You smile
while
to your lips
your raise a glass
of poison,
glass of death,
constant fill
to dull the pain
of changes lost
and dreams forgotten.

You hide
behind
sunglasses at night
hoping no one notices
your glazed eyes
no thought
to disguising
your stammering walk

The world’s your stage
your famous number: the soft shoe stagger
brings down the house
before the final curtain falls

Copyright © 2004 Pamela Hamilton

Elusive
Only twice per day

Obligations.

The perfect combination
eluding me this morning.

It's night.

Anticipation.
Inspiration.
Desperation,

urging fingers to keyboard
painting the screen with letters

The stocatto voice of making
what wasn’t
make sense

Copyright © 2004 Pamela Hamilton

The trees only made her think of the road on which she was driving, where a lush forest once stood. She had already seen 200 cars that morning, and that, coupled with the grey skies overhead had put her in a dreary mood.

She wondered how it happened she was one in a long line of commuters, on her way to sit in a stuffy cubicle for the next eight hours.

She began picturing frontier life and Pilgrims chopping firewood, working against the elements for survival. Natural living. But the idea of dying by the age of 45 made her shudder. It's just not enough time to make up for lost time, she thought, relieved to be back in this century where at least she could hope for another 40 years.

The inside was dark.
12. How many four-word sentences can you make with the above words, using all of the words in each combination?

"This is stupid," Rachel thought, reading her last math problem again for the third time in a row. Rachel hadn’t been listening well in class lately and wondered if she had missed some shortcut that would have helped her with this problem. She read the question again. "Who cares", she answered aloud, imagining herself actually writing the words ‘who cares’ as her answer, and smiling.

Truth was she did care and, more importantly, she wanted to stay busy so she read the question again, determined to come up with the answer. Someone looking through her bedroom window at that moment would have seen a 17-year-old girl talking to herself while her eyes searched nowhere in particular, as if searching for a clue. Rachel figured that she could make four sentences each time she started with a different word, and there being four words in the original sentence, the answer must be 4x4 or 16. "It couldn’t be that easy," she thought, shaking her head. Doubting her logic, Rachel wrote ‘16’ hesitatingly on her worksheet and contemplated ways to solve the problem. "How am I supposed to know," she groaned, releasing one frustrated sigh and laying her head on top of the math book.

When Rachel raised her head she stared blankly at the answer she had just written and then smiled. Inspired, she began writing out the actual sentence combinations that could be formed with the words ‘the inside was dark’, starting with the word "the".

The inside was dark.
The dark was inside.
The inside dark was.
The dark inside was.

Writing out all the possible combinations was the only way Rachel could think of to make sure she got the answer right. She may not have liked math very much but she disliked being wrong even more. At the very least the task would keep her busy.

Rachel was in basic math, the one for students not planning to go to university. It wasn’t that she wasn’t smart enough, but she had already been accepted into the school of her dreams, The Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in New York City, and would be starting there after she graduated. Two years at FIT and an Associates Degree in Fashion Design seemed like enough education to her. Mostly she guarded a secret that cemented all her plans; Brian had told her he’d marry her after she graduated from FIT and she wanted that more than anything else in the world. Someday she would design trendy clothes and playfully bow to the audience from the catwalk after her fashion shows ended and Brian would work as a Stock Broker on Wall Street. They would live together in The Village or maybe even SoHo and they’d have lots of friends who were artists. She had pictured it a million times.

Rachel tried to ignore growing sleepiness but succumbed, laying her head once more on top of her math book and closing her eyes, just for a minute, she told herself. She wanted to go to sleep much more than she wanted to finish her homework and thought about how good it would feel to give in to her weariness and just sleep right there, with her head on her books. It was only when she felt the intoxicating daze of approaching sleep swim through her that she opened heavy eyelids, lifted her head, and pushed herself against the back of the chair. She was determined to stay up in case Brian called.

He hadn’t talked to her since Saturday and hadn’t been in school today, either, which made her laugh because she had made it, sitting through 7 classes while trying to ignore annoying cramps and wishing she were at home in bed. Rachel figured his absence had something to do with what had happened Saturday and that it would be best if she waited for him to call her.

Earlier in the day she had thought about trying to call him at his house after school but didn’t want to have to talk to his chirpy mother. She pictured Brian’s mother answering the phone with her sing-song voice. "He-loh-oh", she’d gush. Rachel imagined herself hanging up at that point and Mrs. Richardson standing there repeating "he-loh-oh, he-llo? again and again. No, she couldn’t face that much cheerfulness tonight.

Turning back to her assignment she continued writing out the various combinations that could be constructed with the four words.

The was inside dark.
The was dark inside.
Inside was the dark.
Inside dark was the.

"Why hasn’t he called me – another whole day?" she wondered again, incredulous, conscious of a sudden rush of anger and the beginnings of tears. It was the one question she tried to crowd out by either methodically working through the combinations or by doodling spirals in the margins of her notebook paper. She wondered where her mother was, and then vaguely remembered something about an open house and that Patrick, her brother, would be going, too. "Uh, OK, mom," she remembered answering, unconsciously exhaling frustration that Brian had still not called.

Inside the was dark.
Inside the dark was.

"Inside the dark was." Rachel said it aloud, sitting up straight, suddenly awake. "Inside the dark was." "Inside the dark was." "Inside the dark was." "The dark was." "What!" she said loudly. "The dark was what?" she asked the empty room, suddenly conscious of the dampness of her pad and returning cramps.

This wasn’t like normal periods. It hurt more and there was so much more blood. She thought, again, about the dark, glistening globs she had seen the last time she changed her pad, and worried. They had surprised her and she didn’t know if they were supposed to be there or even what they were.
Inside the dark was.

Rachel stared at the words again and went to the bathroom to change her pad.

When she returned she didn’t continue with her assignment but sat there staring blankly at the rose Brian had given her on Saturday and rubbed her belly. She thought about Brian and waited, listening through the dense silence for the telephone to ring, the quiet broken only by the sound of her own breathing.

She thought about Brian and the time he’d won a match, pinning a rival and setting a new high school record. Right after the referee had raised Brian’s arm in victory, he had walked to the stands holding out one hand toward her. She recalled how she left her seat and stepped down from the bleachers to meet him. He gave her a sweaty kiss in front of the whole auditorium and they walked out of the gym together, holding hands. The memory of it made her smile and for a few minutes Rachel felt sure that it had all been worth it. "Of course he loves me," she reassured herself.

She remembered the day she had told Brian she was pregnant. Hadn’t he been so supportive, wrapping his strong arms around her until she was ready to stop crying? She replayed the scene in her mind, tearing a little when she remembered how much she had cried that day and that Brian had started crying, too. She felt ashamed for being angry with him for not calling.

He really had comforted her that day, offering to take her to the abortion clinic himself, and reassuring her that they would make it through this themselves; that she didn’t need to involve her parents. And then when the day actually arrived, he stayed that whole time in the waiting room and then let her nap in the back of his car until she felt well enough to go home. Before she got out of the car he told her he loved her, giving her one red rose before driving off. It now sat in a lonely vase on her night table. She had forgotten to put water in it and the edges of two petals had already shriveled.

Rachel could hardly believe that was just two days ago, on Saturday. She had gone out grocery shopping that morning with her mother and grandmother, her nervousness making her more talkative than usual. She remembered thinking that they had no idea what was going to happen to her later, and how mischievous she felt. Lying about the day’s plans had been so easy. She had told them in the afternoon she and Brian would be going to the mall where they’d have dinner, then see a movie. It sounded so reasonable she almost believed it herself, picturing them hand-in-hand walking through the mall, almost excited about it.

Why hadn’t he called, though? How could he not call? she wondered, resenting him for his absence when she needed him most. She could think of nothing else. She looked at her math sheet and where she had left off in her list of sentence combinations.

Inside the dark was.
Inside the dark was.

She pictured the dark globs from her pad and thought about what had really taken place inside her body on Saturday, the results of which were saturating another pad. She started imagining the globs reconnecting, growing bones and skin, tiny limbs, fingers, toes, a face. Then the tears, damned up by denial and fear, began streaming down her flushed cheeks and she choked out heavy sobs as she imagined the baby that would never be born.

"Inside the dark - was a baby," she cried. "It was a baby - a baby" she worded, emptying an entire breath with one deep sob before breaking down completely. She had never cried like this and was amazed at the depth of her sorrow. "I’m so sorry," she choked, her breathing heavy with remorse, heaving sobs she thought could never end. She hoped that the baby could somehow see her regret and forgive her.

Rachel didn’t hear the soft knocks on her bedroom door but when she heard her mother’s voice saying, "honey, what’s the matter?" she turned and raced to her mother, knocking over the chair as she ran. "Mom, I’ve made such a terrible mistake", Rachel managed before giving in completely to a grief so deep that it spilled out in convulsive sobs. She clung to her mother with both arms as tightly as she could and wept until all her tears were gone and she could tell her mother everything.

Neither one of them had heard the phone ring so they were startled by the sudden intrusion of Patrick’s voice coming from behind the closed door. "Brian’s on the phone", he said and without hesitating Rachel replied, "Tell him I don’t want to talk to him". It was all she could think of saying.

Copyright © 2004 Pamela Hamilton

On becoming a gymnast again, at age 40
It didn’t matter that I was 40 years old and 32 pounds overweight or that I could barely do a pushup or lift my legs more than once. I was going to join the adult gymnastics class and rediscover the sport I had left 20 years earlier. In the process I rediscovered myself and never plan to leave the sport – or myself - again.

For a year I had taken my 5-yr.old to a Saturday morning gymnastics class, watching her master skills like cartwheels and forward rolls from the visitor’s side of the 1-way viewing glass. To my surprise I found myself gathering snacks, water bottle and gymnastics gear progressively earlier each week, making sure to arrive at the gym with time to spare – so I could watch the competitive team before my daughter's class started. I found myself studying routines and marveling at the strength and flexibility the gymnasts displayed. Mostly I spent a lot of time remembering, reliving my own bar routines in my mind, noticing the slight movements in my muscles as I ‘relived’ old tricks. I remembered the joy of controlling my body through space and landing solidly on two feet - and the courage it took to try again, if I didn’t. With each week the desire to get back on the equipment grew stronger and I began to sense that my fulfillment involved finding myselft on the other side of that glass as a gymnast.

One week I noticed a new posting on my side of the glass advertising that adult classes would be starting in the next session. Most of the other moms I talked to were disinterested in joining the new class except for one and we made a commitment to each other to be there when the next session started. It was early February and class started March 22. I would have about five weeks to lose some weight and start exercising.

February passed by and March arrived and I had yet to lift a leg toward preparing for my class. Then March 21 arrived and I thought of what excuse I could give my friend for why I wouldn’t be able to take the class. In those five weeks I hadn’t lost a pound or done any exercise. I would be starting class 32 pounds overweight and in spandex. I dreaded showing everyone my body and I was nervous the demanding moves would prove too much for my atrophed muscles. Could I still do it? Would I like it? Was I too old to be trying something like this again? In the end I didn’t cancel, for besides making a commitment to my friend to be at that first class I had made a commitment to myself – to change my life. I had sat still for long enough and it was time to reconnect with that gymnast I had been and still could be, I hoped, on the other side of the glass.

The first class was the most difficult. I hadn’t anticipated feeling so self-consious, even paranoid. I wondered what the team girls were giggling about or if I looked foolish in my spandex top and pants. I found myself pre-occupied with the mirror and how large I looked in it. It was difficult to stay focused on the teacher’s instructions. Mostly I tried to ignore my shock at how difficult each movement was - and how unfamiliar. My body had apparently not retained any abilities from those earlier years in gymnastics and I guessed this was what gymnastics was like for my 5-yr.-old who I’d watched week-after-week learning skills from scratch. I sympathized with her and appreciated anew her rosie, perspiring face which greeted me each week after her class ended and made a mental note to tell her just how very proud of her efforts I was.

I became incredibly dizzy from those first forward rolls and actually staggered a few times, wondering if I was going to be sick. I hadn’t remembered ever feeling dizzy from doing forward rolls in the past and became worried that maybe I really was too old to be taking up this sport again. Perhaps it was an “over-40” thing, I wondered, forcing myself through another roll. I lumbered through cartwheels and tuck jumps, hoping no one else noticed the noisy thuds of my anything-but-gizelle-like landings. Poetry in motion I wasn’t. Finally, I had to rest even my arms, shaky from the strain of supporting my body through handstands and backward rolls.

I glanced at the clock and was amazed that over ½ hour of the class was over. I had made it through the warm up and floor rotation and we’d be moving to bars, then beam and vault. I guzzled water as if it might be my last drink and felt myself revive. I was smiling now and amazed at what my body had just survived, but glad to be done with floor, for now. Although I had felt like a complete novice on the mat there was one thing about it that was familiar - the feeling of pride from having tried my best and I knew I could make it through the next three 15-min. segments on the other pieces of equipment.

When the class ended I was stunned at that we had been exercising for 1 1/2 full hours. Like the out-of-shape Rocky Balboa attempting his first run up the stairs of the Philadelphia Museum of Art I wouldn’t be celebrating with a victory dance at the top of the staircase today but I’d call that first class anything but unsuccessful. I had gotten myself to the other side of the glass, had moved every muscle in my body, hadn’t injured myself and best of all, I had fun. In fact, I couldn’t stop smiling. I had done it. I was a gymnast again – having just contorted, lifted, stretched and rolled my jiggly body for an hour and a half. It was time to bring my spent muscles and smiling face home and get ready for the next class. Doing gymnastics again after such a long time was much more difficult that I had ever imagined - and much more rewarding.

It has now been 5 months since I first stepped into gym. Did it change my life? So far I’ve lost 22 lbs. I’ve relearned a kip, front and back walkovers and back handspring. I’m doing cartwheels on the beam and am close to doing handspring vaults by myself (with the mini-tramp). But beyond the skills in the gym, and this is the biggest surprise, my perspective on life has changed completely.

As I changed physically and overcame fears inside the gym, I discovered the energy and courage to change my life outside the gym, too. It started with basic changes to my diet which now includes healthier foods like fruits and vegetables, salads, and beans. Then I found the courage pick up a pen and begin writing again – another passion of my youth I had discarded. I now try to write almost every day, spending much of my free time choosing one work over another – and loving it. For my family I’m now that mom who jumps at the chance to play soccer with my girls, take a walk or even jump in the pool for a swim. It’s being active in all areas of my life that brings me fulfillment now.

Gymnastics has brought me to the present tense. I am a gymnast. I write. I love. I laugh, a lot. I’m living life in a way I wasn’t before and I never would have realized how getting fit would start the process of change. Whether or not I thought I was ready – I was. Signing up for the class, doing that first leg lift, even writing that first sentence were the first steps I needed to take to change my life. And now that I’ve taken those steps, I’m not turning back.

Melissa had one glass eye and I wanted to see her eye socket. I wanted to look into the hole and face a living skeleton. Each time I talked to her I found myself staring at her eye that never moved and I’d wondering what it felt like to hold it, to wear it. But mostly I wanted to see its empty socket.

The problem was that we weren’t really friends. She didn’t seem to have many friends, at least she was never hanging out with anyone. She walked from class to class alone, ate alone in the cafeteria and wasn’t involved in sports – until recently. One day, outside the gym, I saw her name on the Track & Field sign up sheet. I looked around, smiled at my opportunity, justified to myself that running would get me in shape for gymnastics next season and wrote my name below hers. I found myself hoping that maybe she’d trip and her eye would fall out and I’d get to see the empty socket.

There was a time I had stood up for myself, David against Goliath, by wildly throwing dishes in the kitchen. Like an out-pf-control robot I lifted and pitched one thing after another, ceramic plates, planters, cups - my eyes scanning the counter for the next weapon even while one was still being discharged.

When the coffee carafe shattered even I was scared and Tom wrapped his arms around me and carried me up the stairs, telling me to get in bed and stay there. I did get in to bed, embarrassed, and crying, but amazed at the conviction and rage that had erupted from ME! How far would I have gone, I wondered? I played out the scene over and over in my mind: was that what preceded reaching for a knife? I could see why there was a defense called ‘temporary insanity’.

I came to realize that it was that same rage my father must have felt during his own out-of-control moments when a thousand chards of life’s precious moments were strewn across the living room carpet. What were wedding gifts, pictures of us, trinkets, chandeliers, chairs and china – now piles of spent rage to be cleaned up by my mother once the police left.

Toward the end of day
Intoxicating
daze
swims through my body
weighty eyelids
closing

Shifting
kaleidescope shapes
move back and forth
eyelids
entertaining

Rustling
hair
like ocean waves
familiar
the silence
breaking

Moving
soft mountain
blankets
rise and fall
warm air
breathing

Sinking
weightless
into clouds
deeper
toward the end of day
falling

You wrap your legs around me
and pull me closer

I feel where each leg is crossed
behind my back

You put your head on my shoulder
and I kiss
your sea scented hair

It takes both my arms to hold you in place

You are warm against me
a human blanket

I begin to rub your back
and your hand gently rubs mine

I could stay like this
forever
I think

Holding my child
in the stillness
of morning

If you were a girl
Naturally
I’d say
- Did I do something?
- I’m really sorry
- Let’s talk about it
- I had no idea
- Thanks for telling me
- You mean a lot to me
But because you’re not
Instinctively
I say
- I did not
- You misunderstood
- Stop judging me
- Of course you mean a lot to me

I don’t feel like talking anymore

A child
- unique
- a copy
- striving
- failing
- running and falling
- catching
- laughing
- crying

still

thinking it all matters

Children don’t know
That they are so
young

That their discoveries
have been
made before

That their rhymes
were also
their parents’ rhymes

That they will
grow up
and become

just like us

I used to divide people into two categories: those who preferred Helmenn’s mayonnaise and those who chose Miracle Whip. Helmann’s eaters were definitely superior to Miracle Whippers. I imagined that Miracle Whip people probably also liked eating at buffet restaurants and searching for discount clothing at Daffy Dan’s.
Finding out someone I liked preferred Miracle Whip was like discovering they were from the wrong side of town. They were nice, but, you did'n't want to date people who lived there.

The water spiders glide.
From inside the gazebo I see water all around. It's mostly silver but also dark green where the shadows of the forest fall. Slight ripples appear simultaneously on the water as the water spiders slide, the water itself never motionless. There isn't enough wind to justify dragging out Bill's sunfisher but there is just enough to carry the reminder that bacon and french toast are being prepared inside the cottage.

I won't help with breakfast. I'll let them finish inside and watch the water spiders glide.

Will they ever really understand each other?
A bit of quiet on an otherwise busy day. the sky is light aqua without a cloud in sight. Night will soon envelope me. It's warm outside but I don't need shorts. The air is still but for an occasional hint of a breeze that seems to touch my right arm only.

There are no bugs to bother me tonight. Zsa Zsa has run across the street about to begin her night's journey. Basil lies just inside the screen door and sighs once in a while. I'd like him here next to me but then I'd have to hold his leash and wouldn't be able to write.

A teenage boy is chasing a girl - their both on bikes. She says "don't come near me" and laughs. He says, "I'll give you a head start" and does but catches up with her just the same. She looks annoyed. He looks proud.

Will they ever really understand each other?

©2004 Pamela Hamilton

There is a clearing in the woods
There is a clearing in the woods

Grooves in the grass the width of car tires

A garage appears

Then a bar-b-que

Bill's brown chalet

There are cob webs and chipped paint

The screen door looks slightly crooked, one hinge is broken

But the door beckons

Announces

Home

Today Mary wore a bright pink straw hat
Today mary wore a bright pink straw hat that was just slightly too big for her. It sat askew and I wondered if a brisk breeze might blow it off.

The hat was covered with little gold stars and crescent moons glued in place indiscriminately. The pink matched exactly Mary's satin blouse, left unbottoned at the top, exposing a wrinkled neck. Her cane, a broomstick that had long lost its broom, leaned behind her in the corner of her porch.

Mary must have just finished tea and crackers because her floral tea cup, shiny and chipped above the handle in the shape of a 'tiny v', sat empty on a rusted metal serving plate, beside one tiny crumb.

A fly had found its way on top of the crumb and was busy stealing the last of the jam.

©2004 Pamela Hamilton

In the morning I would get up and remove the chair. Rachel burst forth from her room, rounded the wall separating our rooms, threw open my door and with a running lean, land on top of me. Her grin revealing the little black tooth in the middle of her smile. "It's time to get up, twin" she gushed, kissing me as she giggled her way off the bed.

The night - the fight - was forgotten and the sun shone brightly through my window. We raced down the hall and hurried, bum first, down the stairs, bounce, bounce, bounce, bounce, one step at a time. We listened and laughed at the way our voices became distored with each plummet.

All was light. All was laughter.

Until we came to the bottom of the stairs and saw my mother's bruised arms and swollen face. She saw our hesitation and said she was fine and not to worry about the bruises - that they didn't hurt. And she stooped down and hugged us both and told us how much she loved her little twinsies.

Then she made us pancakes for breakfast.

The journal I'm using is not very attractive. It's cover has a picture of a fox placed within a floral border which is laminated to a rigid cardboard and shows my fingerprints. It always feels a little greasy.
But it's mine. The clean white pages invite me to write. I try to ignore the cover.

I could be doing something else, like fixing the purple paint that was stripped from the window.

And I will.

I could be making tomorrow's lunch and thinking about what to wear.

And I will.

I could plan to the smallest detail what to do when Adrienne arrives on Monday or when Martin and I arrive at Bill's cottage.

And I will.

I'll do it all - and I'll write.