I love old stuff.  Whether this is cars, houses, furniture or music-even tools.  As long as it’s dated, I love it.  These items tell their own story.  Though we might not know what that is, we can imagine.  Let’s take these kitchen utensils for instance. 

Photo Credit: Oksana at Etsy.com

You can tell by the wear on the handles that they were loved once.    They were probably a wedding gift, or maybe even a birthday gift.  I love how each piece shows different signs of wear than the one next to them.  Each chip in the paint, crack and splatter of rust can tell you many things about the person who once owned them.  First, the woman was gentle, clean and took good care of her belongings.  I can see that the peeler in the middle was used most often by the wear of paint, and the melon baller used the least. I can tell you this woman didn’t host many parties, and made do with what she had.   In today’s society, we overbuy, fail to appreciate and quickly throw away what we consider, clutter.   Machines do everything for us, contributing to this laziness.  Reaching further, I wonder…just how else this may be affecting people today.

I love going to thrift/antique shops to find old stuff, this way it can have a place again.  This past week Carlie and I went to see what they had. She is so much like me, in the fact that she tells a great story, writes a great poem, and can find one specific piece in the local Goodwill store and will quickly tell a story about it. As we walked through the isles hand in hand, she stopped. I didn’t notice right away as I was inspecting a dated piece of furniture.  I felt the tug of her hand soon after, and turned to find her inspecting two antique dolls.   I watched her as her eyes went back and forth from each one, her gentle hands carefully touching their vinyl and porcelain parts.  She whispered,” Mama these babies haven’t had much love.”  “They have all their parts.” “They do not look like your old babies at all” She was right, the dolls that my Great-Grandmothers had given me were in far worse condition than these.  One is missing both legs, one arm and its face has cracks all over it. The other two that were given to me, were in better shape though not perfect like these.  I asked Carlie, “Do you think that if we brought these babies home that you could love them more?” To which she replied, “Yes, but we need to keep them with your other babies, Mama.” “This way they have friends to tell their own stories with.”  

You can observe and understand many things about others by what they throw away.

You can see their stories, their needs, desires as well as their frustrations.  

We are never truly alone.

Take notice of the small things, they matter too.

This is the place where we love.

Where you are like comfort food,

Resting openly upon a small breast,

Like fingerprint hearts on a dusty Pontiac.

This is the place the fire is censored.

Where the only cries are that of your voice,

That comes through in reverse,

On an old mixed tape.

In the blackness of my winter,

I am hunger less and without answer.

Will you have a match?

When your light sputters and dies.

This burden you carry like an ant in June.

Tonight, I turn back the clock,

I am without reaction and wings.

The hands move, like swings in an empty playground.

Where we trip on the road,

And get up to brush the spiders off.

This is where we create love,

Bodies pass like masses of air,

Creating a storm that runs through our veins.

Leaving us with stillness,

In search of the sun.  

Today I lost another dear friend. Two, now, within the past 9 months. Can you guess what I lost with this here poem??

I was laying in bed, one night last spring (after a hard night of playing with kids, cooking, cleaning-and all the other things us moms do) and out the blue I felt remarkably similar to the little old woman who lived in a shoe. So, I thought I would have some fun with it. I mean no offense to anyone by this post. This poem was written last May.

There was a little old woman, who lived in the projects.

She held an infant, and paternity the father objected.

She appeared on Maury, and the answers were read.

It was finally established, he WAS the dad.

© 2012

It’s now just a profile,

In between the dog-eared pages of an old book.

The same one you browsed through many times before.

An obsession of,

Simple dated pictures-in color.

A paper dolls reflection.

Though, I am still naked and dimensionless in your mind.

You would explore my body with one hand.

The art of silence and curve of my hips inspired you.

Your fingers moving carefully-

Amongst my paper thin parts.

You had emulated the perfect outline,

Forgiving skin.

Thick hair.

Dark wet lips.

Manufactured only for your pleasure.   

Scantily dressing me in skimpy pink dresses,

The color of vomit and immaturity.

Oh, how I loathed that color.

You knew this-

But still…

You cursed me and spit-

When I lost my temper and,

Ripped off the ugly pink dress you purchased.

A thousand dollar gown,

On a ten cent body.

I will never truly be your Betsy McCall.

And you will never be my Dr. Kildare.

We were merely playmates,

And I…

I am only just paper.

Recyclable, replaceable and

Unforgettable.

We were like condensed soup.

No liquid to make our time together consistent,

Let alone feed our hunger.

We were like crabgrass,

Spurns that slowly eat into the bottom of a foot.

No patches to cover up the bloods slow pouring tears.

To clean up the mess of shit that’s been left behind.

We were irrational and impulsive,

Ignorant of the seasons which stood against us.

They knew we-

Were not.

We were our grandmother’s loose buttons,

Just carelessly placed in a baby pink Sadler sugar bowl.

Sinking down among granules.

I lift my head; I can taste bits of sweetness on my tongue as it dissolves,

And fades away.

Never there.

Closing my eyes,

I feel your lips frame around mine.

Tight like a zipper.

Never again.

I long to face the storm’s currents.

My mouth puckered up slowly,

Blowing through that flimsy yellow wand.

As bubbles form, then snap against my nose.

Under pressure, and cold.

The seasons against them.

Peter, do you recall that first glance?

It was nothing much of fancy,

A paltry church that at one time housed a sandwich shop.

Sitting neatly between rows of turn of the century houses.

You and I on the edge of holding hands,

And exchanging awkward giggles instead of dialogue.

In between rinsing brushes,

And caulking cracks in the window sill.

Peter, does the taste of bitter lemonade evoke

The time in which your thirst for me became sound

We paid no mind to those heat advisories.

Or the absence of sugar within our mouth,

As ice cubes clicked loudly against our teeth.

Cassette singles and letters each week,

Over mundane things we thought to consider.

I think of hiding the phone bills from our parents,

And smile.

I cannot find you anymore,

Except in my head, Peter.

They plucked that church down and swapped it with a parking lot.

I long to sit on its back steps one more time with you.

To feel the sweat fall from your palm,

And pore over your Andrew McCarthy blue eyes.

Schedules and abortions took you,

Along with that sandwich shop church.

The timetables were wretched and unstable.

There was nothing Del-Amitri or Bon Jovi could do for us.

Peter.

My girls with their blonde tresses and summer bussed freckles.

Pause hungrily for the procession of screaming fire trucks and,

Inexplicable clowns throwing candy and miles of uninspiring advertisements.

Their immature hands softly grasp a tiny miniature flag.

As their bare feet swing indolently back in forth.

We wait,

In this sticky July sun.

Like broken dolls on a shelf that nobody wants to buy.

Candy is chucked,

Then lands like small stones on the filthy curb around us.

I observe,

Little petite people run.

Their chubby little fingers fight for that satisfying morsel.

As if this was their last meal.

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

I remind my girls to share.

As people rise for the caparisoned Veterans who traipse proudly by.

The bagpipe clarifies the account through song,

To all willing to pin their ears back and listen.

For a moment.

Just listen,

To the true description of love, war and loss.

Not candy in the street.

Or slapstick comedians in cars.

But freedom, values and family tradition.

Those memories that were neatly framed and handed down to us,

                                   Old sepia colored photographs,

That rest on a bedroom dresser.

People we never knew physically.

Only their story.

Our story.

Sometimes, life can just be blase`. It is these times when we need to be mindful and make use of the moment. I often find myself snapping away images of life at its finest. Just a little something that I can look back on when I am no longer making snacks,doing laundry, helping with homework and “reminding my kids to clean their ears and brush their teeth”. A moment I cannot bare to think about. Being alone. I have found myself capturing pictures of signs lately simply because I feel they tend to get ignored. These signs alone allow me to remember to pay close attention to those augury’s within my heart and mind.  Here is one image I captured last May after dropping my kids off at school. It was horribly foggy and hard to see that morning. I felt it was apt because I was just beginning to recover from a failed relationship. 

Life molds us and allows us to be more efficient people. Appreciate those times which are trying because they too….have a purpose.