My Love Story

 

It is not a mutual love affair. It is not a reciprocal love affair. It requires nothing; asks for nothing. This is a one way love affair. MY husband doesn’t resent it, even though it has been going on for more years than I can remember. It cushions and supports me through my many mood swings. It doesn’t sit and wait for me or my attention. My love is my maroon paisley bedroom club chair.

It is a common club chair; two arms, loose back foam cushion, loose foam seat cushions . It wasn’t always a maroon ptaisesly chair. It was purchased as a dark yellow club chair to fit in with the decor in your original apartment; a humble garden apartment in Forest Hills, Queens. Its usefulness and admiration began there because that was the chair I sat in to breast feed my first born. When we moved to our own house in Kew Gardens Hills, the club chair was replaced by 2 French Provincial blue toile living room chairs and the club chair found itself in my master bedroom. The yellow fabric was covered with a maroon paisley slipcover. My brother, an upholsterer made the beautiful skirted slipcover 60 years ago. The chair has seen better days; it’s actually quite shabby. I’ve made sleeves to cover the faded arm rests.

During the pandemic, when my Zooming to writing classes started, I began to spend many hours relaxing or napping in that bedroom maroon paisley club chair. Its importance and value began with a specific topic, better known in creative writing as a prompt from the teacher or leader. and so did my love, appreciation, admiration and adulation of my bedroom chair. In this chair, with my eyes closed, my ideas, imaginations, words, sentences, paragraphs danced around in my mind. My next story, poem or essay was born. My creative writing eggs were hatched.

In the dark area under the chair, three shoe boxes rest, gathering dust. One contains my entire olio collection of photos, from my childhood to today. The other contains two of my diaries from my adolescence. The third houses important or interesting letters I have received. Sitting in my chair, inspiration for many a written piece filtered up from these shoeboxes.

With my eyes closed, a warm hand crocheted blanket covering my body, my head cushioned in the indentation of the back foam cushion, I allow my stories to unfold,. Most importantly, I need to remind myself to always have a pencil and paper nearby before my ideas, thoughts, words, sentences and paragraphs float off into the nether the way most nighttime dreams do.

Ethyl H.

Waiting

I wake up early with a smile on my face.  Today my sister and nephew are coming over for a visit.  There are so many things I have to do before they come.  And on the top of that list is the most arduous task:  cleaning the apartment.

I toss the covers and get out of bed.  Even though I’m excited to have them over, I wish that I didn’t need to clean the apartment.  But it is filthy.  It has been so long since I’ve dusted that I will need a chisel just to barely cover the surface.  And don’t get me started on the bathroom!  The toilet, the sink, and the shower are giant Petri dishes and are so hazardous, I’ll need a Hazmat suit just to get inside.  I can keep on going.  But you get the picture.

I silently chastise myself for letting my apartment get so dirty.  Now I’m working twice as hard to make it look presentable for my sister and nephew.  My forehead is Niagara Falls.  I cannot stop sweating!  But I keep going and I am determined to make this apartment shine.

After a few hours of blood, sweat, and tears, I’m finally done.  I look at my watch and it’s nine.  Perfect! She told me that she would be here at eleven.  I rest a bit and then I go and get ready and wait for my favorite guests to arrive.

Ten o’clock rolls around and I don’t hear from her.  I figure that maybe she’s running a little late and I don’t text her because I don’t want to rush her.  But then it’s eleven and then twelve and I’m beginning to get irritated.  She’s done this to me before.  She tells me she’s coming at a certain time and doesn’t call or text to let me know she’s running late.

As I’m sitting on the couch, I’m a volcano and I’m ready to erupt at any given moment.  I can call her and ask her where the hell she is, but I think it’s her responsibility to let me know what is going on.  I love my sister to death.  But her cavalier attitude, especially towards me, is infuriating.  But I put up with it because she's my sister.

One o’clock rolls around and I explode.  Pieces of my body are all over the apartment.  And I worked so hard to clean it.  My phone rings and my body slowly reintegrates itself.  Alas, it’s my sister Face Timing me.  Once I’m put together, I answer.  She smiles and says jubilantly, “we’re on our way!”  And she turns the phone over to my nephew and he smiles and waves at me.

A half an hour later, I see my father’s car pull up.  Once I see them get out of the car, my anger melts away as my nephew runs up to me and gives me a hug.  My sister also gives me a hug and we head towards my apartment.  And in the back of my mind, I think about how I’m going to ride this same roller coaster the next time she comes over.

Ana R.

Nutcracker

 

The extremely upset little old man and woman were tugging at my clothes as if in some way this process would somehow elevate me back to a standing position and restore their cardboard box displays filled with Christmas paper, bows, ribbons and other assorted Christmas decorations to their original condition which had broken my fall as I collapsed on the boxes and their contents. Like a scene from Gulliver’s Travels these tiny very upset people, speaking in a foreign tongue, were desperately trying to move me out of the main path through the store for their potential customers to move about while at the same time attempting to rouse me and elevate me to a standing position. A stream of people carefully hiked around my limbs with their wet winter boots and umbrellas coming precariously close to me as I moaned in pain.

There was a four-foot-tall ancient plastic Santa Claus at the entrance to the store that greeted new customers as they came in and his paint was all faded and disappearing. His left arm stood frozen waiving to the customers. His upper torso turned at the waist about 180° left to right and back again. In his right hand he had originally carried a bell which rang as he moved the right arm up and down to simulate the ringing of the bell , however the bell was now missing and Santa who had been designed with the torque to lift that bell, and was now unfettered by its weight possessed a swift right upper cut which I had unfortunately encountered in the nether regions as Santa made his swift left turn. Any skilled lumberjack with a sharp ax can fell the largest of trees with a number of well-placed chops and Santa that formerly jolly old elf had brought me down with only one. Instead of a jolly smile Santa now seemed to possess an evil grin as he sadistically looked at me briefly over his shoulder when I came into view on each revolution. For a good fifteen minutes I could have sung Christmas Carols with the Vienna Boys Choir and hit the highest pitched notes with little difficulty. Eventually a Good Samaritan helped me up and I hobbled away down 37^th avenue to look for less dangerous stores to continue my Christmas shopping experience in, while keeping a close lookout for evil plastic Santas who might wish to waylay me. The store owners waved to me as I moved away, saying something in their native tongue which probably did not translate to “Come Again Soon!”                                                                                                                                                                                                            

Jim -Nov 23’