“A Layer of Dust”

 

            I clean.

            When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.

            I clean.

            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.

            I clean.

            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.

            I clean.

            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.

            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.

            A layer of dust.

            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.

            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.

            A layer of dust.

            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.

            A layer of dust.

            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Veterans Day"

           “Is that Daddy?” queried four-year-old Lizzy as she pointed her finger at a man dressed in green fatigues.
         The young mother squeezed her daughter’s hand tighter as she answered, “No. I’ll tell you what you need to do. Look at the caps the men are wearing. Your daddy’s cap is dirty.”

         Ten-year-old Paula nodded in affirmation. “Dad needs a new hat.”

         Restlessly, the two children watched as airmen purposefully strode across the tarmac. Suddenly, Lizzy tugged free of her mother’s grasp and dashed toward a man wearing a dirty hat. She wrapped her arms tightly around his legs in the tightest bear hug her little arms could muster. The young man attempted to disengage himself from the small child, his face growing red as he scanned the area.
         “Elizabeth Anne,” the girl’s mother dashed forward. “This man isn’t your daddy!”
         “But his cap is really dirty!” Lizzy exclaimed earnestly.

         The airman pulled his cap into his hands, embarrassed by the child’s observation and confusion.

         “My husband’s been on a long TDY,” the mother explained.
         “I understand completely,” the man said as he sidestepped the little family and continued on his way.

         Hand on hip and head shaking in disapproval of her little sister’s faux pas, Paula pointed to another cluster of men approaching the fence line. “There he is!”
        And there he was! Dad with a brand new cap cocked on his head. He jogged away from the other men and scooped his girls into his arms.

Karl F. Abrams--circa 1948

         For years, my family teased me about the time I flung my arms around the man with the dirtiest cap, converting the story into a running joke that I threw myself at men. As an adult, though, I realize how much that childish mistake must have stung both of my parents. My mother did her best to talk about Dad when he left on long trips, but keeping his image strong in the mind of a four-year-old proved an almost impossible task. Tight on money, my parents didn’t have many photographs of each other around the house. After my mistake, my father gave me dashing picture of himself from when he first joined the Air Force to keep in my room.

         For Veterans Day, we pause to honor the men and women who serve in our military, but we should also reflect upon the sacrifice the families make. When a young man or woman decides to serve our country, his or her entire family becomes a military member. The soldier misses birthdays, Christmases, and anniversaries. The soldier misses that first step, the lost front tooth, the touchdown, and the first broken heart. Every moment of every day, the families of these men and women ache for the lost moments. Our tributes to these veterans must recognize the full scope of their sacrifices.

copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Connected"

            I’m up early this morning, swaying with Suzette Lawrence and the Neon Angels as they Tear Up the Honky Tonk in my own bedroom. A grin spreads across my face as my memories dance through time back to earlier days where I sat in a smoky venue and watched my friend preform with her family.

            Imagine my joy in having this friend’s voice wrap around me in the morning sunshine, or lull me to sleep at night, or entertain me as I make my own journey home.

            The years between our visits never severed the bond we wove back so many years ago. With some friends, the kinship beats heart deep and flows through our veins.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

 

 

Suzette Lawrence and The Neon Angels

 

"The Fall"

 

            

              The day begins with me alone on a front porch swing, taking the time to savor the morning stillness before anyone else awakens.

            Yesterday right after dawn, I donned my tennis shoes, hung the Canon around my neck, and made a short hike down the road to a gate that guarded river access. I spied a trellis heavy with grapevines; its fruit long lost to birds. Moving cautiously downward, I found a clearing where water shallowly pooled. Snapping pictures, I captured sunlight and water—rocks hidden under a rising mist.

            I tiptoed across a natural bridge of stepping stones, attending to each one to make certain my feet found purchase as I made my way across the moss slickened steps. Trying to gather morning’s essence, I hunkered down on a ledge to change angles, finding beauty from east to west.

            

            I dangled my camera around my neck, its heavy weight bumping against my chest, and its weight reminded me to take care. But a loose and slippery rock foiled my sensible shoes and snail pace, catapulting me into a cartwheel. Instinct snapped into place, and I caught the camera before it plopped into the water. Who cares about a bruised hip, battered shoulder or bumped head? My hands cradled my camera as my head bounced a second time. Like a mother who’s swept in to pull her child away from catastrophe, I checked my “baby” for damage as I swiped at the lens and casing with a dry corner of my shirt. Reassured that water hadn’t seeped beyond its hardened shell, I powered it down and began to laugh.

            Water trickled down the right side of my body and my right shoe squished as I made my way further up the bank, pulling away from the river’s edge. For a second, my blurred vision worried me. Had I hit my head that hard? And then I realized that my glasses lay somewhere behind me. Half-blind and half-drenched, I searched my way back down the path—hoping my glasses had tumbled onto the ground when I took off my light jacket—fearing that they lay under water.

            I backtracked onto the spit of rocks, avoiding the one that spilled me into the water; and began to patty cake the cool surface, squinting in an attempt to sharpen my vision. My fingers found my frames before my eyes, and I plucked them gratefully from their hiding place under a large leaf.

            My mishap meant I meandered around the water’s edge with wet pants and a soggy shoe as I preserved wild flowers blooming one last time before the coming of Fall.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman              

“The Class of 2015”

Too lost to care  

            Too stunted to share   

Too lazy to learn

            Too drugged to yearn

Too behind to hope

            Too bitter to cope  

Too angry to grow

            Too blocked to know 

Too starved to thrive  

            Too damaged to strive 

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman