I’d have to get used to it, so I’d take a little breath and squeeze it out. It finally stopped clattering as it fell off my lips. It modulated into the rest of the sentence. It didn’t have to be capitalized. It’s just a word, after all. Just another bay filling up along the rocky coastline of my life.

What a relief.

Suddenly everyone was doing it. All those nice stable couples I knew where splattering all over the windshield of happily-ever-after-ness: a midlife no-rest stop.

Stop saying we, start saying me. I’m owning my life once again, or is it the first time? Who remembers. Make some decisions: who do I consult? Will I ever sleep with a man again? Who needs them anyway?

Geez it feels great. I should have gotten out years ago.

I’m so tired of figuring out all these little details. How can I make decisions that will affect the rest of my life and my daughter’s life when I’m so off-balance? When I don’t know whether to love or hate? When I don’t even know what this word means. D I V O R C E. What am I? Some country western singer with big hair?

Yeah, who kicked my dog

I don’t have a dog

Right, I’m busy taking care of myself

And my kid.

And I don’t have to take care of a so-called grown man.

God I have great friends. This is a great town. I’m so comfortable here. And my shoulders feel like I’ve just put down my trenching tool. I have energy: myself; my anger; my stereo, silence; blood running in my veins.

Looking back on that banquet of opportunity and permission—my undergraduate years—I would occasionally walk down the steps of the intercampus bus and enter the inglorious West Bank complex—a sea of blue plastic chairs—thinking “if I got married and pregnant I wouldn’t have to do this.” As if that would save me from that rewrite or research. As if that would save me from working hard without knowing if I was good enough, or any other kind of enough. Nice thing about the Minnesota skies: once I left the protective tunnel, the frozen air would slash such nonsense right out of my lungs. Once again I was a strange little coed working far too hard to get too little done—familiar frustrations of method.

So today, when “run away” flashes though my mind, it’s not just fear of the creative, it’s not just the special vulnerability of having to create art and knowing it just might be shit. No, I’ve always hoped someone would save me from the moment, the task, the possibility of foolishness, uselessness or failure. Let’s be specific—some man. I hoped he’d take the mostly benevolent reigns from my Father, tell me what to do, believe in my gifts, and push me in the right direction. Yet I’ve found over and over that I don’t much like taking that direction when it’s actually offered. I didn’t even think to listen to my Father. I’ve regretted listening to the other men long and hard more than once.

I have definite ideas about most things—just not about that simple-sounding matter of what I want. The ideas are in there, somewhere, in an unlabeled file, floating through my capillaries and cells, bouncing against the edges of my heart but never landing squarely in the light. My male advisors have had their own agendas or imaginations too limited. Maybe it boils down to the inability to really understand the other.

I can start to chuckle at “run away.” It’s a reflex as involuntary as a sneeze and like a sneeze, it’s just an interruption in the moment. But I would relish someone with some good ideas, occasionally.

You’ve been standing in this rich sculpture garden for years. Ruth–what do you have you to say for yourself? You’re just now noticing? Just getting the idea? Well of course, Sister, daughter, Mother, come along then. I don’t know what we’ve been waiting for but now is always the right time.

Yes I am magnificent! We are. It’s the sky we carry, shining through her rain drops, sunbeams and petals. It’s the wind shaking loose the lessons of the universe. It’s the life we birth out of our centers and the food we create in our breasts. It’s how we make the planet sing, and write it down, tuck it in, and begin again in the morning.

At first I didn’t really notice it creeping up on me. Then I started to run across it more often as I edged towards 50. That’s when I finally had to admit that I really didn’t know where I was going, anymore. I had to wonder if I ever did? But I seem to remember “knowing” so clearly at one time, long ago.

And you, Mom? You knew that loneliness at such an early age. But you’ve never complained about it, not when Grandma was sick, not when you were nursing Dad, or after he died, or when your friends started to move away to go live with their children. Even now you won’t let the word take hold in the room. You smash it away like a tennis pro. “I don’t have to be lonely.” For you, that’s a testament to your mind, your will, your control over your world. It’s an article of faith. And why should you let it in? There’s nothing to be gained by it now.

Mom, I thought you’d always be here for me. That’s silly I know. Grandma died, Dad died, I knew you’d have your time. I was afraid you’d take me over if I let you in. You were so much fiercer than I. I had to be different, modern, I wanted justice, reason, but I learned from you the hard way—through sarcasm and anger. When I wanted to be free of harsh judgment I became a judge, a critic. I had to stay away from you and the rest of my family who knew too much, too old, too scary about another world—a world without choices.

But now I hear you, I want to hear you. You have left your marks on me, good and bad. I’m already caught.

All my assumptions broke into pieces:
sharp; slithery; and none-too-shiny.
Portland spoke through my ticklish in-step.
She pressed into the soles of my feet with
rose-and-tumble acceptance.
I skirted puddles known and unknown.
Restless possiblity swayed along my sides.
She steadied my stride—“It’s ok.”

Who knew that asphalt could be a tender touch,
that this patient, old-friend town of mine
would roll out padding and take me easy,
while the stuffing in my head blew ‘round.

I don’t know exactly why I bit her ankle. I hate ladies—I hate this lady: hate; hate; hate her. But I love having her ankle in my mouth. I’m so used to having this ankle in my mouth. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t bite it anymore. Would life be as sweet? Would I have all those fantasies again about ankles?
Would I feel lonely? Would I long to have my mouth fill with her blood?

Do I even like blood? I don’t know–I’m a dog. I’m bred to hang on, so I do.

She was nice to me, once. She fed me, scratched my ear, but then I ran away. When I came back she said that she was “really quite allergic.” She felt better without me. But that’s not gonna work with me. NOBODY walks away from me. I’ll bite. That’s all there is to it. I’ll show her.

She’s wondering how she can get rid of me. But she can’t. She can’t cut off her foot. That’s not really a solution. I don’t think she’ll go for the old silver bullet. I mean she could wind up worse off than me. She thinks I’ll get tired and fall off, or maybe I’ll get hungry, or distracted.

I mean, what if we pass a really good Bar B Que? Oooo that smell…that smell might get me.

Oh look, a ball–a kid with a ball. I could go for a ball.

(catches himself almost distracted enough to let go) She is so frustrated; trapped by a dog this way. She really cannot believe this is happening to her. She’s busy. I know ‘cause she keep saying that to me after she stops screaming.

And she’s bleeding. Her strength is bleeding away. Yeah, right in my mouth.

She screams out ”Won’t someone please shoot this dog? Please, if I circle back around the block one more time, will you please have your gun ready and try to shoot the dog? Shoot the damn dog and don’t shoot me? Please.”

But she is panting so hard, nobody understands her. Just like a dog.

I try to sleep and find my legs wound and ready to spring. “Release” I tell them. One reminder doesn’t work anymore. Again and again I coax them to let go their useless grip, bit by bit. Since when do I collect anxiety in my thighs, my knees, my buttocks and calves?

I exhale aching sadness from the large muscular triangle of my upper back, both a storehouse and a fortress. My face contorts as if to cry, but the pain is too old and dry to make tears. My eye sockets fill with sand. My arms hang heavy at my sides.

Adrenaline has a harder grip as well. Caught on the edge of the meadow, my chest pounds, arms rattle against my rib cage.

“Still– be still” I repeat.

But long after the explanation, the precaution, the response, someone shakes me by the sternum and pounds me from the inside out.

I hear the stereo send blue ragtime piano keys to blunt the pounding in my temples and unwind my forehead. When the theme repeats it strokes my shoulders and reminds me:

“Exhale.”

Maybe it’s living alone, or feeling more vulnerable for any of the many reasons of this time in life. Maybe I just notice more, as I patrol against the wasted effort and the worthless stress. Remember when I used to cherish the illusion that stressful jolts and muscular efforts were exciting and powerful? They made me feel effective and alive. Now the throbbing in my chest, the knots in my stomach and shoulders, the pulse in my arms just make me feel old–older than any wrinkle or hotflash.

My skin and muscles miss a warm hand that would unlock them at the end of the day. Surely my nights are poorer without a body larger and warmer than mine to wrap around me as I sleep. I don’t yet crave love, but I do crave touch.

She’ll have all these feelings–like she’ll wish she had an email, or that he’d be next to her when she rolled over in the morning. She’ll worry about him, or she’ll get all lovey. So now I’m here—she can say “oh, that’s Tom. That’s him. He doesn’t always think to email” or “he had to leave early this morning.”

Talk about warm fuzzies—that’s what I get all the time. That’s the whole thing on my side. She seems to feel better and then she just goes about her business. Me? Well I guess I go about mine, too. I just wait until she might need me the next time.

What about when she’s done with me? Will I be sad? lonely? resentful? Naw. It’s not like that, at all. Don’t get me wrong—I’m no martyr. I’ll just fade away, maybe not even a memory. Just a name.

You know, you hear people fuss about “what’s in a name. A rose by any other name would smell as sweet” and all that kind of stuff. Yeah, but what if there was no rose, no flower, no girl named Rose, no nothing? Just an R and an O and then an S and an E. What’s that? Just a name. Like T O M

It’s sorta like if a tree falls in the forest and your name comes thundering out of the ground, shaking the birds and the worms and the little critters in the soil. Was it there a minute before? Prob’ly not. When did it get there—when the tree fell or in my case, when she felt a little winsome.

I’m just here as long as she thinks “That’s just Tom.” Then she’s happy to have me there—her sweet little figment. Whatever. That’s cool.

Bones long for earth, floors,
mattresses, to hold them up.
They lay heavy with morning
Should-for-me brain scrubs them with coffee
while sodden mind craves newsprint rebellion.

Fantasy swats at comforts ebb and flow.
I’ve done ok haven’t I? Content then.
All spice? or all plain? Fear? Or folly?
I chalk up conservative choices,
and what did I conserve? May as well dance wildly.

I’ve found my fancy for plain.
Self-knowledge? acceptance? or smallness?
That “other hand” stirs so many colors it can’t remember what to paint.
Splashing pumpkin orange perfection
All spice.

“Why do you sit at home, writing this shit? Why aren’t you going to street fairs or raising dahlias or riding a mountain bike to the top of the world, around the lake and home again? That’s fun. This? This is nothing. You know, you never did learn French.”

True, we all need a push sometimes, but not doubt, thank you. Most times, I’m comfortable here at home, with and without my friends. I do whatever seems to be most important to me, even the laundry. That’s pathetic—but I’m getting used to it.

You see, I’m no longer young enough to try everything, but I’m old enough to try anything. I’m probably allergic to knitting, mysteries, gardening and most organized fun. I’m too old and too young for some things anymore: too old to pretend I like those things I really don’t; too young to stop trying new things, even if they might not work for me.

It’s a devilment of opposites. I long for structure and I love spontaneity. I’ve no need to be boxed in, but I build boxes faster than I know what to do with them. Anything and nothing goes—me, them, it, elsewhere and likewise. It’s art versus laundry—sure that’s an old and easy battle. But now it’s also art in laundry, and hell, just laundry. It’s my joy, my fantasy, my passion. And when the worm unwinds, it’s my loneliness.

The fretful details—the small steps that build all the Romes—send me running, fearful of futility, threatened by brittleness and loneliness. The details might want hours, days even. They might seize control and swallow up all my time and creative bandwidth. “Tidy up, pay the bills, read the mail.”

Some do these things well, with graceful routines that leave time for brandy and laughter. Some avoid them altogether. I desire both and do neither. When I finally turn to the ledger and account them their due, that’s when I notice false, brittle orderliness. Then that corner slips away to avalanche.

Of course it’s all perspective. The very grandest matters are just a series of small tasks that take attention, routine, method. Great thoughts and dreams require accounting and attention to detail. But when this starts to feel like a cog-in-the-works process, I sigh out precursor-despair. Tasks may be delicious, with their well-crossed lists. They may offer a place to hide. But whether I’ve embraced them as a hiding place or as tasks well-done, the insularity of small matters whimpers with interstitial
loneliness. “Can’t he kiss away the fearsome details?” Instead, the powder cloud swirls around me and I’m lost in it.

Someday they’ll find me out, those people who never knew to wonder, but suddenly do because they saw the feature expose. They had been busy grilling wienies and tossing softballs, riding their mountain bikes and digging their dahlias. They kayaked, spoke French and made love—or thought they did. They sang “Hallelujah” and crocheted potholders, never giving me a thought, I know. But now, they’re a little curious.

“Who does that?” they wonder, in that distract-able moment of our collective ADD. They didn’t understand why I sat at home, quietly minding my own business or why I looked wildly for my own business, again and again, in the comfort and newness of my middle-ages. They didn’t need to ponder why I had dressers with someone else’s crap still in them.

Who will reveal me? The hungry writer, hunting down one of those delicious stories of the weird—I mean everyman—crawling brilliantly through the wormhole of obscurity? Or is it the archeologist coming to rescue me from the avalanche of loneliness in small matters.