Because of that Patrick –

The one who’d been sainted,

The snake’s reputation’s

Forever been tainted.

A symbol for Satan?

A pagan he said?

He must have had rocks

For the brains in his head.

An innocent lot

Our folks had to flee

From Ireland’s hills

And into the sea.

Add to the outrage

We’ll never get over,

We’re banned from all fields

Of the cursed three-leaf clover.

And so we’ve decided

On Council’s advice

To bombard their Isle

With boatloads of mice.

We’ll see how they manage

Their prized tater crop

With mice making meals

Of their staple non-stop.

No snakes to control them –

The food chain unhooked –

Those Irish will realize

Their claddagh’s been cooked.

Then people will wonder

Who had the last laugh:

We ostracized snakes,

Or that saint and his staff?

The house had sold; we had to move
And pack up all our stuff;
The attic task was given me.
Mom said it wasn’t tough.

The musty smell and cluttered mess
Made cleaning up a chore,
Until I found, tucked far in back,
Two boxes marked “Lenore.”

I opened wide the memories –
All filled with mother’s things,
Like costume clothes and baby dolls,
Like pearls and plastic rings.

And from the bottom of the box
I pulled out a photo book;
I settled on a nearby chair
So I could take a look.

What struck me as I drank them in
Was how happy mother seemed –
That picture of the pony ride
Where mother’s smile beamed.

Dad passed away when I was five
And Mom took on both roles;
She had to set aside her dreams
And focus on our goals.

So rarely did we see her smile
Or laugh and have some fun,
Far too many memories,
Too much to be done.

I tried to empathize with her,
Tried not to make her mad,
But often, understandably,
My mom was rather sad.

So looking through her past today –
At pictures of her youth,
At ballet shoes, now faded pink,
I learned a simple truth.

That long before my father died
Before her troubles grew,
When hand games settled arguments,
Mom was a child too.

40 lines

Crossing the border of the unknown

Into a state of marriage,

A foreign territory,

An alien land

Where two bodies merge,

And two minds constantly battle

To maintain independence

While at the same time

Endeavoring to co-exist

In relative accord.

Drawn over by

A safe haven?

A place of refuge?

A passport to

Bona fide happiness?

Migrating into any

And all of these

Diverse possibilities.

Intent on setting up

A permanent residency,

Establishing citizenship.

Resolute against deportation.

Unwavering in an allegiance

To this civil union -

This act of

Concomitant dependency.

Late Sunday night
When I went to bed
I gave a quick kiss
To my boyfriend named Fred.
While visions of much more
Played out in my head
As this time next week
We had plans to be wed.

But when I awoke
And adjusted the spread
A boyfriend-free mattress
Engulfed me with dread.
I jumped to my feet
And in torment I tread
As soon I discovered
My true love had fled!

“Oh what have I done,”
To my mother I said,
“To make Freddy leave?”
Then more tears were shed
As I got on my knees
And to Heaven I pled,
“If you bring him to me,
I’ll be yours ‘till I’m dead!

But the days became weeks
And the months rushed ahead,
So I had to move on
Hearing no word from Fred;
From crying all day
To just seeing red,
I realized I still
Had a life to be led.

So I sold off my ring
And bought rubies instead;
Gave his clothes to Goodwill
And his letters I shred.
The funny thing was
When I finally let go,
The very next day
Was the day I met Joe.

“Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” my husband asked as we pulled into our driveway.  “A pleasant lunch without the twins, and no phone calls from the fire department telling us our house was burning down.  I told you it would be okay.”

Okay for you, I thought to myself as I gave him what I hoped was a convincing smile.  I swallowed hard trying once again to force the tuna melt into my digestive system.  Images of kidnappings, accidental drownings, and knife accidents kept sending conflicting signals to my stomach. The twins, I hated to admit to my husband, were so much a part of me these days, a part of my soul.  I didn’t want to be away from them, but I knew Liam and I needed to spend more time together, have those “dates” the counselor suggested.   And yes, logically, Sarah was as responsible of a babysitter as we could find.  “All Sally’s kids survived under her watch,” Liam joked.  Like that was funny.

I tried not to appear too anxious to get out of the car, resisting the temptation to open my door before he even stopped.  With some effort I willed my hand to stay in my lap until he came and opened the door for me. As I entered the house, expecting the twins to come squealing and toddling forth to greet us, the stillness hit me like a Taser.  “Something’s wrong here; it’s too quiet,” I said.

Losing the battle against the tuna sandwich as my panic rose, I raced into the bathroom.  My husband waited for me at the door, gave me that look, and then took my hand.  He walked me into the playroom where the twins lay sleeping on Sarah’s lap, one on each knee.

As I sat sipping my rootbeer float at the counter of the five and dime I noticed the string tied around my finger.  “Okay,” I said aloud, but not to anyone in particular,  “I tied this around my finger for some reason, but what the heck was it?”

Wanda, who just finished picking up the newspaper and wiping down the crumbs left by the elderly gentleman in the business suit said, “Again Sarah?  What happened to you writing down the stuff you needed to remember?”

“Well I kept losing the paper, so I figured it’d be hard to lose it if it was tied to my finger.  Heh, I do still have the string!”  I said laughing.

Wanda just shook her head,  “With no clue as to its reminder; Sarah what are we going to do with you?” she said, obviously not expecting a response as she moved over to take the order of a new customer.

As I played with the string, twisting it around my finger, I hoped the contact would trigger a memory. I had a vague recollection that I tied it on last night, after some argument – or more like lecture – from Jimmy again about my taking responsibility, but as usual, like a bird, the memory flew out the window that was my brain.

It’s not like Jimmy didn’t know about this when we got married, after…how many years did we date?  Whatever.  I played with the string again.  Good Lord I hoped it wasn’t something important.  I felt a buzzing in my pocket, and it took me a few seconds to realize it was my cell phone.   “Hello?” I said.  “You’re what?  You’re waiting at the hospital for me to come for my scheduled c-section?  So that’s what it was!”

The authorities were after him, but he’d managed to elude their grasp for going on six months now.  He knew he’d end up in one of those foster homes – prisons for pay his friend called them – if he got caught, but the grumblings in his stomach convinced him to take the risk.  And what better opportunity would there be then today with the Saint Patrick’s Day Parade marching through the town square?  All those people, all those purses, a veritable feast for the pickpocket.  And she (or he) would get the personal items back; all he wanted was the money, enough to buy a few meals.  He knew he had to be careful; the police already had a vague description of him.

He changed into the grey sweatshirt he’d found by the playground, and brushed his fingers through his newly washed hair, trying hard not to look like the nomadic child he was.  His mother finally succumbed to the cancer that was poverty, but he would not. He had a plan.  That was his mother’s downfall; she had no plan.  She had no hope.

As he casually walked down the sidewalk he surveyed the wall of human spectators, decked in green and four-leaf clovers.  By the second block, with the parade in full swing, he spotted his target – a small black clutch tucked underneath a woman’s arm.  She stood at the back of the crowd.  He snatched the purse from its resting place and ran as fast as he could, slipping into the procession.  Over the woman’s screams, like the good soldiers they were, the band played on maintaining their formation, providing camouflage for the boy darting in and out between the trombones and bass drums, running desperately toward his next meal.

Once upon a time I believed in that saying, “Life isn’t fair.”  After all, it’s what my mom always said.  That is, I believed it until last week.  You see I’m taking this chemistry course at the high school, and there’s a kid in my class named Johnny “Unitas” Jones, you know the type – the star quarterback who doesn’t know an element from an atom? Well, the teacher Mr. Harris thinks Unitas walks on water because our football team’s going to states this year – according to Harris – “on Johnny’s arm.”  As you probably know, athletes, even good ones, have to maintain a certain GPA to play.  It turns out chemistry was the only challenging class Johnny had to take, and somehow so far he managed to pull a C.  We all knew Mr. Harris “helped” Johnny with the tests and quizzes – not so much that Johnny aced them – that would be too obvious given the size of Johnny’s brain compared favorably with that of a squirrel’s, but enough to pass.  Exactly how he did it, no one could say or prove – we just knew.

Anyway, we had this monstrous unit test the Friday before the big game. During the week, while the majority of us worked in groups to complete the study packets, Mr. Harris and Johnny reviewed plays.  You’d have thought they were planning for the Super Bowl.  But here’s the good part, the day before the test Mr. Harris didn’t show up for class.  And he didn’t show up the day of either.  You should’ve seen the look on Johnny U’s face when the proctor handed him the test – like watching a silent horror film, though, not nearly as scary as his view of that final game from the bench.

“I promise, if you do this for me I’ll never ask for anything again.”

“Yeah, and then I end up in prison while you’re dating the postman.”

“Hank, it’s not like what I’m asking you to do is a federal offense.  Besides,” I said as I reached across the counter to grab his hand, “I promise we’ll come visit you.”

“Very funny.” He pulled away and walked to the French doors, looking out into our neighbor’s backyard.

I followed him, wrapped my arms around his waist (without mentioning how much harder that was to do these days) and rested my head on his shoulder.  “Please,” I whispered.

He turned, breaking my grip, and faced me, “So what do I get out of this?”

“You’ll make your wife happy; isn’t that enough?”  Believing I hit a soft spot I added, “It used to be.”

“Why is it so important for you to get rid of this Tyler guy?  What’s so wrong with him?”

“He’s a pompous idiot who’s totally fooled Anna into believing that he’s right for her; he needs to go.”

“And what if Anna finds out you were the one behind his disappearance, where will your friendship be then?”

“She won’t find out; there’ll be no way she can prove it, no trail.  You’ll make sure of that. You’re the professional.  Please Mike?”  I felt his ice melting, “I’ll take Anna shopping and you can take care of him then.”

He sighed. “Okay.  After fifteen years of acting, this is the only role I can land, but I’ll do it.  I’ll give him my best Mafia boss/boyfriend impression.  He’ll be on the east coast by morning.”

I threw my arms around his neck, kissed his cheek and said, “Oh grazie, grazie my Capone!”

So I punched him.  It’s not my fault my parents gave birth to nine children, and that by the time they got to me they ran out of planets (thankfully choosing to save any of their progenies’ from embarrassment by naming them Uranus).  With the primary occupants of the Solar System exhausted they named me Star.    And I’d had enough of people poking fun of me for that – my pot was close to boiling over and unfortunately for Michael Walters, he turned up the heat at the wrong time.  Who knew I could throw a punch like that.  Knocked the wind right out of him.  And if it weren’t for the fact that Miss Riley witnessed it, I’d probably be riding the bus home right now.  There’s no way macho Michael would admit he’d been taken out by a girl!   But here I sat waiting for one of my parental units to show.   Principal Peters said I couldn’t leave the office until one of them came to retrieve me.

I honestly had no idea what to expect when one did.  With nine kids in the family, and me being the youngest, no one paid much attention to me, including my parents – who still seemed to be stuck in the sixties, adopting the motto, “Make kids, not war,” but never figuring out what to do after that.  So when Mom pushed the office door open, leaning against it as if she were posing for some cover shoot, I wasn’t that surprised.  With her sunglasses still on she waltzed into Principal Peters’ office.  After mere minutes she came back out, lifted her glasses and asked, “Do you want to go for some ice cream?”  What could I say but yes…and gotta love the sixties.