Thursday, April 14, 2016

Do you believe in prayer

The other day a man placed a hand on my forehead and asked another man named Jesus to take away my migraine pain. Did it work, he says, after the treatment. There was momentary relief, I reply, probably from the human caring. I continue to stand at the cafe counter. He remains by my side. Can you make my latte arrive faster, I ask. The other day a man poured water on my hands. He wants me to feel the power of a scrub laced with gold. Oh my god, I say, touching my softened skin. I'm Jewish, he says, we say O-M-GEE. He offers me a deal. Fifty dollars off the regular price for scrub and butter. I decline. Please send people to my shop, he says. The other day a woman runs around a lake. I've been wearing the wrong bra size all my life, she says. Her correct assessment plagues many. I hold back from chasing after her and giving my source for cups and measurements. Instead, I tend to my bosom and seek a refresher garment. What you bought before isn't here now says the woman who a few seasons ago wrapped a tape measure under my breasts. Buyers live on the coasts not the Midwest, she says. They want change, to make trends. We want the same, she says. I leave with a prayer to O-M-GEE. Simple, I plead, make this simple. How hard can holding up boobs be?

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

Found Words II

Woman: Once you name a baby it's no longer an it. She got pregnant. She wasn't supposed to be able to. But she did. And she had the baby. It has fetal alcohol syndrome. Doesn't help that she has no boundaries with her dad. She's an adopted daughter. The father of the baby is adopted too. Man: That's three strikes. That's a lot of strikes. 

Found Words I

I don't like bananas. Plain banana. I like it in things, with nuts. My cousin could only eat bananas growing up. I don't know why. Maybe she was a monkey. 

Friday, August 28, 2015

46th Street

Exit my car. Walk across the road to a bridge. Stop. I put my hand to my chest when I see a crowd standing along the rail, a cop guiding traffic, a television crew recording. A woman heads my direction. Has it happened again, I ask. She looks confused. Has someone else jumped? Oh, wow, no, I don't think so, she says. She's with an animal rights group. They want the man who shot Cecil the Lion to face charges. I feel relief. I thought another person jumped, I say, and point to the memorial attached to the rail. She turns her head and sees it for the first time. She looks surprised. The flowers and the candles honor a woman who two weeks ago threw herself over the rail into the morning traffic on the highway below. She looks horrified. I did not know her, I say. Not even her name. The activist woman stands here for a lion killed for a reason I misunderstand. Maybe I would be here for a lion, too, if not for a woman whose action made headlines in the paper, on the television for one day. Maybe I would be here for a lion, too, if not for a woman who jumped off a bridge I crossed moments before. I note the name of the lion support people. They could be my people. They have tucked away fancy doughnuts in a pink box, safe from traffic and random passersby.