Back in town. I take the 7th St. Exit, and drive to her house. Popping in to see Grandma. Then I realize, those days are gone. And I wonder if the new owners find her house too small. The one that opened the world of homemade boysenberry jam, rose bushes with white paint poured on the soil to help them grow, hinges fixed with half a pound of nails, and a kitchen that fed half of San Jose's illegal alien community.
Strangers still pray to her; they claim she answers their prayers. She promised that she would help me. Like always. She said she would help from heaven. But I don't feel her. When I'm scared, or angry, or lost, or lonely, I don't hear her.
"And HE walks with me and HE talks
with me and HE tells me I am his own. And the joy we share as we tarry there none other has ever known."
I discover myself singing it whenever I water plants. SHE included that song in her funeral for her Presbyterian friends.
After the funeral, to the day, I started taking care of her house. It brought me comfort. That was long ago. Long ago.
Without thinking, whenever I can't think, I water my yard. I find myself singing, "Just a Closer Walk". Memories take me down paths I know. Soothed, I soar.
Karma Dharma,
same old same old.
Man buys New York for a Story. Yesterday, a man walked into Albany with a tale to tell. He waved his arms frantically, danced about like a grouse and before anyone in the Capitol knew what hit them ,they discovered that the entire state of New York was sold to an unidentified charlatan for a yarn. Asked to comment on the fiasco, officials could only replied, "I can't remember."
The TV's o,n and I'm laying on the couch; I've got a plastic bag for my head. I picked a black one; I don't want to see the tv and the view out my window all filmy and disfigured. I want to be alone with my mortality as my breath heats up the hell fires awaiting me. Trying to drum up some drama I look inside the bag, I take a gander about the room for one last time. Then outside. There are doves on the power line, facing this way and that. They move with synchronicity. One forward, the other sways back. Bobbing: constantly in opposition. I laugh. They were amazing to watch, so unaware of the other, yet balancing with it perfectly. Unaware, I rise, and watch the doves.
Are leaves a tree's family snapshots?
In a time of
crisis: I see her hands
flattening a table cloth.
What more could God do?
Dust to dust, snapshot to snapshot, worry to woe, “Tinkers to Evers to Chance, a hundred years from now the world will ask, how did a charlatan buy New York in Albany? The Grouse will dance and tell a different story:
Once upon a time, a giant red balloon traveled to earth from the far reaches of our universe. Scientist studied every aspect of the phenomena. The red balloon was something alrighty. It was on a collision coarse with Earth. The exact landing sight was a typical tract house in Aurora, CO.
The giant red balloon defied reason. Scientists were perplexed: How is it that a latex balloon didn't explode in a vacuum? Where did it come from? Does this mean that the superior intelligent life in deep space is in fact, a supreme circus clown? Will the balloon explode when it descends into our atmosphere? Will its impact destroy the earth? Or is God merely sending "HIS PEOPLE" a birthday present?
Theories were as wide spread as a cold in December. “DOOMSDAY!”, cried the media preachers, “send your money to save your soul.”
“A long lost weather balloon”, decreed some officialarians.
“V-ger” proclaimed the Trekkies.
“It’ss a sign to be happy”, shrugged the simple.
“It is the Age of Cancer”, proclaimed some Astrologist.
“The Age of Safe Sex”, proliferated non-Catholics.
And there were several yahoos who shouted with glee that their alien babies were coming home.
A tramp, an ocean away from the tract house in Aurora, CO. caught a freight for Denver. The residents, he knew. So, he knew. Chugging across the backyards of America, he remembered stories of her building a street with a shovel; of a life touching other lives. Like a railroad ,her word, her deeds, on track, a lifeline for so many. In Aurora was a lost soul; an ear that heard, but could not hear, a blue eye that saw, but could not see her life of grace and wonder. The rails rushed under his disheveled head. A whirlwind stoked his chill.
The giant red balloon, gave an orbit.
The theorist of all claims agreed, with themselves.
The tramp arrived, walking up the high plain grasslands of Aurora. The balloon began its descent. The giant red latex balloon popped. People in daylight said they saw the dust of mankind as God was moved to breath life into it. People in darkness lost a breath as they saw stars move like the hips of a goddess dancing
The tramp found the woman trembling under the expectations of her childhood. He put his arm around her and in a voice as soft as boysenberry jam said, “It's okay, It's okay.. Grandma’s house has finally figured out a way for us to notice her.”
Everyone, everywhere realized that their missed ones had always been there in a dove on a wire, a smile in a crowd, a song on the radio, an unexpected call.
And the Grouse went on dancing, unnoticed.
This is a genuine GregMorrison Rollercoaster
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