"He Doesn't Like Me"

  

An indestructible bond
Woven together by laughter and tears
Revelations of doubt shared in the hushed pre-dawn hours
Private thoughts and hopes spilled across endless pages
Our friendship strong and true
 
Subtle changes unfolded
Before a single box was packed
Before a vow of faith and love was made
You grew distant and reserved
Still our friendship held strong and true
 
You battled against yourself
Pulling me awake with midnight calls of uncertainty
Our friendship frayed around the edges
The years of sisterhood withstood your demands
Yet our friendship held strong and true
 
Imperceptibly, you excluded me
Letters not answered, phone calls shortened
Visits while our children played ended abruptly
You needed to clean, and cook, and make things perfect
Our friendship weakened by his demands
 
You tucked into yourself
Tightened into a ball so tight I missed your despair
Your silence the only response to my concern
Even after Death ripped through your life
He withheld you from friendship strong and true
 

 

Copyright 2023 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

"A New Journal"

            My freshman year in high school, I participated in a peer counseling program. The extensive training took place in a local hotel. The students who volunteered for the program, along with the faculty members involved, underwent eight hour sessions in counseling and therapy techniques for an entire week. At the end of my training, I could work in our campus “Rap Room” where other students could come in for confidential counseling. This multifaceted instruction knitted the peer counselors into a tight group as we learned about ourselves and each other. I don’t know if the teachers and administrators realized the depth of the therapy sessions we received, but that week profoundly affected my life. My goal to go to Texas A&M to eventually try for the veterinarian program altered forever into a love of studying behavior.

            The peer counseling training impacted me in another way because during that week I met another student, a senior, who kept a journal. In the months that we set up our counseling program back on our campus, this other student shared her journals with me. Her provocative poetry and insightful musings amused me. I fell in love with the idea of recording my life, my feelings, and my interpretations—myself—into the pages of a spiral notebook. So back in 1972, I started my first journal. I wrote about everything and nothing. All of the disappointments of high school lay neatly recorded in these little unassuming spirals. All of my first attempts at poetry, often with explanations, reside within these pages. All of the self-doubts and insecurities of living alone, starting college, and falling in love live within these volumes. Somewhere along the line, I shifted from spiral notebooks to folders crammed with so much notebook paper that the brads barely punch through and fold back.

       

     I never hid my journals, and occasionally I’d read a piece to my parents or a friend. Usually, my most current journal sat upon my desk for easy access in case I wanted to scribble down a thought or vent an emotion. The first time David came down to meet my family, I had to work. Being at loose ends, David decided to read my journal. My mother walked in and found him stretched across the bed, and stood in shocked silence. No one in our family would ever invade the private space of another family member, so to find David perusing my journals seemed wrong to her. David told me, of course, of his faux pas as soon as I returned home. Although I wasn’t upset, I don’t believe he’s ever picked up my journal since that one day.

            Eventually, a friend witnessed me scribbling in one of my folders and asked about it. When I explained to her that I’d been writing since high school, she decided the folders and spirals needed replacements, and she bought me my first bound journal as a Thank You gift. I remember holding the small volume in my hands, flipping through the colorful pages with their decorated corners. My fingers itched to write!

            Last night, I started Volume 72 of my journal. Almost thirty-nine years (to the day) from when I composed my first entry. This volume wraps a giant marigold around the spine and over the front and back covers, exploding in bright orange and yellow. My pulse quickened as I put pen to virgin paper, and once I started writing I couldn’t stop. I didn’t want to stop. I never know what thoughts and feelings my journals will hold. The unpredictability of life assures that this newest addition to my collection will center me through my heartbreaks and celebrate with me in my joys.    

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Inspiration"

             Writing, most days, comes easily to me. I sit with pen and spiral notebook and jot ideas, or I face the almighty blank screen of my laptop and wait for my muse to guide my words. One thought may snag my attention, and I’ll obsess over the concept until I create something. Not every piece I produce meets my inner critic’s standards of “quality,” but I ignore that negatively nagging voice and push through until I have something on the page.    

            If I pen about a memory, then I become a medium who channels the past into the present. Recounting a recollection proves the easiest type of writing for me. I spent most of my years as I writing teacher modeling for my students the layers of personal narratives. I’d have my students stretch out on the floor and do a visualization activity where they’d revisit an experience. Classroom darkened to reduce visual input, relaxation music playing in the background, and my own voice barely above a whisper, I’d coach my students into their selected memories. I’d take them through all of the senses one-by-one, asking them to take note of specific images within their memory. When I’d let them open their eyes, they would scribble their remembrances as quickly as possible.   

“Get the skeleton of the event down on paper,” I’d preach. “We’ll go back later and add the other layers. I’ll give you the tools you need.”

And I’d teach them about simile, metaphor, personification and imagery. I’d model my own paper on the board or overhead (and later through my laptop and projector,) fleshing out my skeletal first draft until eventually I finished my narrative. Sometimes, I’d show my students how to take the prose narrative and convert it into a poem by lifting out those special words and phrases that brought life to the piece and utilizing them in a different way.

            Some days, writing becomes a laborious endeavor, like today. I flit from idea to idea so quickly that nothing makes it to the page. My brainstormed list bores me, and fatigue prevents me from tapping into my childhood. The current news either depresses me or angers me, and either way I can’t muster the momentum to tackle politics. (Perry will have to wait for another day.) Poetry takes even more energy and focus, so I know it’s a long shot that I’ll suddenly whip out a snazzy rhyme or thought provoking verse.

            After a million false starts, I decided to let my mind meander to find its own revelations, but stumbled upon no wonderful Inspiration. Instead, I typed in several possible titles, rejected a few beginnings, and finally decided I’d record the silence of my muse, for she hasn’t whispered a single word to me as I sit and write.

            Do you hear the silence?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Shopping"

          The plump, middle aged woman stood before the department store window display, subconsciously mirroring the pose of one of the mannequins. Her rounded belly and full hips fought against the constraints of her sweat pants. Her dark hair, cut in a bob, framed her pretty blue eyes. Restlessly, she tapped her left foot to the vocal-less rendition of “Rainy Days and Mondays” that piped through the mall’s sound system.

         A smaller, blonde version of herself nudged her elbow, “Will ya looka that outfit, Jessie! All black spandex and sequins!”

         Jessie turned to her younger sister, “Been studyin’ this outfit for the last five minutes, Marsha. Think I’d like to try it on. It’d be perfect for Kevin’s company Christmas party.”

         Marsha’s expression flitted quickly from shocked disbelief to amusement as she realized her sister’s deadpan delivery disguised her jest. “I do believe I’ll try on that red dress,” she joined the joke. “Yep. See how it’s slit up to here,” she gestured at her chunky thigh, “and it dips down to there,” her fingers tugged her oversized t-shirt to reveal her ample bosom. Her booming laugh resounded as she shouldered her large purple purse. “Wanna go in, or keep on lookin’?”

         Jessie caught their dowdy reflections in the glass. She hated shopping for clothing, which was why her wardrobe consisted of her husband’s castoff jogging pants and her son’s old t-shirts. However, she had to find something to wear to this special party. With purpose, she pulled up her rounded shoulders, tucked in her relaxed tummy muscles, and smoothed her hands through her hair. “I think I’m done with window shoppin’. Let’s try on some outfits!”

         With resolution, she strode into the department store, her sister a couple of steps behind her. Jessie skirted around the junior’s section and headed straight to the far right corner of the store. “You know what bothers me most,” she said over her shoulder to Marsha, “is that those mannequins stay skinny even when we move to the women’s wear. Seems like they should plump up a little.”

         “Guess it’s one size fits all when it comes to mannequins,” Marsha paused in front of a stylish row of outfits. Her eyes lit up when she spied both the red dress and the black spandex number in their sizes. “Wooo---eeee! Do you believe it? Those very same outfits in our sizes! A woman as rounded as me would be crazy to even think of trying on that red dress.”

            Her eyes locked with Jessie’s, her challenge acknowledged when her sister selected the black dress in the appropriate size. Before she knew it, her hands clutched the slinky red dress as she dashed behind her sister into the nearest dressing room.

            “Can I help you ladies?” a sales clerk blocked them momentarily. “I’d like to suggest you try on these outfits with slimmers.”

            “Slimmers?” Jessie paused.

            The clerk eyed each woman, guessed at their sizes, and intoned, “Wait here one moment, please.” She turned on her spiked heels and bee-lined it to the lingerie department. Before Jessie or Marsha could utter a syllable, she handed them each body shapers.

            “You expect me to fit into this?” Jessie held the undergarment in front of her form with incredulity.

            “Trust me, ladies,” the sales clerk beamed as she shooed them into the dressing room.

            Jessie quickly skimmed out of her sweat pants and t-shirt and dubiously eyed the one piece shaper. From the next stall, she heard Marsha grunt, groan, and giggle simultaneously. Feeling foolish, she began wriggling into the body shaper, feeling frustrated as she squished and squeezed her flesh into the tight casing. Before she lost her nerve, she slipped the black dress over her head. Without looking into the distorted stall mirror, she opened the door and stepped out see her reflection in the three-way mirror. Her mouth dropped open in delighted shock at the transformation.

            “Stand on your tiptoes,” the enthusiastic sales clerk suggested. “You’ll be wearing heels with a dress like this one. It’ll give you a better idea of how your legs will look.”

            Jessie held her hand against her chest, too breathless to say anything. Her cheeks pinked with delight, her lips spread in a genuine smile lighting up her face. At that moment, Marsha sashayed on tiptoes out of her own cubby, her slinky red dress clinging provocatively in all the right places.

            “Holy moly!” Jessie exclaimed when she caught sight of her sister.

            “Sweet Jesus!” Marsha exhaled as she smiled at Jessie.

            The clerk, grinning in genuine pleasure, asked, “Will you both be purchasing these dresses today?”

            “Honey, not only will we take the dresses,” Jessie answered enthusiastically, “But I want four or five of these body shaper thingies!”

            Marsha turned left and right before the mirror and whispered to her sister, “Can you breathe?”

            “Lordy, no. But if I’m gonna die, I’ll go out lookin’ pretty good!”

           

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"The Third Time"

        Some evenings, they sit together, the television set’s glow casting shadows over their faces. The dim light hiding the emptiness in their marriage. Peter sips his second rum and Coke of the night, appreciating the warmth that spreads through him, taking the icy edge from Gwen’s constant criticism. Slowly, his muscles relax into his favorite recliner, and the petty vexations of his work fade away. He glances at his newest wife and winces at the realization that he can’t remember why he married her. Third time’s a winner? He downs the last half of his drink and studies the empty glass, pondering the wisdom of another drink.

         In his youth, his lust caught him up and landed him in an unexpected marriage to a girl far inferior to him or his needs. His sense of duty toward Patty and their children lasted only as long as she idolized him. Once Patty pulled him from the pedestal, once she demanded that he treat her as an equal, once she began nagging him and expecting to have a say in his decisions, he stopped pretending he cared. He managed to have several affairs without his young wife suspecting a thing. He even propositioned her sister on several occasions, certain that his in-law would never tell his wife. After all, Patty had no choice but to tolerate him. She had no education and no skills. She was nothing without him.

Eventually, pretending that he cared became too much work. When Peter fell to his lowest point, his second wife entered the picture. Leslie’s desperation to capture and hold onto him became addictive. She praised his every word and deed; she oozed adoration from every pore. She loved the excitement of an affair:  secret meetings, weekends secluded in hotels, private dinners in out of the way restaurants. Unlike his stay-at-home wife, his mistress earned a living and showered him with expensive gifts. He’d slip off the Rolex every evening, tucking it safely into his car’s glove compartment, and replace it with the cheap Seiko from his fifth anniversary. His cockiness made him suggest to Patty a wonderful plan. He’d come home few times a week to see the kids, spend all holidays with both their families, and pay all of the bills. In exchange, she would look the other way on his absences the other nights. His wife should understand that his happiness outweighed her own needs.

Peter began cheating on his Leslie, his second wife, within the first year. The thrill of their affair, he realized too late, summarized his attraction to her. Since he’d allowed others to pressure him into this second marriage, he began searching for a way out. Leslie accommodated him much better than his first wife. She ignored his affairs as long as he paid off her charge cards each month. Her face lift added a temporary spice to their life, and her liposuction made her seem younger for a while. Their drinking increased as the years flowed by, and the lavish praise and fawning of his second wife ceased altogether. Her complaints and unhappiness aged her, made her ugly.

Peter rationalized his affairs by believing that he deserved someone better. He desired a woman who complimented his looks and personality, not a vampire who sucked away his youth. The dance of flirtation drew Peter into and out of liaisons with careless abandon. He enjoyed the fact that he escaped these relationships before the women demanded more from him than he was capable of giving. He disdained Leslie’s cloying nature, but stayed with her. Divorce cost too much, and he had no reason to disrupt his life for his casual affairs.

         Then Gwen entered his life, all glitz and glamor. The lifestyle she lived, because of her wealth, enticed him to break from Leslie. He knew he could absorb the cost of a second divorce, even losing his home, by moving in with Gwen. Although Gwen appeared confident to others, he sensed her fear of growing older alone. His razor sharp intuition culled out her insecurities. He played the role of adoring lover expertly and charmed Gwen and her tight circle of friends. Always a player, he instinctively knew just what to say and do to secure a spot in Gwen’s life. An expert at manipulation, he’d played the long suffering husband and father role. He painted himself into a financial corner, knowing Gwen’s generosity would guarantee him a place in her home. Their wedding, a private affair without the showmanship he craved, began his dissatisfaction with his third wife.

         Now, less than a year later, Peter craves escape again. The pretenses he used to gain Gwen’s love and trust are too difficult for him to maintain. Unlike his other wives, Gwen’s acid tongue and spitefulness worries him. Knowing his past, she keeps tight control over his movements and his money. He senses that she’s no longer charmed by his humor, no longer deceived by his blatant flattery, no longer fooled by his ploys or lies.

Suddenly, the desire for his third drink of the evening overrides his need to avoid Gwen’s caustic comments. He abandons the comfort of his chair, fills his tumbler with rum, topping the drink off with a dab of Coke. He feels her disapproving eyes spear his back, so he raises his drink in salute to her irritation.

  

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman           

"A Walk in the Woods"

 

The woman stood in the sunlight, swiping the beads of sweat that smarted her eyes to tears. Her tongue licked her parched lips. Her hands plucked at her t-shirt, pulling it away from her saturated skin. She puffed hot breath down her shirt front, but only succeeded in hastening the roll of perspiration down her cleavage.

           “You could strip down,” her husband teased from the open doorway as he yanked his own soaked t-shirt over his head. Swiftly, he unfastened his Cargo shorts and stepped clear of them as they pooled on the deck.

           The look she shot his way momentarily heated the air another degree or two, and then a smile broke across her face. “You’re right, of course,” she agreed as she hastily kicked her sandals aside. With an ease her husband admired, she freed herself from t-shirt and shorts. For a moment, she hesitated as her eyes held his in challenge. Then she stripped down to bare skin. She pivoted on the deck, raising her arms in supplication to the hot July sun. Closing her eyes, she whispered an incantation calling for the slightest breeze to tease across her heated skin and dry the moisture that slicked her figure.

           “I think I’ll take a walk in the woods,” she held out her hand to her husband. “Are you coming?”

        He took her hand and swiftly guided her into the cool canopy created by the trees. Once out of direct sunlight, he felt a subtle shift in temperature as shade and shadow played across his skin. A breeze as gentle as a sigh whispered to him, and he grinned crookedly at the cross expression that still played over his wife’s countenance. Bird song encircled them as they moved further down the path, and eventually he sensed the easing of her tension. His muscles relaxed, and he shortened his stride to match her more leisurely pace.

           In silence, they walked hand-in-hand. Carefully, they picked their way over the trail and eased out of the hard work they’d done all day. So many days, they rushed through obligations and responsibilities. Today, at this single moment, they set aside their toils and troubles, stripped away their stress, and took a simple walk in the woods.

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman