Perfect Vision

….and then of course there are those memories which get locked away in a part of the mind where they can lie safely in captivity; quiet and well-behaved until one day they revolt and you realize they have been plotting their escape all along…

On the banks of the tree-lined Charles River, a woman is
running alone, her shoulder length luxurious dark hair pulled back tightly, mesh clothes clinging to her muscular body, chest heaving with each stride, slightly breathless, yet in total control. I watch her from a brown, wooden, memorial bench, about a quarter mile up the path from where she is heading. She hasn’t seen me yet. Off to the east, the setting sun is reflected in the giant glass windows of the towering Hancock building where ten years ago, this woman and I succeeded in building the area's first alternative health intensive care unit. Memories from that ICU's opening night gala come flooding into consciousness.

~ ~ ~

Away from the frenzy of the arrival of the sports figure and political guests, Sophia and I stood together looking out one of the draped, oversized windows of the grand ballroom. Even though it was dark, Sophia was admiring the beauty of the Charles River far below us. She had a childlike wonder about everything he examined. She marveled at the narrow jogging pathways, partly illuminated by a brilliant white full moon, a stark contrast of light and dark, like she and I. She was olive skinned with dark eyes and dark hair. I was blonde, fair skinned and hazel eyed. So different yet we complimented each other in so many ways. We took a moment to smile at one anothers reflections in preparation for the accolades that were about to be showered upon us.

And then it began. I turned away from the window to the aroma of bubbling champagne as a tuxedoed waiter handed me a toasting goblet. Sophia and I clinked our glasses several times as the champagne kept flowing. On the edge of intoxication, all of my senses became heightened and everything became so vivid. Even I looked vivid, having traded my usual black attire for a celebratory, red cocktail dress. Sophia was very complimentary, clearly surprised by my uncharacteristic fashion boldness. Sometime after dinner when the speakers of distinction had finished praising our accomplishment, Sophia took my arm and led me to a quiet room off the main reception area. I wanted to give you something to commemorate our work on this project. She did not need to give anything more. Working with her had done so much for me in those two years. Never had I worked so well on a project with such a prominent physician. Her intelligence, style, optimism and perseverance were so encouraging that I'd been transformed. I felt courageous and there was nothing she and I couldn't accomplish in partnership then. I wanted to give you something…. She handed me a small black velvet box. Inside was a stunning palladium bracelet with the inscription "Perfect Vision," the secret code name we created in the initial stages of our project. I had my jeweler make it especially for ... The light reflected as I dangled the piece of jewelry like a petite disco ball that slightly pestered my eye, coaxing a tear to slide down my cheek.

~ ~ ~
The Charles River is truly magical this evening. The sun rays flit from my shiny bracelet as I reach in my pocket for a tissue to dry my eyes. Realizing that I have lost sight of Sophia, I try to imagine her jogging trajectory. As I turn towards the back of the bench, she makes a loop and heads in my direction. My stomach flutters in anticipation of seeing her after all these years, but my mind keeps dragging me back into the past; a past I am not convinced I am yet brave enough to face.

~ ~ ~
As more tears flowed I wondered what I might do without her. We spent so much time together but our project was complete and we both had to move on. We were close but I wasn't sure if our relationship was real or ending or progressing into a true friendship. She stepped in nearer to me and gingerly pressed the back of her hand to my cheek, caressing the tears. For the first time I became acutely aware of how gorgeous she was: her flawless complexion and large almond brown eyes had me captivated as she glanced from my eyes to my lips. Somehow my admiration for this woman morphed into incredible passion. My senses dulled into dreamlike obscurity and my extremities felt light and tingly as she engaged my lips in a kiss that lasted until we were both left gently gasping for air. Before I could cover my mouth in disbelief, she took my hands and smiled warmly. I smiled back, enchanted and lost in this incredulous moment until my hearing returned in bionic proportion. The once muffled voices from the main room got loud and clear outside the door. Where are the ladies of honor... Has anyone seen Dr Farias?

~ ~ ~
I sit on the bench trying to slow my breathing. The woman who kissed me almost 10 years ago would be here in a moment. I had thoughts of her many times over the years though I hadn’t allowed myself to remember that kiss nor the feelings of exhilaration and confusion that followed.

~ ~ ~
I trembled and stuttered and ran from our embrace back into the party, clutching the bracelet. Everyone stared as I re-entered the ballroom. I knew I looked different. I couldn’t stand up straight and I startled easily when people approached. Did they know what I had just done? I managed to avoid Sophia for the rest of the evening by showering attention on my boyfriend Robert who until that point, had been a neglected escort.

Later that week, Sophia and I spoke. She pleaded with me to discuss our feelings but I could not bear to process any of it, especially the intense electricity I felt when her hand grasped my arm. She was bold, adventurous and willing to see where our kiss would lead. I was nervous and guilty and too afraid of the scorn of others to deal with what had been the most intense moment of my life. She was willing to risk everything to find out what was meant for us. I, on the other hand abruptly declared that Robert was the one. Sophia Farias transferred to a hospital in New York City shortly after my official engagement announcement.

~ ~ ~
My first recollection when I heard she was back in town was how much Sophia loved to workout on the Charles every evening. Now, I watch her run in my direction. My heart sags as she jogs past, then flutters when I hear her foot steps cease. I rise from the bench to meet her, with senses heightened once again but my body trembles, fearful of coming face to face with the memory of a kiss held imprissioned for nearly a decade. I am here because I desperately needed to see her but I had not planned for conversation. I cannot speak but she does.
Kate? Kate!
Her voice echoing my name is dreamy. An instinctive hug. I still feel the electricity in our embrace. When we separate she takes my hands like she did that night, and finds there is no wedding ring. I look away from her and down at the bracelet she had given me. He’s gone. We divorced.
Her thumb caresses the bracelet. I was going to call you when I got back, but I’ve been busy …unpacking things. She tries to look me in the eye.

When I can’t respond, she lets go and steps back assuming nothing has changed between us. Well, it was really great seeing you again.
She jogs slowly away. I can’t let her go again.
I leap after her. How about dinner?

As we jog side by side I inhale deeply, locking in a new memory. The sunset sky is pink, purple and indigo, separate colors until their darker shades blend at the horizon. Green and brown ducks glide effortlessly on the water following a path determined by nature. There is no breeze but the air is crisp and clear. The words on the shiny bracelet on my left wrist describe it all...Perfect Vision.

The Mother

At 3am one night I am awake, hot and alone. I crack the window to get some cool ocean air and I hear an odd thing. Young Children. Playing on the beach. Their laughter rolling in the sounds of the ocean's lap. Despite their happy sounds, I worry about them. So many things can go wrong in life when you least expect it; when you are carefree and playful and reckless. In the darkness, I cannot determine their precise location so I retire to bed, nursing my scars instead of suckling my offspring. In my dreams I tenderly care for these beach orphans whose parents have allowed them to play on a deserted beach in the middle of the night.
The warmth of the sun caressing my cheek awakens me in the morning. My blonde hair is welded into a messy state by the salty water from yesterday’s swim in the ocean. Out on the deck in my robe and slippers, I sip my coffee and slice a couple of extra bagels in case of visitors. The beach is wrapped in a blanket of silence for hours until the families begin swarming it with their umbrellas and coolers. I study the faces of the children amongst them searching for the ones I heard last night; the ones who look like they too haven't slept, mini descendants of myself with darkened hollow eyes, droopy mouths. I see a petite fair-haired toddler napping, swaddled in a princess blanket and I send out thoughts of love and motherly concern to her. Children can feel those things without words. I care but I do not smother.
I leave the window open each night to listen for my children. They know in their hearts they are always welcome here and I keep a secret drawer of snacks just for them. I would have been a good mother.

Golden Sands of Childhood

Created during the Ice Age, Cape Cod is our summer home. The flexed-arm shaped peninsula that juts out of the state of Massachusetts is a remnant of the retreat of the Lauren-tide Glacier. At the clenched hand of this arm the glacier left a wondrous beach area known as Race Point, a part of the Cape Cod National Seashore.

There are miles of golden sand and blue-green surf separated from the urban life of Provincetown by majestic sand dunes, with grass covered tresses and secret buried treasures. The golden sand is like an ancient chest filled with coins, brand new shiny ones and old, rusted ones; ink depleted tourist trap pens and brilliantly reflective sea glass; shells, rocks, and unique artisan jewelry from the local shops, items abandoned by beach goers that are ours to keep. "Finders keepers, losers weepers." Treasures. We are the pirates of Race Point, our Discovery Island.

Just after sunrise, while riding our bikes, we see two women making out in a clearing adjacent to the gray, cement winding path. They were spralled on a blanket, kissing and holding each other tightly. Like boyfriend and girlfriend. They stop when they see us. We ache to go home and question our mom about boyfriends and girlfriends…and girlfriends. But tell? No way! We'll never forget how vigorously she protested last year when the teacher suggested we read "Heather has Two Mommies."

Our first "health ed" class will surely unravel all the mysteries our parents are hesitant to explain. Or perhaps when cousin Andrew babysits on Saturday night, we will feign being tucked in bed yet sneak quietly down the stairs, spying on whoever comes over to snuggle with him on the leather sofa in the den, under the knitted red throw with the giant painted lighthouse. Sometimes it’s a girl and sometimes ...it’s a boy.

We ride very carefully on the ocean-side bike path. There are broken clam shells everywhere; purple and white swirled daggers planted there like land mines by rapacious seagulls. Seagulls like we draw in every art class when we are asked to conjure up a nature scene. Seagulls are so handsome on the outside, so integral to the beach milieu, with their pale orange beaks and whiter-than-white feathers; their vocalizations as synchronous to the beach as the cool refreshing air. But seagulls are like gangs. They descend upon unsuspecting clams lying in the water, whisking them away. The silly clams think they are lucky, chosen for some grand adventure only to be dropped on the hard cement, forced open by the impact, so the seagulls can pick at them and taunt them like bullies who steal lunch. We pick up the few shells that miraculously survive the seagulls assault unshattered, to take home and paint. We bring them to the water for rinsing and a partially eaten clam wobbles out! Did it move? Was it still living? One of our group grabs the mollusk and smashes it between two buckets to put it “out of its misery." With the largest bucket, we construct a sandcastle and bury the euthanized clam in a flimsy rounded pyramid sans immortality. Clams aren't as important as humans anyway. It is their destiny to be killed by predators. It’s nature's law.

The oldest woman in the world scares us more than toys "made in China". She wobbles down from her dune shack supported by a brown wooden cane, in her green printed head scarf and drab stretchy clothes to feed the seagulls stale breadcrumbs. As junior rangers, we are supposed to warn people about feeding the wild animals. Processed food is not good for them as the seagulls are born to hunt and kill clams, not gobble bread crumbs or french fries from the beat up Lobster Shack down the road. But we are not going to admonish her today because she smells. She lives in the dune shack that has no running water or electricity. In English class, we learned that those shacks had literary significance. Famous writers we will study in the future hibernated in those shacks to refine their craft; Eugene Oneill, Jack Kerouac, Norman Mailer. Maybe the old lady is really some sun-shriveled, wilted famous writer of horror stories.

We bury a letter addressed to "the people of China", which implores them to stop using lead in making toys. Our mom already confiscated our Polly Pocket Spa and some other Chinese made toys that weren't even on the danger list. We dig the hole deeper and deeper until the shortest of our group can stand in it without being seen. The note is carefully lain down and held in place by a pretty piece of green sea-glass before the hole is meticulously filled back up with the golden sand. We mark the spot with a black oval rock the size of a baseball. We surmise the note will take twelve months to descend enough, via the shifting plates within the earth's crust, to reach China below us. We shiver with excitement at the thought of coming back next summer to see if our note is answered; for it ends with the simple salutation of a pen-pal, Please write back. We have questions.

Not One of You

Over the past 5 years I have gained 40 pounds. 40 pounds in 5 years. It only amounts to an additional 8 pounds a year which isn’t even a pound a month. But somehow that gain of less than a pound a month took me from a size 10 to a size 16. Being a size 16 is significant. It makes you shop in specialty stores. Stores for large women. Stores where the smallest article of clothing is 14-16 (although fitting into a 14-16 there doesn’t mean you can run back to a regular store and fit into a 14. In these specialty stores, 14s somehow fit better).

My first venture into a specialty store occurred because I needed a pair of jeans. It felt good to pick up the smallest size they sold, the 14-16. I proudly headed to the counter, strutting past a woman carrying size 28 jeans. “Now SHE is big,” I thought to myself.
I was like a vacationer in this store, a transitory visitor who was there for the time being, but would never return. Surely my weight gain was only temporary. In fact, I thought I’d pick up a pair of shorts because I would start running again the next day. I felt better than the rest of these women as I was just over the edge into obesity. I was 14-16..not 28, 24 or even size 20. I caught a patron starring at me. Perhaps she thought I was purchasing the jeans for a much heavier friend or relative?

At the checkout, the plus size cashier was friendly and stylish. I smiled back but made little conversation. The saleswomen finished ringing in my jeans. She looked at me with her best retail smile as she offered, “You can save 20% on this purchase today if you sign up for our store credit card.” Her words echoed in my head…“our store credit card..credit card…”
This women clearly thought I would be shopping there again. Indignantly, I refused the offer and quickly signed the receipt. I grabbed my bag and rushed out of the store. I stormed past the stairs to the escalator in the mall. As I rode down to the ground level I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. The size 16 me. Carrying a shopping bag emblazoned with the name Lane Bryant in the LARGEST letters I had ever seen.

Once She Walked

She is standing in the front hallway
grinning at her image in the glass of the wood framed portrait
her white sleeveless blouse with blue patterned flowers
and the top of her white pleated skirt faintly visible
She is admiring her reflection and the portrait
which is of a beautiful woman
whose dark blue eyes and long wavy black hair
match the image of herself except for a white dot of scar tissue
that borders the young girl's upper lip

In the upstairs bedroom the father is dressed
taking care to look current
reminded of his friends' warnings
that preteen girls are often critical of their father’s clothes
He hesitates on the stairs
hoping she will approve of his outfit
each wooden step creaks as he steps
like the springs on his bed when his children jump on it
but slower

She sees him in pieces as he descends
first his large brown shoes with seams sloping towards the toes
slightly worn at each tip but polished to a shine
then his black pants, pleated and pressed as always
and his belt of hardened leather
then the green and black plaid shirt curtained by a woven hunter green sweater
He pauses on the last stair browsing her expression
and when she smiles he smiles in relief
He stands behind her patting her shoulders
father and daughter mirrored in the glass
superimposed over the watchful eyes of the portrait
He is momentarily struck by the girl’s likeness to her mother
The heaviness in their eyes, tragic beauty
until in his own image he notices a stray hair that has lifted from the others
and licks his hand to pat down the strand.
He twirls her arm in a spin as they waltz out the front door
neglecting to fasten the lock
beginning their weekly stroll to Ben and Jerry's
She skips and flits basking
in the myopic attention of her father
who tips his cap to the neighborhood women sitting on a porch
smiling at them with a flirtatious widower's grin
unprivy to their petty whispers about a father
who would let his decade old daughter
the girl with the cigarette scar on her lip
wear a sleeveless blouse sans jacket or sweater
on a such a chilly October night.

Intimations of Immortality Vegas Style

Flying over the Mojave desert, mountains rise up in jagged colors of rust and gray. The landscape is dry and dusty until there appears an oasis of palm trees and swimming pools amid an incongruence of modern high rises and ancient tributes. The Las Vegas strip. A mix of past and present imbued with the not-so-subtle notion that here might lie, in the homeland of Lady luck, the opportunity of dreams. Hospitality.

I begin my adventure standing in the shadow of a life-size pyramid and sphinx. I must stand too close to truly appreciate their grandeur because just behind me are six lanes of speeding, honking cars. Closing my eyes to block out the traffic, I inhale very deeply, each breath luring me back to the time of ancient Egypt. I imagine wearisome, shirtless workers dragging enormous slabs of concrete in the sweltering desert sun. Many of these are peons who will lose their lives in the construction of this pyramid, a testament to their pharaoh’s immortality. The queen herself, Cleopatra, sits protected from the scorching sun by minions hoisting palm leaves above her chair while she supervises the progress of her servants. My journey back in time is interrupted by a small, load-hauling truck driver goading pedestrians, "I get $20 for every one of you I hit." I saunter precariously away from the Luxor comparing the past to the future: will our modern day skyscrapers have the longevity of the pyramids? Will a woman such as Cleopatra ever become President of the United States? Progess.

Back in the present I feed a roll of quarters into a progressive slot machine that has a payout of 17 million dollars. Alas, Luck, not yet on my side, I traipse over to the fairytale castle of the Excalibur where a large statue of Merlin the magician stands in salute to the time of knights and chivalry. I imagine a princess confined by an ogre to a tower where a fire-breathing dragon frolics in the moat like a pit bull who attempts to cool himself in the backyard family pool. The princess paces, wringing her hands until she spies a knight, with shining armour, sword held high, charging through the heat of the aroused dragon's breath. Suddenly the beast's exhalation is displaced by the huff of a present day gentleman in knightly knickers forging through the hotel door with a rolling luggage cart. "Miss? Lady? Move! I need to get in." I press tightly to the wall as the man squeezes by as I ponder which produces better karma: allowing someone to rescue you or using your wits and prowess to rescue yourself? Feminism.

In preparing for my trip I studied the statistics of the various slot machine denominations. I chose dollar machines whose payback is 95%. My left brain innately calculates that in order to become a millionaire I might have to put $1,052,631 in this machine. Having only $480 left, my right brain figures it would be wiser to do a little more sightseeing to impress Lady Luck. I leave the Excalibur and head to Caesar’s Palace because it's on the same side of the street. If I wanted to cross to the other side the street I would have to walk half a mile to the pedestrian bridge because the 6 lane artery that severs the heart of Las Vegas cannot be safely traversed at ground level. When does taking risks become foolishness? Decisions.

Caesar’s Palace has all the glory of ancient Rome with statues and murals being the cue that one has entered the expansive empire. Cleopatra appears again but here the Egyptian queen’s sole relevance is that she was the buxom girlfriend of the great, Julius Caesar. I wander the grounds ignoring the budding blister on my toe from the stylish new flip flops I purchased for this trip until I arrive at the replica of the Coliseum, the ancient site of sporting events where life itself was at stake. Through a return to my hypnotic breathing I can feel the roar of the Roman populace as a 6 foot rotund soldier charges at another his bare feet stomping in the sand and the metal strips of his armored skirt clanging with his pace. He leaps into the air propelled by his blood curdling scream for he knows there is no winning score in this Death match. A commotion calls me back to the present. An NBA player and his entourage sweep by amid flash photography and pleas for autographs. Why are today's athletes revered as heroes when their lives are not really at stake? Values.

Thoughts of athletics give me sudden awareness of my own feelings of fatigue for in a four mile walk I have visited Egypt, Camelot and the Roman Empire. I contemplate a rest but my mind intimates that if I truly want to escape the daily grind of my 9-5 existence and live a life of luxury and philanthropy I will stop romanticizing the past and focus on making this gambling Mecca the beginning of a prosperous future. I head to New York, New York, the casino, hoping there will be less distraction in this resort because I have experienced the real New York City and the "Vegas NYC" is far less captivating. The skyscrapers are not as majestic. The Statue of Liberty does not rise out of a large harbor beckoning talented immigrants from across the world. In Vegas, she stands in a small lagoon flanked by a sign proclaiming "water for this exhibit is being recycled." In the reflection of the water, I notice the backs of some shabbily dressed, sun scorched, immigrant men who are lined up on the nearby sidewalk, desperately trying to get male tourists to take the "business cards" they are pitching. I pluck one of their colorful cards from the ground and learn that “A beautiful escort can be in your room in only 15 minutes." Glancing back to the workers I wonder what hardships they might have endured leaving home and loved ones to sneak across the border for the privilege of passing out “girly cards” in this land of opportunity? Capitalism.

By the end of my stay I have relinquished about $1500 to the slots, the one arm bandits in this city of showgirls and businessmen; this oasis of unnatural beauty where the glitzy lights of infamous resorts burn into my retina and dust from new construction dirties my shoes. I am sad my trip is over not because I relished in Las Vegas tourism but because my financial circumstances have not improved. At the airport, my plane happens to be delayed for "mechanical repairs” and for a moment my fear of flying produces nausea. Just when I feel that everything has gone wrong, I spy a bank of Wheel of Fortune machines loitering just past the ticket counter. Perhaps Lady Luck has found me after all. The Fates have delayed my departure and my concerns about the plane's instability disappear for about as long as it takes for my last $50 to be stolen by that flashing, theme-songed mechanical thief! Now totally out of cash, my stomach moans the question my consciousness is afraid to ask: What if something happens to my airplane in flight? Do I want to have spent my final hours on earth, alone in Las Vegas? Immortality.