Novocain Nevermore

My heart raced. I knew the pain that was coming and I do not handle pain well. The anticipation drove me to fight it. The needle came nearer and my muscles came tenser. A pinch in the skin! The metal prod delivered a cool fluid into my veins. The nurse said to relax. I was too apprehensive; it seemed like forever until my arm went to gel. By the time the cool liquid reached my upper arm, between my elbow and shoulder, I felt a looseness I hadn't felt since I was a child.

"Just close your eyes, relax, and begin counting backwards from 100," the nurse said. What happens if I reach 50 and I'm still awake?
And with a deep breath to 94 the worry scurried away.

I felt no pain. Very little memory of the event lingered. It was done and gone. The moments passed at the speed of light. I woke up in an unfamiliar room with unfamiliar faces and feelings. A fog hung heavy over my eyes and I couldn't move. Not just yet. It seemed to take forever for the sights and sounds to come to recognition.

One by one I could see the clock on the wall, the lady at the desk, the beds next to me. Objects around me became clearer, yet a fog still hung like a mist. Edges blurred. Time continued to escape me. Things happened and I passed through. The cool fluid sustained my veins. My shell was numb.

Time hung in overcast.

Memories stand vacant.

My hand stings with soreness. It is tender and bubbly from the needle.

With care and softness he removes the cold metal prod. Soft absorbent gauze covers the hole and mild pressure is applied. Deep breaths and fluttering eyes I can see again. My nebulous landscape clears, and like the rainbow after the rainstorm, hope returns

The sun is shining brighter than yesterday. It fills me with a warm fluid. The pain is gone; just a bump remains as the only reminder of the trance. Gone is the unfamiliar. Gone is the numbness. Gone is the shield.

Edges are sharp and lucid. Time is on my side. Feeling is all around and the moments are full. My senses crest and satisfy in a fresh future.

Learned

All day long the teacher scrolls words up on the board. Through her vocal transmission the words become lessons to her pupils. Some students listen with all their attention they can muster. Others sit back and dream of the boy across the room, dinner after school, and the world when they are grown. Yet, others sit half-listening; they pick up the key words and ideas as their minds also wander elsewhere.

The chalk settles into the black slate hanging omnipotent on the wall. She hopes her students grasp the lessons as the board does the chalk. Looking back at the class, she can read their faces. Some will just never get it in this format and her hands are tied. The minutes tick by like hours and the restless students shift in their seats.

The bell tolls the end of the day. She made it through another one. The air in the classroom suddenly feels light and free. Happy students rise from their seats and begin their end of the day activities – cleaning desks, putting their chairs up, getting their homework together, talking to their best friend or the boy across the room, helping the teacher to close the room until tomorrow. The relieved teacher sits at her desk for a breath.

She erases the chalk off the blackboard. The young boy takes the erasers outside to clap the dust out of them. The erasers will be nice and clean for tomorrow's class. As the dust settles on the grass beneath, he knows his job is done. He reenters the classroom and he places the foam blocks on the lip of the board and looks up. A jilted reminisce of all the day's work is still clinging to the slate, despite his best efforts to have erased it. He feels anger and confusion.

Mesmerized the boy just stands on the cool tile with the outside door still ajar. He pays attention in class intensely and attempts to make sense of it all. Exponents and timelines, flower parts and sentence diagrams hang combined on the board. During class he did not realize how much he had absorbed from today's lesson. He did not realize how the lessons stayed with the board either. When the teacher wiped the board clean, he thought the lessons went with it.

He can see clearly now that the lessons do not disappear. They are written over and they are connected. What ended on the right piece begins again on the left. The middle is the most jumbled. Like a collision, he thinks. The dust from his day in front of him tells the tale of that which happened. The mangled mess of dust reminds him of a puzzle. He stands in awe of it for 10 minutes.

Yet now, he can piece it all together. He no longer looks with confusion at the black slate. He looks with knowledge, intensity, and understanding. He knows he's truly learned his lesson. A part of him holds onto this sight. He enjoys the physical representation of his learnings.

The teacher observes his revelation. She waits until all the students have left to wipe the dust off the board with a damp cloth. A new blackboard for tomorrow's new lessons shines on the wall.

Healthy Options

And now, like the weather lately, I am unsure. Of course we do dinner. First date is dinner-casual.

But the meteorologist called for rain this evening and I dress the part. At dinner, my rain coat rests on the back of the chair. The soft white linen napkin drapes my lap. The date sits across adjusting his arrangement of forks and sips the wine we ordered. A waiter comes by to inform us the meal will be out shortly. I can almost taste the filet melt in my mouth.

I bite my tongue instead. The dinner is all imagined. Rather I sit on the couch contemplating. Shall I eat out tonight? Or make something? I must make a choice. One is healthier than the other. I know what goes into the meal at home; I am unsure of the restaurant food. My tongue continues to throb.

The sky is full of clouds. Tonight no stars shine. The humidity hangs in the air, right there with my decision. I have gone out to this dinner numerous times. It finishes with a garnished dessert and cordial. The driver's seat in my car is soaked with rain in the morning and I feel empty.

Studies show that eating a healthy breakfast helps you to perform better throughout the day. But what about dinner? Does it make a difference if you eat healthy at night? Might it eliminate nightmares?

I open the cupboards. Canned fruit, dried meat, condensed soup, and broths fill the space. Oh the choices! My stomach wrenches in hunger as I dig through the stored food. I am not sure what I want. The thought of having to chose plagues me. I know it is not a major decision and I know the right choice would be the fruit. But I cannot seem to make it final.

Plus, fruit for dinner?!? Yeah, no. I need something more. Scouring the fridge I discover dough, soppressata, and cheese. A pizza it will be! Yet again I contemplate for a brief moment...pizza - how healthy is that? I suppose because it is homemade, it is healthier. Right? Perhaps. I can tell you in the morning if I had nightmares.

The dough spreads nicely. I roll it and top it without rise because I prefer the thin crust. No one in town has it quite right yet. I do. Twenty minutes later bubbling and sizzling, the fresh pizza comes out of the oven. The rain begins to splash against the kitchen window.

Steam rises and the dough slides off the stone. The cooling rack catches it. I am fascinated by the grease the pizza created on its own. I did not put any oils on it; just garlic, cheese, pineapple, and soppressata. I slide the pizza onto the cutting board and begin slicing it. The slicer breaks through the layered pie. Sixteen clean pieces.

I turn the oven off. I grab a plate with a few slices and a glass of beer. The show is starting on television and I place my meal on the table beside the couch. I shiver as I settle into my seat. This storm has chilled the air and I reach for my throw. The warm pizza relaxes my stomach as the cold air permeates.

I recognize this homemade pizza is just a temporary solution to the storm outside. It is just enough though to get me by in the night.

In the morning I awaken to the glow of the sun through the window. Already I can feel the warmth of the large star above. The storm and nightmares have passed and today is a new day. The best part? I have fourteen pieces of pizza left over!

A Salute

Today I marched with the fire department in the Veterans' Day Parade. I had forgotten how much feeling and freedom the parade invoked. Today I remembered Veterans' Day parades with my Grandfather. Jackie, Kerry, & sometimes Alicia would sleep over on Friday night. We'd wake up anxiously on Saturday morning. I didn't have to go to swim lessons. My parents allowed me to skip to go to the parade.

We'd walk down the hill through the park and to downtown. We'd watch the parade pass through and then peruse the shops or stop at the Y to say hi to my mother. The street vendors would be clearing and we'd grab a balloon for Kerry. Kerry only joined us if my grandmother drove down too. For this parade, Grandfather always met us there.

He'd race us from the house to the park. Sometimes he'd bring bread so that Jackie could feed the fish in the pond. We'd meet him by the library. Always we'd view the parade from the Christmas tree between the library and post office. The men, women, and children would march by in steps of honor. A sparkled in Grandfather's eyes as we sat on the curb cheering the parade by.

Nine years ago, Grandfather passed away and I marched (rode) with Watch Hill Fire for the first time. Ten years ago, I sat with him at his last Veterans' Day parade. My mother's Pontiac was brand new and he joked about it being a sports car. I always recall his station wagons. She shut the car off as we sat and waited for the parade. The radio stayed on and the jazz played. It was a bit chilly out, cloudy; it was supposed to rain later in the day. Grandfather had been sick for quite some time and despite the weather, he insisted on going.

As the parade came down the hill and their music played in the background, the jazz in the Grand Prix stopped. We were confused by it. Before, the music only stopped when a door opened. The doors were closed; we were still inside. The owner's manual read that after 10 minutes of sitting idle, the car would shut down. Mother restarted the car and we laughed at the simplicity of it all.

Ten minutes later, the music ceased again. The parade marched toward us and Grandfather asked my mother not to restart the car. He saluted the veterans as they passed and praised the bands. I saw the sparkle return to his eyes. A sparkle I hadn't seen shine so bright in years. A sparkle I felt shine down on me this year during the parade. And a sparkle I hope to pass on.

At today's parade, I realized the dedication, honor, and respect Grandfather had to the cause. I thought about how shameful it was for us to only have 6 participants, and more shameful for the streets to be sparingly lined with folks. Nine years ago, the sidewalks were lined 7 people deep. Everyone had an American flag. Everyone raised their hand in salute. Today, it was very few. Today, I felt the pride of my grandfather.

Around the Corner

"Patchy fog later today," says the radio forecaster.

A certain obscure haze hangs over the yard. A cloud sits just above the stone wall. The air smells simple sweet. The morning feels different. The car is warm, and the ride to work is breezy. The sun blinds me ahead, and in the rearview mirror a deep blue disappears.

At lunch I retreat to the Point. The light house sits here as an empire. Its power and beauty radiates out to the sailors and guides them safely to shore. On many days you cannot see beyond the wave's crest where the lobster pots bob. Today the lobster pots are lost. To the west the haze returns. Though now it blankets the cool calm ocean, rather than the stone wall across from my house. Despite the calmness in yonder, the force still crashes against the rocks upon which I stand. The spray washes me as the holy water did many years ago. I feel absolved.

The haze settles on the ground as the fog rolls inland. The southbound ride home into the clouds blinds me and smothers me. My headlights are useless. Their beacon is lost and no longer guides this lost sailor. Yet, I drive on.

I know this road better than the back of my hand. Does anyone really know the back of their hand? I'm sure I'd miss a freckle, or a pore, or both, if asked. Knowledge and confidence make this ride easy though not pleasurable. I pass on the left. I pass on the right. I lead the traffic, and tail the next.

Through the mist I navigate. The lines on the road guide me home and to my bed I rest.