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Tuneybell & Cruella

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TUNEYBELL AND CRUELLA PLAYED FAIR with the occasional tangle. They lived side by side, bed to bed, one closet all the same. The same Barbies, emanated from the same genes, eating from the same cauldron of macaroni and cheese. Their drawings hung parallel on the fridge, their hairs clung to the same bathroom sink. They rolled together—to the pool, the tee ball games, the Sunday service, in the back of the Plymouth Voyager. They prayed the same rosary with Marcella, shared hand me up’s and down’s, rainbow coveralls and plaid jumpers, squished Daddy Long Legs in the yard, bolted through the same sprinkler spray in hot July, chalked up the same sidewalks. Together they played Peter Pan, made mud pies, built forts, climbed evergreens, sold lemonade. Their tenor was boyish, unwieldy, quiet, chummy bedlam. It was them, like twins, though never much of a muchness; each with a distinct nature but nevertheless, as Tuneybell, size 8, would lank with her twigs, a sturdy Cruella, size 10, sulked not far beside. Together they lived, capered, and snored behind the same door, the one that said, mutually, ‘NO BOYS ALLOWED.’ And they meant it.
When all was fair and resolved, crying concluded, words said, and trees climbed, it was the two of them, Tuneybell and Cruella, soaking in the same stinky bathwater at the end of a fruitful day, rinsing themselves of it all.

Home Sweet No More

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Number 19

The minivan outpours,

Mom, Dad, three, four, five, six, seven

A catholic cluster of curls and frowns

Big as the little house

Little as a house for two.

This house loves,

Your scents, your screams, your Legos

Watermelons and overflowing closets

Drying the grass, plugging the toilet

Squishing into the breakfast nook.

With rooms filled,

Boys with boys, girls and toys deluge

Makeshift space and attic dwelling

Where to grow? Where to play?

Nineteen is brimming.

The choice was none,

Boxes filled and packed bags escaped

Goodbye to the family 19 raised

A catholic cluster of curls and frowns

Outpouring elsewhere.

(Originally posted on 11 Nov 2008.)

19 Shirley Court, No. 9 Crabapple Tree

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IT WAS ROOTED IN THE MOST COINCIDENTAL OF PLACES, the old crabapple tree that jutted from the ground just beyond the back porch. The tree’s burgeoning branches, thick with fruit, plunged to the patio with the breeze as the tiny apples created a land mine of prospective mess. The sappy, textured bark had segued to gray, skin that had seen decades pass preserving the tree’s entrails.

A horizontal plank fastened near the base suggested inhabitants, and several others above confirmed, the numerous punctures in the wood coinciding with frequent repositioning of each step. Branches — one on the left, the other on the right — served as buttresses, their disposition summoning climbers to curl an arm around each before pushing off from the loftiest step. With a quick thrust, one’s weight was unfurled upon the rickety floor of 19 Shirley Court, No. 9 Crabapple Tree.

Salvaged shreds of lumber from deconstructed fences formed an encasement barely big enough for two, with gaping holes that had the potential of doors or windows, though their intention was neither. Rusty nails and screws poked out of every plank, gesticulating a child’s inability to force them any further into the wood. Crooked coats of peeling lime green and periwinkle paint scoured the structure, colors chosen for their boisterous and welcoming nature that best suited the wood they concealed.

A discolored plastic roof suspended overhead, the leftovers of the old porch awning. It was a high rise, with a second, and third story, each consisting only of a petty board to sit on after a laboring afternoon among the branches. The leaves gave way to a cooling shade in gratitude for a job well done; scraps melded into a beautiful eyesore of decrepit wood and a child’s imagination, three stories high and growing…

…and life was well-constructed.

The Pump Don’t Work ‘Cause the Vandals Took the Handles

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WORK KEPT US ALL AFTERNOON and it was necessary, hardly work but painful tasks that leaped from our minds.

“Sometimes you have to do things you don’t want to do.” It’s going to be a long day and quietly, we took the curves and signs of the streets in silent strides. Maybe we should digress or wonder less, maybe park the car and sit a while to dry our minds of the negative things it’s inundated with day upon day and into next week. Let’s forget, okay? Let’s just forget.

The first step was under analyzing, the second honesty. I did them both—at once, in fact—and so well that I think—well, I know—I can do this. Keep on.

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WE WERE DRIVING INTO THE SUN, two days into a weekend away from work, and putting time into something more rewarding. I’d never noticed the lush blades that covered a generous span of the prairie ground and lush indeed, collectively the most beautiful grass of the summer. The wind settled and all that subsided were tan lines, a few careless hairs on my legs, a half tank of gas. Willow quivered in the backseat drooling, the expiration date on the buns said later this week. I don’t know when I’ll be back.

Then I got the message from you, and it said I could come visit any time soon. That’s just fine, I’d shake a leg in two minutes to be that far away and see a familiar face. I’ve no money, but plenty in fact; can’t spend, won’t borrow, stubborn as shit. You know how it goes.

I’m trying to make the most of it. The appreciation comes slow, like sundown, after the evening’s casting of recollection, and I try not to take myself too seriously. These days are so careless, so numbing and magnificent, that I cannot imagine a year without this kind of light. We all thrive on this — my mother in her garden, father fixing the concrete blocks, and sister with another love. And I — I drive with the roof open, throw the seat back and squint into that beautiful sun and feel that warmth, the best warmth, the best remedy. It’s getting better all the time, you know.

A rock pile in a farmer’s field reminds me of a day on the road with my grandfather, and searching for arrowheads amidst every mound under the midsummer sun. That day was just like today, save different motions and faces, but today was not taken for granted; I know better.

But where, in a summer, has time slipped?