The Bell

Her consciousness bubbled up and up and up from the depths eventually, slowly, breaking free. Her body, especially her brain, had needed the time to heal. Now it was time to get back to living. She was back.

She was back? It was so dark. Was it nighttime? Where were the stars and the moon? She blinked and blinked. Nothing. She reached up with her hands to feel her eyes. Her knuckles hit something hard. She stopped. Her breathing became fast and shallow as her heart jumped and heaved in her chest.

Spreading out her fingers, she felt the wooden box's top, sides, and bottom. She kicked her feet, listening to the thuds with no echos. The blood that now furiously coursed through her veins pounded in her ears making her head hurt.  

Profusely sweating, she felt for the rope. It has to be tied to here somewhere.

***

Inside the church everyone was singing except for Robert. He was too devastated to sing. He wanted to punch the walls, kick the pews, and yell about his sorrow that ran through every muscle of his body filling his mouth with acid. And yet, here he was with his neighbors, head down, sitting quietly this Christmas morning.

God wasn't real and he sure as hell wasn't his savior anymore. The scene kept playing over and over in his mind making the choir's singing and pastor's words a garble of background noise. The wild pony kicking his beloved in the head. Rebecca dropping to the ground like a lifeless sack of flour. Robert running over to her as if in slow motion, his legs not moving fast enough. Finally grabbing her up in his arms speaking her name. Blood trickling from her ears, her eyelids fluttered then closed.

***

There it was. Her panic subsiding a bit, she felt the course rope tied to her right wrist. She knew at the other end of it, suspended above her plot, was a bell. Grabbing the rope with both of her hands, she pulled down. Rebecca wished she could hear it ringing. She let the rope back up then pulled down again. Again. Again. Again.

***

The alcoholic town doctor stood at Rebecca's bedside and facing Robert told him there was no hope. She was dead. No! No! No! He couldn't silent the screaming in his head. Seeking revenge, anything to make himself feel better, he grabbed his rifle. He charged out the door not hearing the loud slam as it violently closed behind him. Through the bedroom window, the doctor watched Robert speed forward to the corral. Not being able to handle one more death, he turned around. Taking the flask from his breast pocket, he took a long swig.

Robert looked at the pony over his rifle. The horse's big brown eyes looked back. He and Rebecca hadn't named her yet. They were waiting for her to be able to be ridden first. She was beautiful. They both fell in love her the second they saw her. If he killed her, he would be killing Rebecca. He lowered the rifle and leaning it against the fence post he cried. He crumbled to the ground, his back against the corral and his face in his arms. Grief blanketed him and he embraced it.

The doc, his emotions paralyzed by the hootch, turned back around to look out the window. He hadn't heard the sound of a gun shot as he expected so what was happening? He had trouble believing what his drunk eyes saw through the wavy glass so he walked out to the front porch.

The mare poked her head through the fence to snuffle Robert's neck. He jumped at the unexpected contact. Spooked, she pulled her head back in and snortled. Wiping his nose with the back of his hand, he stood up and faced her. She didn't move. He turned back around and waited. About a minute or two later, he heard her hoofs hitting the hard earth as she walked back to him. He felt her head slide next to his. He reached up slowly and felt her soft muzzle. She chortled so he ran his hand up her face to her forelock and back down. Moving slowly again and being as quiet as he could, he turned around. The mare remained close. Robert cried new tears as he hung to her neck.

***

Rebecca was sobbing but now it was getting harder to breath. Her arms were growing tired. She couldn't remember what got her there. Robert. My sweet strong Robert. She had to get back to him. Each time the horror of her reality rose inside of her she squelched it as best she could. Pull the rope. Ring the bell.

***

Robert stood along with the congregation. Hearing the Merry Christmas greetings around him was too much. Quickly, he made his way to the front door and out the church. What was that sound? He stopped to listen with earnestness. Congregants were starting to leave the church, too, and he raised his hand and voice telling them to stop and be quiet. He heard it again and hat in had took off racing toward the graveyard. Confused, they followed him anyway.

Someone yelled, "Grab a shovel!"

***

The rope was getting slippery from her bloodied hands. All of a sudden it was pulled from her grasp! Was she hallucinating? She felt around for it in the thick blackness and pulled on it again. There was a return tug on the rope. She cried with joy, relief, and impatience. She listened so hard wanting to hear the voices of those above her. She yelled, "I'm here! I'm alive!"

Shovel. Dirt. Shovel. Dirt. Muffled voices.

"Rebecca, honey. We're coming to get you. Don't you worry, girl. Don't give up. We're here. Robert's here." He kept wiping away the snot and tears, drying his hands on his pants so he could keep a grip on his shovel.

Light burned her eyes as the lid was removed from her coffin. Robert reached down and picked her up. Then she felt someone take her from his arms and gently lay her on the ground. She squinted against the sun until it was blocked by a shadow. Opening her eyes, she saw his face. "Robert."

For the Love of a Dog

I woke up at 2 o'clock this morning because I had to pee. Having done that, I got back into bed. As it goes at times, my mind starting obsessing, racing, non-stop. Now I was tossing and turning. 

Poppy, my Chihuahua, sleeps in bed with me. Because he likes to nestle under the covers and always be touching me, when I move, he moves. Half the time I end up at the edge of the bed with him up against me.

There I was, probably a half an hour into being unable to quiet my mind and get back to sleep, when I feel him giving me dog kisses on my back. I reached behind me and scratched his little neck just for a couple of seconds. He kissed me again. I scratch him again, and so forth. I finally turned over and gently moved him into my arms. Talking quietly to him, I told him how much I love him.

This little bundle, in the middle of the night when I know I am disturbing his sleep, gave me love. While I held and petted him, I talked about what was on my mind. It wasn't for a long time, just a few minutes. Feeling better, I quieted my mind using the tools that always work. All I have to do right now is sleep. I started to meditate and was soon asleep.

Don't ever underestimate the love of a dog. It is so simple and uncomplicated. There are no machinations. Just love.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

I don't know what it is about men who work behind the deli counter but another one flirted with me this past Friday at Detwiler's Farm Market. With the top of his hair bleached blond under his hairnet, he looked like a kid to me so I'm guessing I am old enough to be his mother. That's not what I want to talk about, though. What I want to talk about is anxiety.

Anxiety at the Deli Counter

One of the repercussions of the car accident that has hung around is anxiety. It makes my skin itch. It makes my heart race. It makes me sweat. I keep it under control as best I can but under certain circumstances it gets the best of me. Standing around with everyone else while waiting for my turn at the deli counter gives me anxiety. I have to gently push my way to the front to pick a number from the dispenser. I fumble around trying to rip off one ticket and end up with two. I don't know where to put the extra one; this dispenser is freestanding and it is mocking me. I lay the ticket on top of it knowing it will probably fall to the ground. Oh, well! Not my problem.

My number is eight. The number lit up on the deli counter display is four. Not too bad. I look around. It isn't that crowded. I find a place to park my cart. Not too far away but not a part of the herd. I'm also claustrophobic. The kid with the hair hands someone their order and they are done. He looks behind and then calls out, "Number five. Number five. NUMBER FIVE. Is anyone NUMBER FIVE? Number five. Number five?" The herd is looking at one another. No one is admitting to be number five. Did five give up and decide not to wait? Does it matter? No one is answering. Move on, please.

Then he calls out, "How about number eight? Is there a number eight?" What!? I'm number eight but I see people standing there waiting that are ahead of me. I look to my right and ask the woman next to me, "How did hego from five to eight?" She just smiles and shakes her head. One of the herd speaks up and offers, "I'm six..."

Great! Let's go people.

Another deli person looks at the number on the counter and asks,"Number five. Number five?" I look at the counter and see that blond hair never updated it. A man that has been silent this whole time says,"I was number five but I am being waited on already."

Oh My God

He decides to speak up now instead of a few minutes ago? I looked at him incredulously. The deli girl updates the number to five. "Six. Number six!" Six speaks up and we are ready move on to seven. The counter is updated again. 

While this is going on I am getting a headache. I feel adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream. The lady that had number seven puts in her order and walks back to her cart to the left of me. I turn to her and admit I have so much anxiety right now. She smiles and says, "Imagine having number seven. He went from five to eight! I wondered if I would be waited on at all or left standing here." 

Sure. It could be worse. It could always be worse.

It is finally my turn and it is the bleached blond guy. "Hello, Sweetie. What can I get you today?" My voice shakes when I tell him. I can hear it. What the hell. I have to get a grip. His overt flirting is embarrassing.

Earlier in the day I was at our company's holiday brunch. I was having a great time up until the point when it was announced that because of the growth we have experienced we were all expected to go up to the front of the room, take the microphone, and talk about ourselves. Bam! My heart jumped in my chest. Eventually it was my turn. I took the mic and spoke into it. I saw the crowd but no faces. I heard their reactions to my words as if I were in a tunnel. I was on autopilot with half of my brain sitting in the copilot's seat and the other half curled up under the bed hiding.

I used to get nervous but never like this. All that extrovert behavior that visited me after the accident packed up its shit leaving behind the one thing that didn't fit in its suitcase. 

 

 

.

The Question Mark

There is no normal. There is what is acceptable at present. You can compare it to what used to be acceptable or what you think should be acceptable.

There is no reality. There is what we are experiencing now. You can compare it to what you have experienced or what you think you should be experiencing.

All around you things are happening. Depending on what you choose to focus on is what you see.

Squirrel on utility pole, November 2016

Last week we had a cool spell. For us that means it was in the seventies. I opened the two windows in the house that work along with my front door. After two years of asking, my landlord finally installed a screen door. Having the fresh air circulate throughout the house was magnificent. The dog and cats lifted their noses to examine the new smells.

It was in the evening and I remembered I hadn't gone to check the mail. This is an old neighborhood so we all have mailboxes on posts in front of our houses. As I walked the length of the front yard, I noticed the arm had been swung in the "up" position signaling the mailman there was outgoing mail inside. When I stepped off the curb onto the street, flashing lights caught my eye. A couple of houses down, on the corner, was a silent police car with its lights on and motor running. As far as I could tell, all of the activity was taking place inside one of the houses. An uncomfortable feeling squeezed my stomach as I pulled open the little mailbox door. I have way too many memories of what can happen in a house that causes the police to silently be at your door.

Inside was a letter to a former occupant. It looked personal as opposed to a bill or professional correspondence. Both the return and mailing address were handwritten. Being the Type A personality that I am, since whoever left the letter hadn't, I brought the envelope inside so that I could write on it, "RTS. Not at this address."

As I walked back to the street, I was listening hard. No strange noises. Just quiet. Too quiet. When the police are around, my neighbors become smoke. The cop car was still there.

I put the letter in the mailbox and walked back in my house. Closing the screen door behind me, I turned to look back outside. How was I to determine the situation? Should I close my windows? Should I close my door? Was it time to move? I was thinking about these things when I spotted the squirrel. It scampered up the utility pole all the way to the top. In all of the years I have been consciously paying attention, I have never seen a squirrel do that.

I grabbed my phone and went outside to take the squirrel's picture. At first it looked around and then with quick jerky squirrel moves it turned to the right and then to the left. At some point in these few seconds, he (using "he" in a generic pronoun kind of way) formed a question mark with his tail as if asking me back, "I see you are questioning. What do you think you should do?"

His mission accomplished, he scooted back to the ground. A little weird-ed out but feeling much more at peace, I went back in the house. A change is on its way.