tina mackin
writer
Our Last
Afternoon
She didn’t recognize me.
She said I had died.
Sitting in front of her,
I wondered…
Who was I?
© tina mackin
*****
Passage
to Yellow
I am fat and lazy in this
air-conditioned house.
I leave my cocoon for the view out the sliding door.
Off the concrete patio, I
huff up the grassy hill.
My eyes set to the woods of my raising.
The fence musters a gray
and broken smile.
I caress its age spots, careful not to get a splinter.
The gate swings
gracefully, before losing balance.
I place it gently on the top hinge and move forward.
The mustard brush
scratches my legs.
I ferry grasshoppers until the edge of the woods.
I breathe the cool
timber; my shoulders drop.
I have found the fountain of youth.
The trees are rich and
the moss pungent.
The cicada buzz is deafening.
My mind numbs into
meditation.
Light sweeps the trees, brushes against my cheek.
I step into the
white-yellow, becoming sightless.
Sweat runs in threes down my back.
I must reach the clearing
to see my childhood.
I return to cool olive shade of the path.
I reach the brook and
leap.
My ankle twists. Damn.
I survey my surroundings.
A large stick waits in front of me.
The Universe always
provides.
I use the stick to leverage my heavy body.
The light reappears as a
beam.
I limp to the clearing.
It’s smaller than I
remember.
I’m much bigger, I chuckle.
At the old fire pit, I
pick up a large rock
And hold it against my ear.
I listen to its songs
from my childhood.
Breaking the spell, I toss it into the pit.
The sun peers like a
disapproving parent.
My arms and legs receive its burning reprimand.
Humidity joins in to
swell my ankle.
My spirit collapses into fatigue.
Boy noise is breaks through the woods,
And quickly overrides my presence.
I hobble to the drying
pasture.
I had overstayed my welcome.
© tina mackin
*****
A
Stoning in the Suburbs
"Crazy"
"Whore"
"Selfish"
"Bitch"
The epithets rolled off the tongues as if
they were ordering a mocha latte’ with skim. Sandwiched between my
friends I looked from one to the next contemplating whether to beat them
or join them. My head made the decision for me by nodding.
"Thank, God, we’re real… you know,
normal," said my friend Ruehl.
"I know," laughed my friend Anne.
"She probably didn’t even need that divorce. Please."
I looked beyond the carpool lines to the
playground. The woman my friends were verbally stoning used to stand in
the circle with us. Kelly was just another carpool mother, friend and PTO
member, until she chose not to be. Kelly left her current unhappy life to
journey towards a contented one.
This act is akin to mutiny in many female
groups. To admit you are unhappy in your marriage, and then do something
about it is unthinkable. To break apart your family so that you may thrive
was both unconscionable and unforgiveable.
There are a few exceptions. If your husband
physically abuses you, cheats on you, bankrupts the family or goes to
prison, you automatically receive a "get out of marriage
guilt-free" card."
I believe that if Kelly were ugly or
overweight, she wouldn’t have been excommunicated from our group. My
friend Ruehl would’ve personally deemed Kelly courageous for choosing to
live authentically. And, if she kept herself at home, focusing on her
children and volunteer work, the PTO would’ve nominated her for
sainthood.
However, Kelly is skinny and beautiful. She
also enjoys going out and having fun. The fact that she still takes care
of her children and volunteers at her new school is eclipsed by the
former. To the mom moral majority, Kelly is guilty and should be punished.
Not only has Kelly dug herself into this hole; but now she has to stand in
it and be stoned like any fallen woman.
My reverie was broken by the noise of
children pouring into the parking lot. School dismissal was late, which
was nothing short of a typical Wednesday. At our parochial school, mass
was held on Wednesday afternoons.
"You know she was crazy, before the
divorce, right?" asked Ruehl, while nodding in my direction.
Pulled back into the conversation, I
answered, "Right, crazy," again nodding like a bobble head toy.
"She might as well leave town,"
continued Ruehl. "She has an awful reputation."
"I’ll help her pack," shouted
Anne as she trotted off to retrieve her kids.
Ruehl whispered, "I know for a fact
that some men are saying she’s skanky, if you know what I mean."
Thankfully, the R-rated conversation
stopped as our kids began circling us like seagulls. I gathered my two
kids and headed for our SUV.
"Can we turn off the radio I have
headache," my preteen daughter sniped, when I started the car.
"But, I love this song," whined
my 10 year old son.
Ignoring the battle in the back seat, I
focused on the regimen of car pool dismissal. As I passed the church
building, my conscious whispered "Lukewarm worm, you are what God
spews out."
"Shut up," I said.
The backset got quiet. "I wasn’t
talking to you guys, but I will take the quiet," I explained.
"My head," wailed my daughter.
I flipped off the radio and faced the view
out the windshield. It was a typical late March afternoon, gray and damp.
The temperature was neither hot nor cold. The day matched my soul
perfectly.
© tina mackin
*****
Tina Mackin lives in Louisville, KY with
her
husband, two children, and three dogs. "I illustrate ideas and
themes related to the environment, religion, pop culture, women, the
family & relationships. I create personal art pieces to celebrate
healing & milestones, to enhance meditation and personal discovery.
I also just create from pure inspiration. I work with watercolor, ink,
colored pencils, fibers & beads. Check out my website at www.smackinart.com.
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