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I tell my therapist that I connected with someone. No, I mean we really, unequivocally, like, went together, I tell her. Now they leave me on read, a prickly silence. It takes me 15 minutes to explain not only what that means But what an anxiety-inducing affront it is. She nods knowingly. It’s happened to us all at one time or another. It’s a part of life. When she opens her mouth again, my mother's voice comes out: “Hey, I told you not to swat at the wasps if they fly around you. Wasps sting you!” I want to appear brave, so I swallow hard, taking with it the tears and unsaid words: I know that this happens. I just didn’t know it would hurt this much.

lease renewal what can we lay upon our hands those husking calliopes, generous mouth that leans to yes & tremor, the fold and flutter warmth when the pressing of if & then stains the silk on empty floors settler spreads of grass become a cavalry of arresting blades stranger, you have managed the unnecessary parts of me- carrying them away in small boxes, wrapped against ill humor, hungry mouths of insects, restless ghosts made of packing tape when I move again, remaining will be the fresh wound of a postal code, guidebooks on must see & must do, wild forage and the nearness of hands the blooms in these guides are unencumbered by sweetness, and so they work plying their work under fixed stars velocity of grief in the ache of my arms, I will know grief sure as winding sheets, wrung in bleach the circumference of your shoulders yet wide enough to arrest sudden flight relative speed is accounting through comparison, my body or your body where products of inertia are numb hymnals to praise what remains, what left the polaroid on the table, eccentric orbits with condolences and light receptors the slick emulsion massaged by photons seizing the arc of your lifted hand you are pointing a finger through the frame describing an event already past, escaped I experience the passage of the only bullet that will ever matter coda passing along through a local park just a stand of birch and goldenrod ringed in sodium flood I discovered the final resting place of a wren and gave pause, in a breath before leaving it broken, to trust instead how a strand of lights along the short axis of flesh shapes a luminous host William is a nurse and scribbler of small notes, drifting southeasterly. Further scribbles @ByThisWillAlone.

Eulogy As big as his mammoth body is; Pot-bellied and 6’2”, I still think his presence is bigger. Highly Opinionated, Gap-Toothed, Fun-Loving, Fierce-Hugging, Jovial Salt and Pepper-Bearded Teddy Bear. I never saw how people could perceive him as intimidating; The pieces that everyone saw Towering, Mean-Mugged West Virginan who takes no shit I get it, And it makes sense. But all I could ever see was a giant man who loved me. I wanted to come on here and write something meaningful and powerful, Showing him in the light I always saw him in. Shining glory, Perfectly imperfect. I’m struggling to see the words. I think my brain is trying to protect me. How can you lose a giant? Nothing reverts back to normal after a giant leaves. A giant hole in my Lesser-giant heart. I never knew what my father did for other people. But they were always thanking him. Telling me how he saved their asses. And I beamed with pride with every compliment. I think he was selling them drugs, or getting them odd-jobs, or a combination of both. I just knew he was good at what he did. I am trying to be good at what I do I clock in every day, Feed the cat, Kiss my husband, And do the dishes. My lesser-giant heart does not know how to go on. Stay here as long as you can. I want that to mean the age of ninety-five falling asleep in your reading chair I can’t bear the thought of twenty-seven or thirty-two or even fifty-five. When the pain becomes too heavy I beg Heaven to conjure something right and sweet for you Love and medicine in the shape of a blanket a neural function a rib. I wish for you A reprieve in the light The resounding hum of a box fan lulling you to sleep. I’ll stay pleading with God for A pinch of good in this life To see you through the next day. Like warm strawberries soaking in sugar I want to sweeten your sorrow.

On days like today, I want to be held in silence. No romance. Just friendship and hands, holding me firm and tight till all the anxiety locked in my joints vanishes. This might sound crazy but it is true; I am anxious most of the time but never fearful. Over the years it has become very difficult to hold fear in my chest, there's just no room. Once a stranger asked me to explain to them how they could sense I was very anxious but yet so calm - I could not, it just is. On days like today, I stay in bed, cuddle myself, then rock my body back and forth till I either doze off or feel the anxiety become silent. Slowly but steadily it stills. It never really goes away but I have learnt how to tackle it. I rock my body back and forth, but on some days I wish someone else would do it for me. No romance. Just friendship and hands, holding me firm and tight till all the anxiety locked in my joints vanishes. I wasn’t much of an anxious child, at least not until I started to encounter the world in loud and rough chunks. Events, malls, churches, neighbors, refugee camps, the death of loved ones (one family member or friend at a time) then the growing anxiety became more and more aggressive. It feels as though it has always been there: lurking behind my chest while I spent ridiculous hours reading books and watching archived interviews in my mother's office, hiding itself in the joints in my legs while I danced or played street football with other kids in my grandmother's village, just waiting for the right moment to strike. Every exposure to real life must have been a signal for its madness to turn the volume up in my breath, that's where it stays - I just know. I have taught myself how to manage and still my anxiety over the years, but on some days like today, after reading and writing all morning, pitching and negotiating with survival, avoiding sleep and trying to forget my life. On days like this I wish I could have someone alive in their flesh and bones beside me to hold me firm and tight, to rock with me back and forth in silence till my anxiety stills or I go to sleep. No romance. Just friendship and hands. Water. Steady breathing. Conscious distraction. Silence. Music. Smoking. Writing. These are some of the mechanisms I have used over time to measure how long I have before my anxiety leads to madness.

All at sea High up in the crow's nest foam corkscrews below One more minute and the waters will split the great snake's tail slice through with a splintering shriek dash the ship into so many matchsticks The music's loud, the conversation light the swoop and the swirl of it a passing tray of canapes It comes in waves pitch and roll back to the wall another glass of wine and I'll have the courage to speak If I can just breathe keep to my post hold steady against the juddering swell maybe I can beat it back keep my head above water Under my heel I can feel the shift my lips are cracked with salt On the breeze It's cold up here the air is thin I can see the swallows, below me now the brindled shadows the clouds cast over bright harvest ripe fields I can see the ring of birch trees sun through green leaves the old house the rope swing slung over the bough in the yard frayed almost right through but holding out - just I close my eyes and wonder could I have stopped the rot? the subtle stiffening seeping into us with each tick of the grandfather clock lonely in a dust encrusted corner could I have pricked the silence with the right words so that it burst and let out its poison? before we brought the whole thing toppling down with no last minute reprieve no hole in the eaves perfectly placed to miss move away with a light step and a double blink the jinx heavy upon our heads until quite suddenly - with a soap bubble pop! you granted me this choked release the final drop Too late to go back over it now it's drifting with each fresh breath of the wind I float a little further away Longshore drift The sea is a casino and the tides play the dealer inch by inch, wave by wave seaweed, stones, unwary creatures shuffled and slotted by sleight of hand further along the coast Do they ever open an eye, mouth, shell hold out a wary claw or tentacle wondering how they got here so far from the still rockpools of home? You got here before me phone face down on the table you're wearing someone else's smile I scan the horizon for a familiar landmark my vision pitching alien sands beneath my feet

Olivia flings open the door and retches onto the pavement. With a trembling hand, she wipes her mouth and stumbles out of the car, around her pile of vomit, and onto the grass. Sinks to her knees in the damp earth, takes deep, shuddering breaths. She blinks her vision back into focus. Something is in her eyes, stinging, blurring her gaze. With the back of her hand she rubs it away and glances down at the blood, fresh and warm, smeared over her skin. When she sits back on her heels, pieces of shattered glass fall from her hair, and Olivia suddenly becomes aware of the throbbing in her head, the sharp ache in her ribs. A vague memory: her body in the air, slamming against the car’s center console. A few yards away, a squirrel darts up a tree trunk. Between her knees, a worm squirms through the dirt. A cloud shifts across the sky, blocking out the sun for a few seconds before moving on its way, and the sky brightens once more. Life continues around her, oblivious to her situation, a reminder of her insignificance. The knowledge is soothing, helps her focus. She is hurt, she is alive; she needs to be calm. Olivia looks back at the car. The front passenger side is crumpled against the base of a tree. In the reflection of the gray steel she can see the horizontal gash across her forehead, thin lines of blood trickling down her temples and over the bridge of her nose. All the windows have been shattered, and through the open spaces she can see Regina’s body, still upright behind the wheel. The driver’s side is completely crushed, caved in on itself like a piece of crumpled aluminum foil. Scratches of red paint drip like blood across the door frame. She notices the skid marks that mar the pavement. There haven’t been cars on the road in weeks, not since people started boarding up windows and bullet casings littered the autumn foliage. Apprehensive and a little wobbly, Olivia stands and inches closer to the wreckage. Regina’s seatbelt is still on, but it’s done her no good. A trail of blood, not quite dry yet, runs down her neck, which is twisted at an unnatural angle. Her eyes are still open. There is no chance she can open the door, so Olivia reaches inside, avoiding the jagged glass that remains in the window panel. Fingers shake as she presses them against Regina’s eyelids and drags them down. The urge to vomit rises in her again. Stepping away, leaving Regina in the car that is now her coffin, Olivia is greeted by the eerie silence of the empty highway. There are no street signs, no mile markers. She has no idea where she is. There is a voice inside her head, competing with the growing throbbing at the base of her skull, that urges her to keep moving. Her thoughts are jumbled, but she tries to make sense of them. Home. Regina was taking her home. Why are you helping me? I’ve seen what they do to the other survivors. You’d wish you didn’t make it. Olivia lugs herself down the street, feeling like a block of cement is strapped to each ankle. Her mouth is dry. She can’t remember the last time she had anything to drink. She received her fluids through IV in the hospital– only it wasn’t a real hospital, she remembers now, but an airplane hangar turned triage center, frantically constructed when the real hospitals started filling up. And the doctors. They weren’t real doctors, either. The pounding in her head grows stronger with each painful step, and a white-hot burning blooms behind her eyes. She stops, keels over, retches again. Her legs give out, knees hitting the pavement with a crack, barely managing to bring up her arms to break her fall. The impact rips open the skin of her elbows, scratches the side of her face. The gash on her forehead splits open again, blood pooling on the asphalt beside her. Olivia lies there, half-awake and in agony, existing in a place where time both refuses to pass and moves faster than she can conceive. Vibrations rumble the ground beneath her. An engine roars in the distance, steadily growing closer, louder and louder until it abruptly stops. A door creaks open and heavy footsteps crunch their way towards her. Help me. Save me. Take me home. A large, rough hand pushes her tangled hair away from her face. The touch is familiar, and another memory surfaces: the same hand clamped around her mouth, muffling a scream. Two fingers press against her neck, her pulse beating pathetically against them, and then Olivia is rolled onto her back. In her mind she fights back, writhes and bites and shouts, but her body offers no resistance as two arms come up beneath her, under her legs and around her shoulders, and she is lifted from the ground. She smells the mix of sweat and spice and gasoline that she knows– Jay, his name is Jay– and feels the brush of soft fabric against her cheek as her head lolls onto a hard, muscled shoulder. Not bad, Jay says. This is the furthest you’ve gotten. Hot leather sticks against her skin as she is propped up on a seat, her body a ragdoll to be posed on a whim, no longer controlled by her mind. Head against the window frame, Jay’s hand on her shoulder to steady her as she slumps forward. Tires squeal. A stinging wind whips against her face. Please take me home, Olivia thinks as she is driven back the way she came. I’m tired of this. I just want to go home.

Sprite I imagine: shrinking so small to fit inside of a rose, I feel the soft petals against my skin & the intoxicating scent - pink sunshine cotton-cloud soft. Out I come from my cocoon; sprouting translucent wings from my tiny bones. Fragile, microscopic sparkles - the day has shifted into night now. I fly up above the blue green grass & up above the trees. Up above the lightning bugs & foxes' telepathy, moonlit gardens & lines of laundry. Portrait of a Lady in a Walmart Parking Lot A blonde beauty with an angel-like face; round as the moon, a young mom. Husband in the store, kids at school. She's got a plastic fork in one hand, cigarette in the other - it's raining & fog hits the Walmart parking lot like a tranquil morning in the mountains of Japan. She sits unruffled in the drivers' seat of the minivan, a mouthful of soggy hotcakes like hot butter & coffee spilled all over an old mattress. Hollywood Dreams Everyone has vanished from the land of big dreams & silver screens, the eternal stars left in sand & shambles. A continuous matrix of technicolor landscapes & Marilyn's handprints - are they lost or chosen? Forever frozen.

Two drops of blood found on the bedsheet, the one tossed casually over her shoulder all night, in the one place where she felt small and safe: unassuming and anonymous, the quieter the better, the bad habits she couldn’t break. She awoke to find that and nothing more—two drops of blood in a sea of possessions, items that didn’t really belong to her, at least none that she would claim. She kept her shoes strapped tight all day and most of the night, a bag full of necessities on a hook by the door, ready to disappear if circumstances called for that. They hadn’t yet. The walls were mostly awake by then, aching echoes of rooms she was invited into but couldn’t bend her legs to sit in, leaving the laughter of loved ones curt and short, tinny, blowing endlessly from an oscillating fan in one corner. A pile of fake IDs sat face-up on the desk, all her name but a different address: some downstate, some out-of-state, some Istanbul, none used for anything but daydreaming, feeling her way through the other lives she could be living. For now, she exists in sun-scorched confusion—some dichotomy, caution reigning supreme, every would-be “yes” a tentative “maybe,” "nothing" doesn’t mean "nothing to lose,” always think it over. Meanwhile, two flies occupy the windowpane where she unknowingly slept beside the remnants of dead bees. They make frantic, frazzled pleas, negotiations with each other and the cool glass and the breeze they could almost sense—feeling through vibrations, knowing but not knowing, gut instincts. “If you move, I’ll move. If you bend, I’ll bend.” Neat stacks of towels sat folded but not put away, locked together in mismatched hues of well-worn terry cloth. Some dryer heat was still secured in between; not an ounce of warmth to be wasted, even during the warmest season. Strength in solitude is dubbed weakness and still weakening like an atrophying muscle, the lull of exhaustion waxing and waning. Fingernail clippings top the trash—bones expelled by routine squander, the way we waste things we don’t believe we need! An in-ground pool laid sultry and inviting beyond the window, close enough to observe but not to touch, an ocean chemically salted and trapped in a cage (the way humans do with every wild thing they encounter). It’s still the only way she has to walk on water, so it’s worth the trouble, at least for a while. But summer’s bitter end is coming, the hazy, sweat-soaked throes of death, cool air wrestling its heavy iron fist loose and easing it away with a whisper. If you move, I’ll move. If you bend, I’ll bend. Tiffany M Storrs is the editor in chief of Roi Fainéant Press. She is a writer above most other things, but there are so many other things, and she is properly qualified for none of those titles. She loves a lot of stuff but we're not going to get into all of that now. You can find her here, on Twitter @ msladybrute, on Instagram @ lady.brute, and out back honing her wit.

Sharon is a runner. Everyone has a thing they do. That’s her thing. The minute she gets out of bed in the morning she goes for a run. But today Sharon’s body refuses to cooperate. She finishes the first mile, and it still seems as though she’ll never wake up. Past the Nelson’s house, past the corner grocery store, the playground, the elementary school, up Granby’s Hill, and around the parking lot at the recreation center. Every step feels like she’s slogging through thick mud. But at least nothing hurts this morning. No tight Achilles tendon to shake out. No shin splints or aching hamstring. At least there’s that. Still, she’s slogging, slogging, slogging. And then. It happens. With no warning. Zap! Every cell in her body snaps to attention, the grogginess vanishes, and she’s fully alert. Just like that. Just like last week in the company cafeteria. She was on her lunch break, scrolling through LinkedIn, when she saw an article about the wisdom of Marcus Aurelius, a philosopher she’d never read before. According to Aurelius, the obstacle we face is actually the way out of our current problem. The obstacle is the solution. The way out. And then. It happened. With no warning. Zap! Every cell in her body snapped to attention, and she knew Aurelius was right, that the latest disaster her alcoholic husband had created to traumatize her life was not the last disaster, but one of many to come, that his disasters would continue again and again and again, like they had for the last seven years, that nothing would change, even though he promised it would, again and again and again, but it never did and never would, that this disaster was not just another stressful situation to survive, but her way out of a dead-end marriage. The obstacle, this disaster, was the solution. And it was. And this time she knew it. The way out. Hers. And this time she took it. Just like that. Laura Stamps is the author of several novels, short story collections, and poetry books, including IT’S ALL ABOUT THE RIDE: CAT MANIA (Alien Buddha Press), THE YEAR OF THE CAT (Artemesia Publishing), and IN THE GARDEN (The Moon). Winner of the Muses Prize. Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. Mom of 5 cats. Twitter: @LauraStamps16. Website: www.laurastampspoetry.blogspot.com

Paige out of Time A Case Study Kronosis Management Case Study Paige Jenkins — Traveler Active from the Year 2019 (in this timeline) Distributed by CHRONOS Dept. of Educational Affairs, New York, NY USA, 2105 Introduction This case study was first developed in the year 2100 for a local CHRONOS management course. Our purpose was to educate employees around the onboarding of travelers; and to outline our company mission in response to public concern regarding the safety of time travel, particularly time travel for a profit. We hope to outline here a case that depicts early problems in the time travel industry, and how we’ve come to fix them. New employees are encouraged to engage with this material in order to more fully understand how our company has developed, and why it matters that we protect our travelers and honor our clientele. This case has been organized using general time terms (the present, before, a while back, etc.) to clarify its arc through the timeline. The commercial environment described was very typical of what existed for travelers in the year 2019. The problems are not difficult to spot, but can you see why they happened? And what was done to fix them? The case study will be followed by a set of questions organized by education management. You may use the case study and questions as you wish, subject to copyright limitations. The Present Occasionally, Paige fell through time(1). She didn’t like to disclose her condition. It was a bit embarrassing that she couldn’t stick to one timeline without help, and took such effort to explain. So she’d never told Nick. They had only been friends for a year, and besides, they had better things to talk about, like the terms of their newly sexual relationship, and _________________________ 1 Timeslip is a common symptom of Kronosis, an umbrella term covering several types of chronic time conditions, including but not limited to: ability to time travel, ability to sense people through time, and (in one most notable case) the ability to see into other timelines entirely. It is uncertain whether there are more variations on the disease. the way that sex felt. “Nick, oh my God,” Paige gasped. She leaned back to dig her fingers into his thighs as he moved. “Yeah? That good?” Paige grinned up at the ceiling, then looked down at Nick. He was grinning back, red in the face with his hands on her hips. “Yeah,” she said. She arched forward, pressed her fingers against his jawline. “Yeah,” she whispered. Her breath was warm on his lips. And then she was gone. Not gone to passion, just gone. Out of thin air. Out of Nick’s lap. Fifty years back into 1969. It was a familiar night. When Paige slipped, this was almost always when she ended up(2). Her first designated time travel had been to the day of the moon landing. She could remember that trip with stark clarity. The way things looked, felt, smelled. No wonder she kept falling back to it. She was standing in someone’s backyard. A house loomed over the patchy lawn, with sliding doors that opened onto a living room full of people, all jostling and murmuring. Paige heard the staticky drone of an old TV. Well, a new TV for this time. Paige took in her surroundings. Beyond a picket fence, a drying line sagged with laundry. As Paige clambered to her feet and made her way across the wet grass, she heard a collective gasp, but she _________________________ 2 Many travelers say that when navigating the folds of timespace, the time is much more difficult to get a hold of than the space. We all know time is tricky. Every human is bound to complain about it at some point: it either moves too fast or too slow or doesn’t seem to move at all. That’s why we write these case studies, to better understand what we’re dealing with. didn’t look up. It wasn’t about her. Paige couldn't always control her trips but she did have a superb sense of time(3). She knew it was 3:56 AM on July 20th, 1969. She listened carefully as she stepped up to the fence. It was relatively low. She placed her hands between its spikes and began to hoist herself over. As she went, Paige murmured along with Neil Armstrong on the television: “One small step for man…” She missed the next line in a sudden tumble over the fence and found herself sprawled on the neighbor’s lawn. This one was pretty and green. Less brown patches. The house was dark, probably because the family had gone next door to watch the moon landing with their friends. Paige made her way over to the clothesline. She couldn’t hear the television from this distance. She took her time picking out a dress from an array of damp options and picked the one that felt the least starched. It hung too wide on her frame, but that would have to do. This wasn’t the first time Paige had fallen through time unprepared. Not even the first time she’d done it naked. But it still left her exhausted. Paige looked up at the moon and took a deep breath. She hadn’t looked up the first fifty or so times she slipped. It had seemed appropriate to stand at the back of a crowd and watch alongside everyone else as the moon’s surface played out in grainy black and white. Eventually, she realized that once she got back to the future, she could watch it remastered, and perhaps it was more interesting to stare at the actual moon while the men were still up there. At least it would give her something to do until she got her strength back. So she watched the sky, and listened to make sure no one _________________________ 3 Another side effect of any form of Kronosis is an incredibly keen sense of time. As you might imagine, this can be excruciating. To notice each moment as it passes, recognize every tick of the clock. would come outside and notice her, and wondered about Nick. He would probably be worried. (Image used with permission of CHRONOS c. 2019) A While Back Paige Jenkins sat in the lobby of her place of work(4), reading over the familiar poster on the wall. She read it once, and again, and again. Then she let her mind wander as her eyes _________________________ 4 Many companies have capitalized on the existence of Kronosis patients. In exchange for regular treatment and assistance in managing their conditions, travelers are asked to complete research for those wealthy enough to pay. drifted off to trace the familiar blue trim along the wall. She tugged on her necklace(5). The bench she sat on was usually reserved for customers waiting on appraisals, not employees. But she wasn’t going to be an employee for much longer. She was trying to get used to the idea. “Paige!” Lacey called. She had only recently taken up the receptionist position, and she was good at it. She kept things well organized and her smile was almost as disarming as her wide, observant eyes. “The boss will see you now.” Paige stood up and dusted off her pants. They were new. It felt strange to walk around CHRONOS in clothes she owned rather than something the agency had provided her with. As she made her way past the front desk she quirked her lips in an awkward smile at her friend. Lacey offered an encouraging look. Paige made her way over to the elevator bank and used her key card to get in the employee car. An hour later, Paige had retired from her work with CHRONOS. She lost her pay, her agency-assigned housing, and any assists for travel through time. This included clothes, language and history education, and access to spotters(6). She was sent back to the lobby in the guest elevator. She paused long enough to give Lacey a hug. Outside, her hand went to _________________________ 5 One perk of working for time travel agencies is called a “tether.” These are objects that anchor time travelers to their home era. Personal tethers were very expensive in the early days of our industry, and most travelers relied on company-provided supplies 6 Along with tethers, travelers work with agency-trained spotters. These are people with a minor case of Kronosis that does not allow them to move through time, but rather to sense other people as they do. With proper mindfulness training, spotters can reach out through time and draw travelers back to their home era as needed. her throat to feel for her necklace, but she’d handed that over too. She stuffed her fists into the pockets of her coat. 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I took the framed photograph out of the top drawer of my dresser and moved you, with silent ceremony, to the wall above the kitchen sink. In the picture, you are sixteen, your hair long and straight, your teeth still crooked, your face unlined, your brown eyes troubled. It is the only picture I have ever seen of you from that era before me, and it is easy to see my face in your half-smile. I like looking at it when I am cooking or washing dishes, and I like to imagine Corey communicating with you in some way while he cooks, as he often does, for our friends and us. Of course, he never met you, and the stories he has heard are not altogether heart-warming. He is witness to the inherent sadness that is a constant companion to me and lives with your ghost as I do, comforting and caring for me throughout myriad breakdowns brought on by memory, anniversary, sometimes a song, sometimes a television commercial. In the kitchen, though, there is always music playing, and I find myself laughing a little as I remember us composing family feasts while Diana Ross and The Supremes played from the speakers in your kitchen in Tennessee, creating a rhythm to our chopping and kneading, peals of laughter and wine glasses clinking in a toast to how far we had come and “wouldn’t Miss Ross be proud of this jambalaya?”. Who knows if Diana Ross even likes jambalaya, but that wasn’t the point, was it? The last time we saw each other was my 37th birthday. I had driven the twelve hours from south Florida to the home of your newest family in Clarksville, stopping only for gas, bathroom breaks, and caffeine. In your seventh and last marriage, you had found the security and family for which you had always longed. Now that you were safe and sound and happy, I was 800 miles away, always running to stand still. I had known, somehow, that it was important that I make this pilgrimage, that this would be the last time I would hear you say my name or taste your famous scrambled eggs. I always looked forward to sharing my birthday with you, it being your day more than mine, after all. It had become a tradition for us to share a bottle of champagne while you told the story of my birth, my favorite part always that you had chosen another name for me, but had been overridden by my father, who didn’t know how to spell Jaunce. You had fallen asleep after a long natural labor with a ten-and-a-half-pound baby and were therefore not able to protest. When you woke, I was a junior. During this last visit, I knew you couldn’t drink, so I left the Dom Perignon (your favorite, not mine) at home, knowing I would surely need it upon my return. As soon as I arrived, I noticed with horror how your health was so rapidly failing, how the chemotherapy had riddled your body with searing pain and somehow reduced your mind to an almost child-like state. You were demanding and abrasive, which wasn’t entirely new, but there was a desperation that both angered and frightened me because you were beyond reason. I ended up making the scrambled eggs because you were feeling poorly. They were just as good as yours, but you would never admit that. After breakfast, I went downstairs to nap on the couch before the long drive home and you slept in your chair, wearing that sweater, your mouth open and your breathing labored. You lamented when you woke that you didn’t want me to leave and I snapped at you, much to the chagrin of all in the room, that I had a life to live and bills to pay, that I hated that town and nothing would ever convince me to live there again, least of all you. I knew that I had hurt your feelings, but I was too angry to care, and I left in a hurry after kissing you on your cheek and thanking your family for their hospitality, telling your husband to “keep me posted". We spoke only once more, and you told me that your only hope was for me to find a man to “take care” of me, that all you wanted was for me to “settle down”. This, of course, infuriated me. I let you have it, telling you that the last thing I needed in the world was a man to complete me, that I wasn’t anything like you, that I was whole on my own and that I took great offense to the idea that I should follow in your footsteps in the search for the perfect man. Because, really, had it gotten you that far? You could have your seven husbands, your six failed marriages, your indiscreet affairs, your three types of cancer, each one more aggressive than the last. Not unlike the husbands, as it turned out. I would live life as a confirmed bachelor, happy with a life of intimate friendships and the occasional one or two-night stand. You laughed that off and commented on how I was born stubborn and that it wasn’t really any of my business what your hopes were for me, anyway. I was sitting outside beside a swimming pool, phone to my ear, smoking cigarettes and drinking white wine, and I knew without a doubt suddenly that this was it; the last time I would hear your voice. I told you I loved you despite all the damage and there was a brief silence. All that had never been said, all that needed to, lived between us in those few seconds. You said, “I love you too, Teddy”. We were silent for another few seconds and then said goodbye. The next time I saw you, of course, you weren’t really there. The funeral director was a friend of mine from high school, and he was as gracious and kind as anyone has ever been to me. He suggested I spend a few moments alone with you before everyone arrived to pay their respects and he closed the door silently as I stood, not exactly sad, but certainly lost, looking down at the body which had given me life, now lifeless. I didn’t say anything. You wouldn’t have heard me, anyway. The pastor you had never met referred to you as a virtuous woman and I cringed. After the service, your friends gathered around me, weeping and reaching out for comfort and I stood, stoic and suited, until the last guest left. At your house after the service, the family gathered in the kitchen with fried chicken and whiskey. I found myself in your “dressing room”, the guest room that had been converted to a closet filled with your clothes, a makeup table, your collection of first edition hardcover Danielle Steel novels, framed photographs, and the wigs you had worn when your hair fell out. I sat on the floor beside the chair where you always sit, where you had died, and smelled the sweater that rested on its arm. Your scent had changed during your illness, but there was something still there, however faint, that I knew instinctively as “mother”. The sweater hangs in our office now. Sometimes I wear it. I couldn’t bring myself to ask for the chair. On the morning I got married, I stepped out of the shower and, as I caught my eye in the mirror, I saw your face in my face. It was the first time since you had died three years earlier that I ever really felt your presence. I heard you telling me you were happy that I had found love, that of course I was complete before, but that wasn’t everything so much better now, and weren’t you right, after all? I laughed and played Diana Ross and The Supremes while I dressed and poured a glass of champagne, toasting the journey, the destination, all of it, and you. The ceremony itself was understated. My best friend drove from Columbus, Ohio to be our sole witness; Corey and I spoke traditional vows with little fanfare, and it was all over in less than thirty minutes and we were off to lunch. But we were married and while we had tried to play it down, there was no getting around the truth that everything had, in fact, changed. I did now belong to someone, and while I had never relied on certainty before, I knew I was finally, really safe. That safety is what let you back into my life, and when I came home, an altogether different and married man, the first thing I did was find that photograph. I had buried it in the same drawer where I kept all of your divorce and custody documents, the ones that stated in no uncertain terms that you were unfit to be my mother and that it wasn’t safe for me to be in your care. I pushed the papers aside and found the picture where I had left it, in a red frame with a torn-out calendar page from the day you died. There was no question when it came to where you would most want to be placed in my home, and I went to the kitchen. You are there now, just where I need you to be, framed and safe in a warm kitchen where music always plays and love is served, as it should be, at just the right temperature and right on time.

Thank you for shopping at Wingmans We appreciate your feedback! Date of Service: 9/20/21 Comments: It’s not every day that one life is changed in the express line at a grocery store. On Sunday, I staggered into the 7 items or less, filled with dread as I was over by two items (I don’t count individual rolls of toilet paper as separate items as they usually come in packs of 12 or more and that is considered one item. It feels a little nitpicky if you ask me) and I expected to be admonished by the cashier as it was a busy day for the store. Sundays are packed with those last minute shoppers of beer, soda, Tostitos and salsa; each shopper adorned in their ‘team’s’ jerseys. Bills, NY Giants, an occasional oddball Dolphins fan will make friendly banter about ass kicking and the like. I was feeling rather left out as I hate football and all it entails. I am a 51-year-old woman. I have three kids, mostly grown; at least physically. I have a marriage of 27 years, hence the toilet paper. He goes through a lot of toilet paper. I don’t find pleasure in the banal, group think of the stadium dwellers. No, I would rather read a book, listen to a podcast or take a walk. Another type of follower, but I digress. It was as I put my last item on the conveyor that I noticed the name tag. Conner I find the name rather, I don’t know; generic. But not the type of generic that will lead a nation, know what I mean? His blue eyes peered at me from underneath a copper fringe. They were nice eyes. He wore his mask over his nose, so I don’t think I could pick him out in a lineup. Covid times, Jesus Christ already! Anyway, he asked if I had found everything I needed okay. I was like “And THEN some!” my standard joke that shows my satisfaction at Wingman’s selection as well as an approachability that may be a little off-putting. So here is the thing; I CANNOT stand silence. Not even if it is a twenty-second monetary exchange for goods at a grocery store. I asked Conner “So, where do you go to school?” He told me and indicated he is a junior. Which naturally led me into the college search question; now that we assume that every Tom, Dick and Conner must be looking at spending their life paying off a useless degree. He kindly divulged that he is going to go into forensic sciences. My ears perked up. WE have something in common! I clung to this and ran with it, not dissimilar to the running back who snatches the ball out of midair, and runs to the goal, unhindered. “I wanted to be a forensic scientist or a detective when I was young. It was my dream. I did try the police department, but I couldn’t handle the stress. Why don’t they just let detectives go in as such? It is a completely different set of skills needed for detective work. It was very disheartening. I wound up just doing customer service and being a true crime junkie.” Conner looked up with those bright, hopeful blue eyes and said, “Well, it’s never too late.” I was gobsmacked. In all my life, I had never had something brought into focus so immediately. He was right. Conner was right. So this comment card is just to let you know that angels come in the most unexpected places. Thanks to your wonderful cashier, I have quit my job, left my husband, and enrolled in the forensic science program at a college in Albuquerque. Dorm living has been a hoot! Were my roommate and her family surprised when they met me! Anyway, thank you for hiring such a wise young man. Oh, and p.s. the reorganization of the store has been a real hassle. I don’t know where the heck to find the dish soap anymore! Why isn’t it in with the other cleaning products? Yours Truly, Barbara