"Ghost"

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I hear   

                        your booming laughter ricochet     

            You appear before me   

            I embrace your solidity   

                        catch a whiff of Old Spice,   

                                    pipe tobacco   

            My tiny hand clutches yours   

            I am your child   

                       again   

                                    looking up into your deep brown eyes   

            You swing me up   

                        high onto your shoulders   

            I pat your chin—rough, unshaven   

                        Suddenly   

                                    We stand in my front yard   

                                                hugging goodbyes   

                                                promising another visit   

            Plans cancelled by death   

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I stand   

                        alone in the night   

            Suffering under the weight of grief   

            Conjuring you with my heartbreak   

                        your voice rises with enthusiasm   

                                    strengthens with determination     

            We argue politics   

            We agree to disagree   

                        again  

                                    looking into your deep brown eyes    

            You vanish   

                        leaving me sorrowful   

            Regretting silly squabbles   

                        Suddenly   

                                    I stand alone   

                                                searching for you     

                                                listening for your essence   

            Knowing you are gone forever  

IOUNIO's "Time Travler" for today's post!

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“Cartoons with Lunch"

 

 

Thirty minutes to consume
 Frozen pizza, peanut butter and jelly
Thirty minutes to revisit
Childhood companions
Thirty minutes to escape
By joining the Justice League
Thirty minutes to choose
The nonsense of Looney Tunes
Thirty minutes to laugh
Until you cry

 

Copyright 2025 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

"Sharing Loss"

  
         The night of my father’s unexpected death, we gathered at my parents’ house in League City. I don’t know who suggested that we watch a movie together to take our minds off of our loss, but before I knew it, I was stretched out on the floor in the family room watching Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon. It didn’t take long for us to burst into uncontrollable laughter at scene after scene.
         And in that raucous, rolling mirth and uncontrollable giggles nestled the first knowledge that we would recover from our unexpected loss. Grief, of course, shrouded us for months and months; yet, that first evening of laughter meant the world would go on. Our lives would change forever, but we’d find myriad reasons to smile and laugh again.
         Our personal grief entangled the next day with the September 11^th terrorist attacks. The television, on in the background as we dressed to go to the funeral home, suddenly caught my sister’s attention.
         “Did that plane just hit a building?” she asked.
         The surreal elements of our personal lives halted as we stood to watch the initial reports, before the second plane hit. We left the house and hurried to the appointment to make arrangements for Dad’s funeral, knowing immediately that the attack would affect our lives immediately.
         At the funeral home, the television ran in another room. The director’s phone calls to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery went unanswered. Mom, able to collect herself as she listened to the news, commented that all of Dad’s friends at the sheriff’s department would go on alert. She made an immediate decision not to have a viewing. We picked out an urn. The director finally reached the National Cemetery at Ft. Sam only to be told that we couldn’t schedule any plans until after the crisis had passed. Mom gave instructions for Dad’s cremation, and we all decided that David, Paul and I would drive back to San Antonio with his ashes. We’d schedule a service later.
         I’ve always admired my mother’s strength, but never more than that day. When she called the Department of Defense to inform them of Dad’s death, the young officer handling her call burst into tears. I sat on the floor, holding the checklist of numbers to be called, and listened as my mother consoled this young man. He had friends in the Pentagon.
         I marveled that my mother, so wrapped in her own loss, could take a moment to consider the shock and loss felt by a stranger.
          Over the years, I've learned the power of laughter. Maybe if people took a moment each day to giggle or grin, or to belly laugh until they cried, our world would hold a touch more optimism.

Karl and Edna Abrams July 1983

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman
        
        
        
        
            
          

                                                                                                   

Rain on the Rooftop"

  

Rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   
Thunder a distant heartbeat, wind a crooning sigh   
Watch the windows weep as lightning cuts the sky   
Clouds roll and tumble, carry raindrops on a ride   
Trees cleanse their dusty leaves—shake off Summer’s dry   
Droplets form to puddles, and rivers start to fly   
Mother Earth’s cracked face smiles and laughs in reply   
To rain on the rooftop, a Texas lullaby   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Ghost"

 Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I hear   

                        your booming laughter ricochet     

            You appear before me   

            I embrace your solidity   

                        catch a whiff of Old Spice,   

                                    pipe tobacco   

            My tiny hand clutches yours   

            I am your child   

                       again   

                                    looking up into your deep brown eyes   

            You swing me up   

                        high onto your shoulders   

            I pat your chin—rough, unshaven   

                        Suddenly   

                                    We stand in my front yard   

                                                hugging goodbyes   

                                                promising another visit   

            Plans cancelled by death   

Time pauses   

            when I dream of you   

                        Reversing—   

                                    pulling me back through years   

            until I stand   

                        alone in the night   

            Suffering under the weight of grief   

            Conjuring you with my heartbreak   

                        your voice rises with enthusiasm   

                                    strengthens with determination     

            We argue politics   

            We agree to disagree   

                        again  

                                    looking into your deep brown eyes    

            You vanish   

                        leaving me sorrowful   

            Regretting silly squabbles   

                        Suddenly   

                                    I stand alone   

                                                searching for you     

                                                listening for your essence   

            Knowing you are gone forever  

May 1999

 

"Philosophy in the Car"

 

Hours in a box on wheels   

Could play out soundlessly   

With each of us plugged     

Into our own online world   

Instead   

Music pushes our pulses   

Into unison   

And we philosophize   

About Life   

With a capital “L”    

Our Dreams and Doubts   

Dance on the dashboard   

As we   

Pick apart     

Cognitive dissonance     

With science instead of faith   

And create Peace on Earth     

Time distorts     

Into only the here-and-now   

Or tunnels down into our pasts   

Or spirals outward to What Will Be   

 

Copyright 2015 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

 

 

 

"Father's Day"



Edna and Karl Abrams--1950s

            Words don’t come easily on days like today. I miss my father every day, but Father’s Day pushes his absence into the forefront. On days like today, I wish for Dad’s boisterous voice booming through the house as he prepares his first cup of coffee for the day. I long for a whiff of his Old Spice scenting the room. I yearn for another hug and kiss where his morning stubble scratches my cheek. I need one more corny joke that makes me groan and roll my eyes. I want to argue once again about those hot subjects of politics, religion, sex and money!
            So on days like today, words don’t flow as easily. My heart feels heavy, the hurt still painful even though this marks the tenth Father’s Day without Dad. Many of you celebrate today with your fathers. I hope you cherish the conversations you share and enjoy the time together. For those of you who mark today without your fathers, may your memories be sweet, kind, and loving.

Karl Abrams-retirement from Galveston County Sheriff's Department 1992

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Old Graveyards"

 

            Tombstones lean into each other, as though in death family members still long to whisper secrets. Each marker represents a life, and I wonder. Did this woman cherish her children? Did she weep at her infant’s death or bare her grief in stoic rigidity? This man, who lived to be almost eighty, did he throw back his head in laughter over a pint? Did he labor in the fields or at a factory? Did his days tally anger or joy? Did he pull the blanket of death tightly around him in those last moments, or did he fight for each moment of life?

            I stand before this couple, together for eternity. Was their marriage happy? Did they linger close to one another in the mornings, cocooning for warmth before each sunrise? Did he smooth stray tendrils of her hair away from her face and sneak a morning kiss? Did she pull him down in playful lust? Did they sing sweet greetings as they reluctantly left their warm bed to build up the fires, tend to the children, or head to the barn? Did she glance out the window as she did her chores, longing for a glimpse of him as he toiled through his day? Did he rush back for his midday meal, hungry for her smile? Each night, did she reach for him in her sleep, entwine her legs with his for warmth? Did he awaken at midnight to watch her soft breath puff from her yielding lips? As the years flowed one into the other, did he notice the lines around her eyes when she laughed? Did she mind the gray in his morning stubble or the thinning of his hair? During those final moments, did they clutch hands and pledge everlasting love?

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Sharing Loss”

 

         The night of my father’s unexpected death, we gathered at my parents’ house in League City. I don’t know who suggested that we watch a movie together to take our minds off of our loss, but before I knew it, I was stretched out on the floor in the family room watching Jackie Chan and Owen Wilson in Shanghai Noon. It didn’t take long for us to burst into uncontrollable laughter at scene after scene.

         And in that raucous, rolling mirth and uncontrollable giggles nestled the first knowledge that we would recover from our unexpected loss. Grief, of course, shrouded us for months and months; yet, that first evening of laughter meant the world would go on. Our lives would change forever, but we’d find myriad reasons to smile and laugh again.

         Our personal grief entangled the next day with the September 11^th terrorist attacks. The television, on in the background as we dressed to go to the funeral home, suddenly caught my sister’s attention.

         “Did that plane just hit a building?” she asked.

         The surreal elements of our personal lives halted as we stood to watch the initial reports, before the second plane hit. We left the house and hurried to the appointment to make arrangements for Dad’s funeral, knowing immediately that the attack would affect our lives immediately.

         At the funeral home, the television ran in another room. The director’s phone calls to Fort Sam Houston Cemetery went unanswered. Mom, able to collect herself as she listened to the news, commented that all of Dad’s friends at the sheriff’s department would go on alert. She made an immediate decision not to have a viewing. We picked out an urn. The director finally reached the National Cemetery at Ft. Sam only to be told that we couldn’t schedule any plans until after the crisis had passed. Mom gave instructions for Dad’s cremation, and we all decided that David, Paul and I would drive back to San Antonio with his ashes. We’d schedule a service later.

         I’ve always admired my mother’s strength, but never more than that day. When she called the Department of Defense to inform them of Dad’s death, the young officer handling her call burst into tears. I sat on the floor, holding the checklist of numbers to be called, and listened as my mother consoled this young man. He had friends in the Pentagon.

         I marveled that my mother, so wrapped in her own loss, could take a moment to consider the shock and loss felt by a stranger.

          Over the years, I've learned the power of laughter. Maybe if people took a moment each day to giggle or grin, or to belly laugh until they cried, our world would hold a touch more optimism.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman