“Dental Floss”

Cheap dental floss    

—not the desired brand—    

            Frays    

            Leaves strands    

                        trapped    

Frustrated before sunrise    

            I fling the new container aside—    

                        thumping it into the trash    

                        announcing my irritation    

Temper flames my words,     

            “We had an entire conversation about this!”    

Feeling trivialized and minimized

            I cut to make him smaller   

And I braid those fine wax fibers 

            into Porter’s rope  

                        Giving it weight—

                                    Importance

Until 

            my snarling reflection    

            snaps me to The Big Picture 

It is—  

            after all—    

Only dental floss   

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

                       

“Tradition? Or Rut?”

            My goal to slow down and analyze the reasons behind my actions shifted beyond focusing on my housework habits and led me to scrutinizing my holiday traditions. When September marches onto the calendar, I haul out a few fall decorations. Halloween means I adorn shelves with bats and witches, and I follow with scarecrows and gourds for Thanksgiving.

           

Today's project

The first week of December, I pack away all my russets, gold and gingers in favor of Christmas sparkles. I spend day after day unloading bins of festive décor and finding the perfect arrangement for a cluster of Santas or a herd of reindeer. Then, I tackle the tree. Most of our ornaments reside during the rest of the year in their original boxes. Removing them takes time and effort, and replacing them once the holiday season is behind us takes its own day—even if I recruit help from my husband and son. And although my family appreciates my passion to festoon garlands throughout the house, they mention it’s a ton of work that has to be “undone” within a month.

              A month ago, an unexpected freeze meant I didn’t have time to go outside and cover plants. Instead, I hauled them all inside, arranging them next to the living room window—the spot where our Christmas tree traditionally sits. I commented that I loved the greenery, but would need to lug everything back outside and rig my winter “greenhouse” once December arrived.

Hmmm . . . how do I make this into holiday décor?

            “Why?” asked my son.

            And I thought before replying. For several days I let that question linger and swirl around. Why should I relocate all of these plants to put in an artificial tree? Why should I spend days adorning it with ornaments, and then days taking it down again?

            I questioned, “Is this tradition?  Or am I in a rut?”

            For me, the decision to skip putting up the tree is huge—but when I opened my mind to other possibilities, I almost exploded with ideas. Within the cluster of green, I’ll snuggle in poinsettias and colorful bows. I’ll pick up more live plants—little pines and rosemary!

            Yesterday, my son commented, “You know, you’ve been using the same stuff for years. And I know you like all the memories that different things hold, but maybe this year you could start a new bin—with decorations that are different from everything you already have.”

Just the beginning!

            My eyes sparkled, my pulse kicked up a little, my brain zigzagged with possibilities. New decorations? And I know I won’t go out and buy something all from one place. Instead, I’ll start with a few new items and spend the entire month “growing” into the different holiday trimmings. The rush to adorn our home with gingerbread men and snowmen shifted immediately to a desire to slow down to savor creating a fresh look for the house.

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“The Second Year”

Two years  

Cramming days so full     

That exhaustion tumbles me into bed each night   

Drawing old friends into my orbit   

As I spin, spin, spin   

And throw-off grief and loss   

I pull on your fuzzy blue robe   

And snuggle into your warmth   

Comforted   

Memory lets me linger with your laughter   

Takes my hand and leads me to your crooked smile   

Tugs me out of those months of shadow and spills me into sunshine 

I speak of you, your battle, and the years of care  

Without weeping   

Softness swaddles my sadness   

Sorrow defines the second year   

 

 

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“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