pretty, gifted girls
sweet and sexy things,
little Johnny from Price & 5th
ogles at their curves in
fitted jeans and we stand
as one, waiting for him to
pass us by.
“he’s nasty, with his old self.”
claudia is the first to mouth
her disgust with little Johnny.
I wave in his direction, shout
at him to get in front of us
and stay off our block.
he knows the crew from around-the-way
will slice him up good for
even blinking at us or
crowding our space.
word on the street is, he’s had his
tongue butchered for whistling
at donnicka five years ago.
“he better get on around that
corner if he knows what’s good for him.”
we form a line, kick our
kicks up on the stoop, and
throw our wishes up
to the sun.
Buddy’s presence left a foul taste in Starla’s mouth. Who was he to come around barking orders after being missing-in-action for four days? Being the middle child has its advantages, but being the woman middle child does not. Their father left the business to them, however, he listed Buddy as the primary overseer.
Buddy, the only one out of the three of them who was the most irresponsible — if he had his way, he’d relieve himself of his duties, but he felt the old man’s spirit would toss and turn in its grave if he did. Starla had enough of his arrogance and lack of dependability.
“Who does he think he is? Those mushrooms don’t look bad at all. Like I said, I think they give the place a bit of character. What do you think, Chloe?”
Chloe is too busy focusing on the mockingbird that flew above them at that moment and settled on the roof of the B & B. She listens to it as it mocks the other birds around them — its melody much more hypnotic.
“I like a bit of character. They look good now, Auntie Star, but what’ll we do when they start turning that ungodly brown and growing bigger than normal, then breaking off into mushy pieces?”
The kid had a point. Those mushrooms did wonders for the aesthetic appeal of the lawn now, but what about later?
What comes along with their aging?
“You know what, Chloe? You’ve got a point. We better have your daddy pull them up as soon as he comes by today. I’ll schedule an additional lawn treatment with Stephan next week — see if there’s anything we can do about them.”
“I didn’t mean to just get rid of them. I only want to know, what would we do then? Remember when that cancer started eating away at mommy’s lungs and daddy couldn’t care for her anymore? He brought someone to care for her directly to her. Those last few months were an improvement because someone who was trained cared enough to make them so. Can’t we find a way to treat them when they age?”
Starla finds herself at a loss for words. Her niece, this fifteen-year-old still struggling with grief, is sharing her wisdom. She knows not what to do but she knows what they shouldn’t do. Starla has an idea that’ll solve their Buddy-the-perfectionist problems.
The mockingbird sings its tune louder. Its beak trembling with every tone. They sit and they listen. They sit and they grow.
Together.
“Chloe, I do believe I’ve got an idea about those mushrooms but I won’t pursue it this weekend. Nope. We’ll start fresh on them Monday morning. You and me. How you feel about that?”
Chloe leans into the melody of the birdsong, taps her feet lightly on the wooden deck, and smiles at her aunt with inquiring eyes.
My mom called twice this past Saturday, to tell me she’s been dreaming of my father — bad dreams and I didn’t want specifics. I can’t carry the weight of her fears about his life in my veins. I don’t want to bleed his death — don’t want to aid in the byproduct of the potentially foreseen.
My parents have been divorced since I was twelve years old. I am forty. My mom has never dreamed about my dad before, at least, not in the way she’s dreaming of him now. What does it mean when a former spouse dreams about their ex dying more than once?
According to Dream Moods, a list of explanations regarding dying in one’s dreams or death and dying of another in your dreams includes the following:
In such dreams, the death is often represented by someone else. So if you dream that someone is dead, then it means that you want to repress that aspect of yourself that is represented by the dying person. Whatever that person represents has no part in your own life anymore.
The above statement is from the section, “Death means a part of you has died.” I understand this. This is a statement I can get behind to support, but how do I convince my mother of this?
Could these dreams be the signal she needs to alert her in feeling and knowing the pieces still lingering and holding on to their past are finally breaking off — finally dying? Could she be in the beginning stages of renewal so many years beyond their end date?
Writer, Molly Longman, takes the above thought-process a bit further. “Death in dreams actually means there’s some sort of change or ending happening in your life. To the subconscious mind, this represents the end of life ‘as you now know it.’” There are several milestones that have occurred and are on the verge of occurring in my mother’s life.
She overcame hard drug abuse, is cutting back on smoking cigarettes, has cut drinking liquor out of her recreational activities, and she will be fifty-nine in September. With her being so close to sixty years old, we often talk about how hard the road has been for her — for us and we reflect on those times, grateful to be where we are as mother and daughter.
I am not a dream expert, but I have often been told that our dreams have more to do with us than anyone else and I feel as though this could be the case in this instance, but how do I approach this angle with my mom? How do I tell her the deep soul-searching she should try is probably tapping away at her psyche and she’d be wise to get ready to swim?
“I had another dream about your dad. Is he all right? Have you been keeping up with him regularly?”
My responses have been generic, but reassuring. I don’t want to get into anything too deep with her because I want to respect my dad’s boundaries. I also don’t want to start stoking any fires that have no reason to burn.
“Perhaps life is just that . . . a dream and a fear. “— Joseph Conrad
There is a thin line between listening to comfort one parent and blindly assisting them with their clouded beliefs or feelings. It is not in my best interest to give my mom any ammunition to further fuel her “bad dreams.” I want to be able to make her understand that dreams aren’t always what they seem and are often pathways to many doors we should open ourselves.
“As far as I know, Mom, he’s alive and well. Everything is okay on his end. Everything is okay.” And currently, all is indeed well with my dad.
I believe that and even if I did not, it is not my place to state otherwise unless I am told I can. My mom has enough fear within her about these dreams — I wish to aid her in finding her path away from them. “Perhaps life is just that . . . a dream and a fear.”— Joseph Conrad
If you have been having dreams of someone else dying — a mutual friend, a close relative, or one of your children, I would suggest researching the possible why of it — look into what could be transforming within you first.
I would not suggest tossing those bad dreams on to someone else. I assure you, that person is probably carrying enough, they do not need your misguided fears too.
Wild Flower, or The Wild One as I like to call her, has been on Medium for four years and ever since she appeared, she has been making waves. A familiar face from my days as Editor of This Glorious Mess, I was incredibly happy to have her contribute to ACornered Gurl as well. She answered the call to “Sound Off” with an audio poem and it is truly incredible. I have been amazed by her growth and transformation into this beast of a writer and I hope I am around long enough to see her continue to evolve.
I won’t dote on her any longer . . . Here’s the piece in question, They Call Me Chaos.
They call me chaos,
a complete contradiction
to myself.
Pages of disarray, defined as a little too abstruse
obscured views, built on foundations
not quite ready to hold
my heavy.
Yes, I feel the weight
of the world beneath me.
I carry your loss
as much as my own.
My throne has not yet
come to me.
I am queen somewhere,
but this life and I
are not yet aligned
to build the bridges required
to save us all
from the inevitable
f a l l
we are facing.
Still, I will hold my arms wide, tie myself to the core of the problem.
I will stretch each limb to the rim
of your hurt, and hold it
for as long as required.
I will not let go
until I am wise enough
to find the solution.
Yes, they call me chaos,
they say my dreams are
unattainable.
I am a box of worms because the
can they locked me in
could not contain me.
Pandora showed me the way
and in my world,
we speak what we feel,
we use art and poetry
to shield the bigots away.
We hold hands and
embrace each other
through languages
that don’t divide us.
Come and find us,
everyone eats at this table
and not a single shot is fired.
I can’t breathe through your knee
is echoed into a verse that initiates
actual change, that stays,
long enough for the world
to see the wounds it has created.
Providing a bandage
big enough to wrap our hearts
around the start of
something different.
There you have it,
come along for the ride
or turn your stride
away from me.
I will be somewhere else,
writing it out
and taking on the world
as I see it.
They call me chaos
and for as long as I can remember
I have been searching for a way to say this is me and I am proud of it.
For what seemed like countless summers of my upbringing, I’d be shipped off to my family in New York, specifically, the Bronx, in order to find some semblance of relief from boredom and the murderous heat of Savannah, Georgia. I’d count the days toward the middle of May and flaunt my happiness to my friends as much as I could, however, I knew I’d miss them.
I knew I’d want to know what their days would entail without me.
In the summer of ’98, I had two crushes: Joel & Mackenzie. Joel was Puerto Rican & Black and Mackenzie was Jamaican but was raised in Queens for the bulk of her life. (Every other weekend, she’d visit her aunts and cousins in the Bronx.) I lusted over them— would do anything for the heat of their presence to sway my way, however, I was not out then, so Mackenzie could never know my true feelings.
I paraded around my Grandma’s neighborhood, tossing back coconut icies, running through fire hydrants, and staying out late in the park. Bronx heat was a bomber; a killer, if you will. We’d have blackouts that’d last for days and I would find myself yearning for the sunlight just to get a glimpse of Joel and his smile or Mackenzie and her long legs.
I used to think she walked on clouds and I wanted to know just how soft her steps were.
She’d call me “Tree” with a hint of her Jamaican accent slipping through and she’d ask me to turn the ropes when we played Double Dutch. And what a damn honor that was — what it did to and for my ego . . . *Mac wants me to turn again. Maybe she knows.* But I was just hella good at turning the ropes and going with her flow and although I wanted to flow with her in other ways, I settled for our daily games.
Joel came and went. He was fluid, like water. I couldn’t catch him and even if I could, my hands weren’t big enough to hold him. He’d slide through every single time. Enigmatic — that’s how I described him.
He would sit near me on the park swings and just talk. Just talk . . . He had a gold tooth and a fat herringbone chain and my Grandma used to yell from our fifth-floor window for me to “get my fast ass upstairs” and I always ran away from him. Authority was our downfall — I never truly felt his heat until I couldn’t have it.
Summer became my favorite season that year. It was the year I’d compare all others to. It was the year I searched for the heat I loved and the heat I lost. I often wonder how both of them are doing; if Mac still walks on clouds and if Joel is still hard to catch.
I wonder, sincerely wonder if they knew about my heat.
*Author’s Note: Names changed for privacy. Originally published in Prism & Pen on Medium.
Donation
Creative content straight from the mind of an innovator trying to shift the world with her writing.
Starla and Chloe finished up for the day in the shop and decided to sit out front near the walkway leading up to the B & B. The sun tilts its head just right over the building and a slight breeze nestles on the oak trees’ leaves. Chloe listens as her aunt rants and raves about her good-for-nothing brother Buddy, who finally decides to show up.
“Well, looky here! If it ain’t the horse’s taint and sullied hind-end, Buddy. What you know good? We were just talkin’ about you.”
“Good things, I hope.”
Buddy leans in to kiss his niece’s cheek and shoots a stern look toward his sister.
“When will I ever have good things to say about you? You bring the deposit slip?”
“I did. And I’m here to pick up the other deposits to drop off to the bank before me and Daria head north for the weekend.”
Daria is Buddy’s thin-mint girlfriend. She’s about as entertaining as wet cement drying and a night spent with food poisoning. He plans to marry her — when, they don’t know.
“Ugh. Daria. You still messin’ around with her?”
“Yes, I’m still messin’ around with her, Starla. I intend to marry her.”
“Yes, you keep sayin’ that, but when? It’s been four years already and no engagement.”
“When I’m good-in-hell-ready, Starla! I ain’t on your schedule and we’re not ready for marriage yet, but I will marry her!”
Starla, married and divorced twice, knew what would last and what had the potential to crash and burn. She decides to keep these thoughts to herself as she drifts away to her own past.
“Okay, Buddy. Okay . . . In your own time. Will you please try to bring the deposit slips back before you head north? I’d like to document them and reconcile the numbers before the weekend’s out.”
“Yeah, I’ll swing back by tomorrow morning. It’ll be early cuz we wanna beat this holiday traffic.”
Buddy notices the God-forsaken mushrooms have grown once again on the plush grass of their family’s B & B landscape. He is instantly annoyed by them.
“I thought Stephan and his men did something about those damn mushrooms the last time they were out here. Got this place lookin’ like some old hippie retreat. Have them do something about those mushrooms the next time they’re out here! Why hasn’t Davie Boy removed them?”
“Because Davie Boy has been busy doing the things you are supposed to do as well as his own share of work around here. You want something done about them, Buddy, you do it. Besides, I kinda like them, gives the place a little character.”
Buddy slings the deposit bag toward his sister, kisses his niece goodbye, and vanishes just as quickly as he appeared.
“That’s your uncle, Chloe. We can’t do anything but love him, but I’ll be honest, it’s hard sometimes.”
The wind sneaks over to their faces, lands on each one, and leaves its mark.
A Cornered Gurl 
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