“The Missing Sock”

When I take dirty clothes into the laundry room, I try to make certain every item makes it from the bathroom to the hamper. When I sort the clothes into their designated piles, sometimes I pair the socks as a double check that each duo goes into the wash together. My laundry room, a petite rectangular four by eleven, cannot provide hiding places for anything. Yet . . . at least once a month a sock vanishes. I’ll shift the hamper out of its tight nook, slide a hanger between the washer and the wall, remove the vacuum and the mops, and scour the tiny room with vigilance in search of a missing sock. I’ll retrace my steps from laundry room through the kitchen, retreating to the master bathroom with eagle eyes peering into corners and under the bed. I’ll check the dogs’ toy basket in case Koi kidnapped a sock from the pile. Nothing. I keep the unmatched sock in the clean clothes basket in the belief that its partner will miraculously reappear during the darkness of night. After another week, the lonely sock gets placed in my drawer, sitting in neglected isolation.

             The hide-n-seek game with the missing sock may continue for several weeks. Yesterday, I stripped my mother’s bedding and shook out the fitted sheet of the clean set. A black sock soared through the air and landed on her dresser, knocking over her Chantilly in playful abandon. I immediately scooped up the wayward footwear and placed it in my pocket with a victorious grin. I felt satisfaction as I reunited the lonely sock tucked in my drawer with its partner. A quick inspection revealed that only one more sock sat segregated from the other sets. Prior experience made me pragmatically predict that days may pass before the wayward companion surfaced. However, yesterday turned out lucky for me. The last missing sock nestled in the arm of one of my mother’s nightgowns. Imagine her surprise when she pushed her hand through the sleeve and captured a sock in her hand!

            I feel smug satisfaction in knowing that when I go to bed tonight, every sock in every drawer nestles closely with its mate.

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Close Enough”

         Writing sometimes surprises me. I’ll stumble upon a topic one day, mull it over for a few hours or a few days; and when I finally get the words out onto the page, delight fills me. I celebrate when the right phrase paints the picture that’s in my mind. I mentally pat myself on my back and do a victory lap whenever the spirit of a poem holds true from beginning to ending. Occasionally, I’ll revisit an older piece of prose, or a poem written long ago, and feel satisfaction that this creation grew from within me.

         Then comes a block. The cursor keeps its metronome beat. It pulses in recrimination because I’ve summoned it to the page and left it hanging. The swirling, whirling words within me can’t find form or substance. An emotion vaporizes before I can make it solid. A thought teases me in a seductive lap dance then leaves me wanting. (That would work better  if I were a man!)

         Frustration, hesitation and perspiration often accompany the writer into the creative process. So when the sunlight contrasting with shadow plays across my vision, I long to create just the right description. I hunger for perfection as I grope for each phrase. My goal, however, to produce writing almost daily means I accept the concept of “close enough.” I embrace that as I learn my craft and fine tune my abilities; discrepancies will abound between that unflawed poem and my final draft.

         The art of writing teaches important lessons. I’ve learned to welcome imperfections in other aspects of my life. Each day, in essence, is a rough draft. As I fill the pages of my life, I don’t mind false starts, revisions or rewrites. I’m even happy when sometimes I don’t—quite—get—it—right. Close enough, but not perfect.  

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Light and Shadow”

Pastel smudges draw my eyes to morning’s rise   

aligning the innocence and the essence   

of day’s promise with ease. Light dusts the trees   

with the purity of youth. Beams illume Truth   

in a precise reality that cannot be   

denied. Into the sunshine I dance sublime   

and naked in the summer’s heat. When I retreat   

to the coolness of shadows, a soft breeze blows   

across my glistening skin. I let Hope in   

wrapped in shadow and light—and all is right   

 Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Dentist”

         This morning, I find myself trying to rev up my energy. Mom has a dental appointment at 10:45. During the last few months, we’ve learned not to tell Mom in advance about doctor or dental visits because her anxiety spirals out of control. She sleeps soundly some nights, but other nights she spins all night long, finally getting up in the early morning hours. An appointment insures a sleepless night for all of us. Mom woke up this morning at 4:30. By 5:30 she’d had her medication and by 6 o’clock she asked to return to bed and the warmth of her pile of quilts. She sleeps while I write and David prepares for work, but she’ll awake up again within the next hour. After she’s eaten breakfast and dressed for the day, I’ll break the news of her appointment. She’ll insist on getting her dentures in place, shoes on her feet, and purse positioned within easy reach. She’ll want her eyebrows penciled in, blush on her cheeks, and lipstick on her lips. Since it is cooler outside, she’ll want to wear one of her hats.

         We will struggle to get her into the car. I believe that her source of anxiety now comes from the ordeal of getting from her wheelchair to the car. I know it causes me tension just thinking about it! I will situate her chair closely to the open car door where we’ll manage to maneuver her into place. I have to remind her, “Butt first, Mom. Butt first.” If I don’t she’ll try to climb into the car feet first and end up rolling onto the seat sideways. At that point, we either start laughing so hard that we can’t re-position her, or the tears start. Either way, getting into the car challenges both of us. Once I have her rump in the seat, she’s able to position her feet on her own. Then we have her grab the back of the front seat and hug herself forward enough to re-position her body. When she releases her grip, her body’s situated in just the right place. I can snap the seat belt snugly and head of our destination. And then we have to repeat the entire process after the appointment.

         We have a hospital in our neighborhood that offers a van service for people going to doctors within the area. Mom’s neurologist gave me the information on our last visit. Fortunately, her internist and neurologist have offices in buildings covered by this service. All I have to do is schedule a pickup forty-eight hours in advance. I haven’t used this option yet, but I know that this year I will. Every time I adjust for the newest change in Mom’s ability to do something, I feel loss. With my mother, Huntington’s disease hasn’t chipped away at her abilities with huge chunks of changes. Instead, it’s a slow, steady melting process. The differences, too subtle to notice on a day-to-day basis, accumulate. I guess I fear that one day I’ll turn around and realize she’s dissolved down to just her core.  

Mom and my brother enjoying a festival--2009

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Daddy’s Girl”

Man in a Box   
chadholtz.net   

Tears welled in his eyes   

a confident smirk masked his disappointment   

A girl—a girl   

His finger slid down the curve of her soft cheek   

then he stepped back   

building physical distance   

No clone    

No son to show off at company parties and family reunions   

“Do you want to hold her?”   

No!   

His eyes darted to his wife, his mother   

relief settled his shoulders as he realized his screamed denial was in his head   

“I think she has my hair,” his young wife crooned   

“I think she has my eyes.”  

His hand rubbed the stubble on his chin   

fatigue punched his gut   

Pretending sapped his energy   

made him dry and brittle   

Empty   

A fox outwitted by the trap, he stood motionless   

fought the instinct to chew off his leg   

Instead, he boxed his panic   

nailed down the lid   

let days blend into months and years   

He encouraged his daughter’s adoration   

while he ignored her needs   

avoided her love   

silenced her angry tears by walking away   

He minimized her   

made her peripheral   

on the edges of his consciousness   

an orbiting object not worthy of his attention   

A girl—a girl   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman