"Tone of Voice"

 I’m okay, fine   
she whispers without eye contact   
I’ve got it handled   
Don’t worry   
He misses the hollowness of her words   
overlooks her subtle cues—   
her Woman Speak   
She tucks her feet onto the couch,   
pulls herself into a tight ball under a red throw   
stares at the television without seeing   
sighing deeply    
Oblivious, he flips the channel     
to his station   
assuming—   
all’s right   
content to listen to her words   
instead of her tone of voice   
Her annoyance and sadness battle across her features   
surreptitiously, she wipes her silent tears   
waits for him to notice her heaviness   
His attention rivets on the game   
its motion mesmerizes him   
takes him away and isolates her   
She grabs hold of anger over sorrow   
indignation throws her off the couch   
propels her into their bedroom   
fuels the door slam   
He sits with bewilderment   
lost     
Cautiously, he approaches the closed door   
tentatively tapping   
Can I do something?   
No. I’m okay, fine     
I’ve got it handled   
Don’t worry   
He opens the door anyway   
pulls her into his arms   
In tenderness, he wipes the tears from her face   
We’ll handle it   
he soothes and reassures with understanding   

David Chapman-artist

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"First Impressions"

David, my husband, didn’t make a good first impression on my parents. As a matter of fact, he dressed so shabbily the first time he came over to their home in League City that I almost didn’t let him into the house.

His shoulder length light brown hair, streaked with blonde highlights from exposure to the summer sun, formed a tangled and windswept halo around his head. His t-shirt, yellowed with age, had no arms and had a chewed collar. I wondered if David had chewed the mangled fabric himself, or if one of his Westies had mistaken the shirt for a dead animal and mauled it.

I almost didn’t want to check out the rest of David’s attire, but my eyes shifted downward on their own accord. His shirt perfectly matched the condition of the bleached cut-offs he wore. Below the ragged hems of his shorts hung frayed front pockets. The back of his cut-offs had no pockets at all, and I fleetingly wondered where he kept his wallet and keys. However, a look at his hands answered that question. He carried a pair of relatively new Converse high tops in his hands, the wallet and keys stuffed inside. In horror, I looked at his bare feet.
 

As my mind wrapped itself around the image David would present to my parents, I heard my mother come up behind me and say, “Well, Lizzy, let him in!”

Over the years, David took quite a bit of teasing about his appearance on that first meeting with my parents. Being gracious and loving people, they set aside their misgivings and looked beyond the rags to find the richness of David’s character.


To this day, David always manages to find his favorite black and orange flower print shirt no matter how deeply I bury it in the back of his closet (I’m thankful he’s up-graded from the tattered white t-shirt). I do manage to keep him in respectable shorts most of the time, but I suspect he’s just humoring me. Although David does wear shoes now, he kicks them off as soon as he crosses the threshold!



David at 58! September 26, 2015

Copyright 2005 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

David didn't change his "look" for the first few years of marriage!

 

 

This is the way I think David would like to dress every day! Oh well . . .

I'll admit, I like garb, too!

“Christmas Lights”

 

            “Ooooh, sparkly!” becomes my obsessive observation every holiday season. As we drive through neighborhoods or around business decked with lights, my optimistic nature finds solace in the early nightfall because the world twinkles and glows. Inside our house, rings of lights loop around our tree, and I’ve placed candles in every room and merrily enjoy their dancing glow each evening.

            The exterior of our house, though, remains darkened. Every year, I eagerly await my husband’s promise to adorn the front bushes with lights. That’s all I ask for, a few strands thrown carelessly over the bushes, and I’d rejoice. I know, I know—if I really wanted lights out front, I’d simply do it myself. Except . . . it’s one of those few things that I ask of my husband that I feel goes “beyond” the norm. One of those silly “women” demands that almost every other man in our acquaintance does effortlessly for their wives. Some Christmases, I’ve pulled the boxes filled with lights out of storage and left them in a prominent spot in the living room in anticipation of the possibility that David will suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to decorate outside. If that doesn’t’ happen, I begin my verbal nudging (aka nagging). However, my wishes for decorations outside often go unmet. Some holidays, I actually put the boxes of lights away after a couple of weeks, defeated.

            Currently, the light bins dominate the living room again. Last year, I purchased new lights to add to the collection. They never left their boxes, though. My confidence holds strong that lights will go up this year because my husband’s taken three days off this week. However, just in case, I did post this on his Facebook page when it floated around a couple of weeks ago:

 

                                      from TexasHillCountry.com (Facebook)
 

 

 

Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman