“Lost and Found”

               Near the end of December, I rendezvoused with my brother at my sister’s house in Bay City, Texas. Together, we sat around her cozy kitchen table and filled out the forms for Mom’s life insurance policies. We double-checked each item to make certain we’d get it all correct on the first run. Once everything looked perfect, I neatly stacked the forms into a pile with the intention of getting the packet mailed before the end of the year.

            We don’t have a post office in Live Oak, and the one in Universal City holds banker’s hours. For years, we used a business that resided within walking distance from my home. This company didn’t simply supply me with stamps. During the busy Christmas season, I sometimes had them wrap and mail my gifts. When the owner lost his lease, Mike shifted his business to Universal City. Unaware of his new location, I often lamented not having his wonderful service nearby. While running errands with one friend shortly before Christmas, she told me she had to stop by Mike’s to send out a package. Imagine my pleasure of finding one of my favorite local businessmen again!

            So with my precious paperwork in hand, I headed to UC Mailing and Shipping Center once I returned to San Antonio. I planned on sending out the package registered mail, but Mike suggested I add the signed receipt, too. He addressed the parcel, I verified the address, and went happily on my way.

            When I didn’t hear anything from the insurance company (and when an automatic deposit didn’t turn up in anyone’s account), I called the agent assigned to Mom’s policies to find out why nothing had moved forward.

            “Ms. Chapman,” she said, “We haven’t received your forms yet.”

            “That can’t be! I mailed them out two weeks ago! Are you certain?” I couldn’t hide my dismay when she ran our names through their system again and came up with nothing.

            If I had gone to the local post office, they would have told me to go online and plow through their tracking system, but since I’d gone to Mike, I called him instead. I broke down crying when I told him the package of insurance papers hadn’t reached Massachusetts.

            “I’ll take care of it,” he stated calmly. “I’ve already plugged in your name. I have the tracking number right here. Give me a few hours, and I’ll see what I can turn up.”

            With his reassurances boosting my spirits, I tried not to worry. Most of the time, my grief sits deep in my stomach and leaves me alone. But when I’m stressed, he kicks up and bursts out with unexpected tears. Facing the possibility of having contact the insurance company, ask for an entirely new packet, meeting with my siblings again, having things notarized—all suddenly seemed too much for me.

            “The package made it from UC to SA main post office,” Mike explained when he called back, “and then it vanished. It wasn’t scanned in or out anywhere else.”

            “What does that mean?” I asked.

            “It means you need to let me have another 48-hours. No, Monday’s a holiday. Give me until Wednesday of next week. I’ll find it,” Mike assured me.

            I began mentally crossing my fingers. Magical thinking slipped in to my days. I tried to wish the parcel from lost to found. When I next called Mike, I stepped outside to pace away my tension in the backyard.

            “It was delivered today!” he reported.

            And I danced a jig! I hooted and whooped with absolute relief and joy! And I promised myself that I’ll pull together some little “thank you” package for Mike because he did this for me.

            Some people would say that Mike was only doing his job, but in reality I should have been the one tracking the package and hassling with the post office. If I’d dropped of the package to a local post office, all of that responsibility would have fallen to me at a time when I couldn’t take on another responsibility. So Mike wasn’t doing his job. He granted me a favor by taking care of something that I wasn’t able to handle.

            In the back of my mind, since delivery of the paperwork, I’ve worried about something else going wrong. Then yesterday I checked the balance on my checking account and felt relief flood through me because the insurance company’s automatic deposit had arrived.

            One more item crossed off the list.

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

             

“Some Days”

            Some days, I long to write. My mind yearns to sit with pen clenched in fingers as I translate all the visions in my head into images spilling across the page. Or I spend endless hours with my laptop, creating new worlds peopled by my limitless imagination. I focus on a single meaning and play with a multitude of words until I find just the right combination of syllable. I fill page after page with my heart and soul, and still find more to say. I feel free. I feel young. I feel weightless. I am possibilities.

            Some days, I long to sing. I throw back my head and belt out a song with rapturous abandon. I scale through octaves like a diva. My voice becomes a mockingbird that imitates any singer my spirit desires. I croon lullabies and wail the blues. I feel powerful. I feel bold. I feel ecstasy. I am possibilities.





Belly Dancer by David Chapman

            Some days, I long to dance. I pirouette across the kitchen as I head out the door. I step-shuffle-step-step to the car. I shimmy as I drive to the store. In the parking lot, I perform perfect fan kicks over the grocery cart before I belly dance down the aisles. I feel daring. I feel vivacious. I feel sexy. I am possibilities!

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"A Thousand Sleepless Nights"

    http://daniellefreelances.wordpress.com/2009/02/15/being-the-single-mother/    

In the dark of night,   

she rocks and hums   

her hand rubbing circles upon her baby’s back   

he hiccoughs   

tucks his small feet against her warmth   

slips into slumber   

she rocks and hums until dawn   

In the dark of night,   

she paces and frets   

her lips pressed to his forehead   

measuring his heat   

as he cries, “Mommy, make it better!”   

she stretches out next to him   

wrapping him in her love   

as she wills away his pain   

In the dark of night,   

she listens and waits   

her body tense and alert   

until the clicking of key in lock   

the signal that he’s safe   

his voice floats on moonlight, “I’m home”   

In the dark of night,   

she sits and cries   

as he unburdens his fears   

her arms ache to hold him, rock him again   

she longs to take away his pain, shelter him from harm   

In the dark of night,   

she rocks and weeps   

her hand rubbing circles over her heartbreak   

her fingers long to stroke his hair, touch his cheek   

her kiss longs to linger on his brow just one more time   

her despair flows   

endless and evermore   

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman 

“Taking Advice”

            When my mother slipped into her final weeks, hospice sent a social worker to our home to help us transition to the next stage of our lives—the one where I won’t take on the role of caregiver for a terminal patient. She spent almost four hours with me one morning as I related the course Huntington’s Disease took through Mom’s life, and through the lives of our family members.

            “So, what I’m hearing,” she summarized when I finished, “is that you and your family have taken care of your mother, to varying degrees, for almost ten years. And although your husband, son and siblings have chipped in on an incredible level, you have still been the primary caregiver.”

            “Yes,” I agreed.

            “You’ll go from caring for someone 24/7 to having nothing to fill your days,” she continued. “Do you have any plans on what you’ll do with this sudden gap?”

            I nodded my head. “I’ve actually looked online at a couple of fulltime positions with some local companies that I wouldn’t mind checking out.”

            “Can I offer some advice?” She continued, “Don’t take on anything that’s permanent. You’re the type of person who takes on responsibility easily. I’m afraid that if you step into a fulltime job somewhere, you’ll talk yourself into keeping it even if you don’t like it. What you need is to take on a part-time slot at a store or office. During this first year of transition, you don’t need to make any decisions that tie you down. Don’t box yourself into another commitment. You need the type of job that will get you out of the house, help you fill your days as you passage through grief, but that you can easily step away from once you don’t need it any more.”

            I rolled my eyes, “Well, if that’s what I need the solution’s easy. I’ll substitute.” I began ticking off the plusses for this type of work, “First, I can work as many or as few days as I want. Second, I’ll still have nights and weekends off. Also, I’ll have the summer break just like I did when I taught fulltime. And I’ll be back in familiar places—with friends I’ve known for many, many years.”

            Less than two weeks after Mom died, I filed my online application to begin substitute teaching. The arrival of winter vacation meant the school district didn’t get to it for a couple of weeks, but by January 7^th my application shifted from “received” to “reviewed.” Two days later, I found myself sitting at an orientation meeting with the promise that I’d be called within a week to have my picture taken for my ID card. It took human resources less than a week to put me on the roster. I dropped by the office yesterday for my picture, marveled that the photograph actually looked like me, and then ran a couple of errands. All total, I’d left the house for about an hour. Within that length of time, the district office had inputted my number, and I received my first call for filling in a slot. Since I still had more errands on my list, I declined the job. I did, however, go into the computer and log into the site to check out available jobs for the next day and the next couple of weeks.

            Today, I take on the roll of substitute teacher. I’ll step into another teacher’s shoes for eight hours. I know that students will show their worst behavior because I’m the “outsider,” but that’s okay. I have a reason to get out of bed, a mission to accomplish, a way to fill my days with something challenging and productive.

Copyright 2013 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