, you are so smug. Honestly, civil union? And what exactly is a civil union? Defined by any other term, it’s a friggin marriage!”

“Marriage is between a man and a woman. That’s tradition, and that’s how it’s defined in both the Bible the dictionary”.

“No, I think a more accurate definition would be that marriage is the union of two persons; a celebration of commitment and love. Besides, it really depends on which dictionary you consult. Definitions do vary. And as for the Bible, don’t get me going on that”.

“Jen, come on. We’re talking about cultural values and tradition!”

“Tradition? Values? If tradition and cultural values are your argument, then you can’t pick and choose the traditions and values to suit your needs. A hundred and fifty years ago women and children were chattels of their husbands. Women were not persons under the law – we couldn’t even vote! And how long ago was it that persons of African decent could only ride at the back of the bus and could not eat in the same cafes as white folk. Should we have stuck with those traditions also?”

“Come on, Jen, I don’t mean that. You know what I mean”.

“Actually, no. Unless you are a hypocrite, then no, I have no idea what you mean. How can anyone find a celebration of love and commitment a threat? I can certainly think of more imminent and pressing threats in the world today. Honestly, wouldn't it just be wonderful if everyone could find a stitch of love in this crazy world..? I seriously do not understand why anyone feels threatened by calling a gay union a "marriage". I mean seriously, Alissa, no matter what you call it, it is a marriage. Why is everyone so hung up on the term marriage? Do straight people think they own the term? There simply is no ownership of nouns. It's funny actually, if you think of it in other terms. Let's say that straight people can use the term "white" to describe the color white, but gay people have to use the phrase "a color lacking color" - they are both
describing the same thing – regardless of what you want to call it. For Christ’s sake, it’s the same damn thing!”

“Stop swearing Jena! I won’t talk to you if you insist on carrying on with your language. What does it matter to you anyway? Why are you so concerned about this? You’re not even gay!”

“I am concerned – no, not concerned, I am passionate about this issue, and I am passionate because the real issue is human rights - the rights of all people.

Alissa, are you heterosexual, a woman, or a person? Don’t answer that – you’re all three… but you are a person first – subcategory: woman, subcategory: hetro. We must be defined as persons first, and if we must categorize - then ok, we are gay or straight, bi, trans-gendered, male, female, Italian, India, Canadian, pink, white, fuzzy, or whatever we are. But seriously, a person’s sexual orientation should not affect their ability to legally marry or use the term marriage if they so choose. To deny a person the ability to marry based on their sexual orientation is absolute prejudice and hypocrisy”.

“Jen, you’re talking about a simple tradition”.

“Al, traditions change, so do values, and thank God they do. I’m just asking you what you are afraid of and why you do not think it is important to give all persons the same rights and privileges?”

“Like I said, Jen, they can have their Civil Union…”

“Honestly Alissa, I am speaking to you right now because to me you are a representative of those in our society who are opposed to same sex marriage. What are you so opposed to. How does same sex marriage affect you or threaten you? Is our crazy society going forward or backward? Let go of your discomfort. It’s time for some serious change if we are going to progress as a society. We need to move forward – not backward. There is no point forcing gays back into the closet”.

“I’m not trying to force gays into the closet, Jen. I do have some gay friends if you will recall”.

“You’re not being much of a friend to them now, Al, are you? I have gay friends too, and I can remember years ago going out to dinner on a double date with Chris and Denver. I was with James at the time, it was in the mid 80’s, and I remember how in love Chris and Den were, and how sad it was that they couldn’t reach across the table and hold hands like James and I. They couldn’t hold hands or walk arm in arm down the street like we did. The four of us spent the whole evening discussing how uncomfortable that must make them. It was really sad to me that they could not openly display their affection – but we have come a long way since then, and this gay marriage issue is not just sad, it’s appalling and offensive!”

“Oh, man, you’re out of control here…”

“Alissa, I am not out of control. We are talking about human rights! There are gay people in our society – there always have been. Your disapproval of their desire to marry doesn't change the fact that they want to and that they should be entitled to, any more than society's need to hoard the term marriage for the sake of tradition makes any kind of union, civil or otherwise, between gay persons anything less than a marriage! I ask you again Al, what on earth are you afraid of?”

“I’m ending this right here, Jena…”

“You said you felt threatened, well that implies that you are afraid. What are you afraid of???”

“Jena, you’re totally out of control and you won’t let me get a word in so there is no point discussing this with you any further”. With a click, Alissa removed herself from the conversation with her sister.

“Alissa??? Alissa! Don’t you dare hang up on me!”, Jena shouted into the receiver. “What are you afraid of…”,she said replacing the phone in its base, “what on earth are you afraid of…”

Jena sat down on her sofa and looked out the window. The sky had clouded over and the air had become heavy. It looks like rain, she thought to herself. Yep, I think it’s gonna rain today.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights. Please leave your comments and let us know what you thought of The Marriage of Helen & Bel:'

Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights Since May 10, 2000

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http://www.sykaroinsights.com

The Story of the Woman Who Could .. part 2

The Story of the Woman Who Could Part ll
By Morgana BraveRaven
~*~

The reflection in the mirror is familiar, and yet not familiar at the same time. The features are all there, eyes, nose, lips, hair, all the same, but changed. There are shadows. There is a shallow, powdery quality to the skin. If a slight breeze should happen through the open window and inadvertently blow across this reflection, it will vanish. Life and its experiences, abrasive, like sandpaper over her soul. Something has got to change, before she is erased by circumstance.

But what can change in this town where there is no room for change? She lives within a dead-end economy, and that reality is much bigger than she herself is. Yet, knowing this does not alter the fact that something must change. No life should be lived from a fear-based center where there is never enough. The constant shortages grate against ones very being, until you can’t remember happiness. Can’t remember laughing until your sides are so sore that you can’t take a breath. Can’t remember the beauty that surrounds you. The river that cut its way through the high cliffs of the valley. The rolling blue ocean that laps at your toes, or thick humid forests dripping with the heavy scent of pine that hangs from every branch, so strong you can pluck it from the air. This is all lost to her now. She is not aware of rivers or blue skies. The ocean has become nothing more than a force that drags her spirit out to sea with the tide. The peace once found along its barefoot shores carried off with the wind.

Looking in the mirror at her own vacant expression she knows that she must pull change out of this muck. She must find hope and a sense of purpose because the weight of it is suffocating, and dinner still has to be made.

~*~


Sitting at the bus stop on a sunny morning in early March, she remembers the card given to her by her grandmother on her eighth birthday. The world is like a mirror reflecting everything you do, and if you face it smiling it smiles right back at you… If it were only that simple, and yet sitting in the warmth of the sun on this bright March morning, it feels as though it could be that simple. Happiness certainly was simple when she was eight, and March mornings were especially grand. She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes, letting her breath go very slowly. For a moment she can feel the simple happiness of an eight year old. Tucked away in a fold of memory it pokes through like a glint of sunlight reflecting off a still puddle caught in the early morning sun. She smiles a wide, warm smile. For a moment the world feels bright. For a moment there is room to breathe and reprieve from the weight of it. She sits in the warmth of the sun, smiling, and it feels good.

At work it nears twelve noon. Anxiety waxes. It starts in her stomach, and tightens, coiling upward through her chest. It is heavy, the weight of it, and just before it becomes unbearable she closes her eyes and thinks to herself, I do not want this. I cannot do this one more day. She clenches her hands tightly, forcing her fingernails into her palms, I do not want this! She takes a deep breath, and opens her eyes. Outside the sun is still shining, the day still bright. The sun does not care that sandwiches must be made – it just shines.

And then it happened like a quick and unexpected slap to the cheek. Like a switch turned on in a cold dark room and suddenly there is light. Click!

What can change when there’s no room for change? How do you choose when there is no choice? She could not change that moment in her life. She could not choose outside of what was in front of her. At that moment, she was a mother with a job. She had to work, she had to move forward, and she had to let the weight go because it was too heavy to carry the disappointment and the bleakness even one step further. She relaxed her hands and took another breath. She smiled. Orders filled the screen in front of her: ham and swiss, chicken on rye. She made them. The sun still shone.

After work she did not wait for her bus. She walked, and as she walked, she observed the business around her. How long had it been since she had done that, observed rather than just passing through it, oblivious to everything but her own dingy gloom? In the streets children laughed. Someone dropped a coin which bounced with a ting before rolling off the curb. Children shouted. Children cried. Cars raced past sidewalks, traffic lights turned green, amber, and red. Bicycle bells rang, music trickled from open windows. Was that the scent of fresh baked bread wafting down the street?

The sun beat down on her face, and as she walked she became aware of her breath, in and out, so easily, like silk. She looked around. I can’t change any of this, she thought, not one thing. I can only let it go, and let it be. Let it be? Ahhh… not so easy sometimes. She could feel her hands beginning to clench. She could feel tension beginning to climb up her spine. She could feel her breath begin to stick in her chest, and she could feel the weight of it beginning to creep back onto her shoulders. She stopped for a moment, hesitantly. I can’t carry it any more, she thought quietly, and she walked forward, one step at a time, leaving the weight of it behind her.

Morgana BraveRaven writes exclusively for Sykaro Insights.
Please leave your comments and let us know what you thought of 'The Story of The Woman Who Could!'

Janet Legere, Publisher/Editor
Sykaro Insights
Since May 10, 2000

Subscribe to Sykaro Insights
http://www.sykaroinsights.com

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The Story of the Woman Who Could .. part 1

The Story of the Woman Who Could
by Morgana BraveRaven

Each morning she rises early to go to work. After the alarm has screeched for a full seven rounds on the snooze setting she swings her legs over the edge of her bed and plants her feet on the floor with a thud, then wrenches her bone-weary body from the cozy comforts of bed. Warm blanket, soft, forgiving pillow, a salvation she hates to leave behind in the scraggy, still dark moments of the day… but she does.

So it is every morning as she hits the ground – not exactly running, but at least involved in movement.

Another day, and she is awake and moving through the weight of it.

Ahh – the plight of the single mother, the lone parent. The weight of it. An experience that is embraced and dreaded all in the same breath. But you press on, each day mocking the last, and the next. You press on because there isn’t another choice. Choice is not an option because there is so much to do and so much
left undone. Life is what’s in front of you, and dinner still has to be made.

The blessed weight of it. Imagine – yes, imagine if you will, for a moment, a woman sitting at a bus stop. She is an ordinary woman sitting patiently on a bench at a bus stop, just waiting for her bus, with one hand resting quietly by her side, when through the air wafts a mote of dust – a wee tiny spec which lands upon the
back of her hand, and suddenly the woman cannot get up, because the weight of that wee spec is incomprehensible. So, there she sits, shrieking and flailing, because she has realized that she is pinned to the bench. She is stuck. She is trapped, and those who are near look on with disbelief because they are unaware of the weight – they cannot see the mote, and therefore assume that the woman must be utterly mad.

But that is not the case. Madness has no involvement whatsoever. It is merely that her bus has rounded the corner and will pull up to the curb in less than four seconds. And she can’t get up. She can’t pull her hand from the bench and she must, because she must be on that bus to get to work on time.

This is the weight of it – responsibility. No matter what should fall upon you, you must get up off that bench and get on that bus – even if it means chewing your hand off to do so. Choice is not a factor and plays no part. Dinner still has to be made.

~*~

She stands behind the counter slicing whole wheat buns and piling cold cuts and shredded lettuce neatly, and with great speed – slicing, wrapping, bagging (oh, and don’t forget the napkin) when a round woman blurts out, Excuse me Misssss, I said no sauce on that sandwich, and flips her a look that insists that she naturally belongs behind that counter making sandwiches at warp speed for eight bucks an hour because,
obviously, she is too stupid to do anything else…

The lunch line up grows at an exponential rate and all she can see in front of her is an ocean of crossly folded arms and stern faces. The occasional huff pressed impatiently through pursed lips is not helpful. Can they honestly believe that such displays of calculated hostility help her to make sandwiches any faster? And when the man in the red plaid shirt, the one with the foul breath, jumps to the front of the line questioning her as to the whereabouts of his long awaited sandwich, how shall she control her urge to scream and throw sliced tomatoes at him?

How shall she exercise control when all she wants to do is reach over the glass counter and grab the obnoxious offender by his shirt collar and scream, You daft, foul smelling idiot! I’m not bionic…

But, exercise control, she does. Chokes back the urge to scream. Swallows her breath. Forces herself to focus on the orders on the screen while trying not to think about the fact that after taxes and rent, she will have $130 to get through the rest of the month. In this small town there is little work in any field, and certainly none in hers. In such a town, and under such circumstances, you do the work that is in front of you: ham and cheese on white, smoked turkey on whole wheat… She does not think about the eight years she spent at university. She does not think about careers or money, shoes with holes, or dreams. If she did she would crack, and dinner still has to be made…

~*~

She stands in front of the mirror repeating to herself out loud, Be Grateful, Be Grateful, Be Grateful. This is her positive voice. She tries to hold fast to its logic, but another voice pipes up, taking control. She does not want to follow it, does not want to listen to its whining and sniveling. It is so petty, but it seems impossible not to listen because at this moment what it is saying seems truer, and she gives in… WHAT should I be grateful for???? What?? WHAT!!! I am exhausted. I am broke. We have nothing but instant noodle soup in the cupboard. I can’t afford to fix the car. IDID NOT SPEND EIGHT YEARS IN UNIVERSITY FOR THIS!!!! Why am I here? How did I get here? My life at this moment has no purpose – I feel like a machine, and I can’t see an end to it. There are no choices for me! This is just too hard – I can’t do it, I just can’t…

She brushes her teeth. Washes her face. Her movements are mechanical, as though her arms were hooked up to some kind of machine, with someone else cranking a handle that makes her arms move. She dries her face. Straightens the towel, then goes to kiss her sleeping children. Folding herself into bed she tries once more to give positive logic a chance. Be grateful that you have a job to hate. Be grateful that you have a car that needs to be repaired. Be grateful that you have noodle soup. Be grateful that your home is filled with the love and laughter of children. She pulls the blankets closely around her. It all sounds like bunk, she thinks. It’s too hard – I just can’t do this…

~*~


It’s all about attitude. It is, and she knows it. Approach anything with a sense of dread and a negative attitude, and it will all fly right back in your face. Whatever task you are facing will be that much harder, and so much heavier. It will be a weight upon you so heavy that it becomes unbearable. The sheer weight of it. She knows this, and yet she can not influence a change. Not here in this shop where she has no choices, where she is tethered to the counter by an invisible cord that adds up to eight dollars an hour. She has stopped caring about anything. One day rolls into the next. Eat, sleep, work – machine. Eight dollars an hour… it costs twenty five an hour just to live.

~*~

To Be Continued… keep an eye on your inbox ;o)

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Janet Legere, Editor
Sykaro Insights Ezine


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