Yet, Unsaid

            “You know, I’m in love with you.”

He smiled at the silent sentiment that had often crossed his mind these days whenever he thought of her. He spent more time now thinking of her, now that she was out of his life, absent from the everyday.

Yet, he continually pondered whether she had ever thought of him during this time of anti-social social distancing. He realized her genuine smile for everyone that stopped by the busy Penn Station kiosk to pick up an ice-cold refreshment before heading home.
           Yet, that same smile; it shined whenever he stopped by

Always running late, trying to catch his train, he had never caught her name.

Did he really love her?

Probably not.

Yet, in this time of uncertainty, he so often thought of things undone. Mortality suddenly seemed so real, something so defined on the faces of everyone, something that a forced face mask could never deny.

He sighed, and dreamed of one last hurried happenstance meeting. Her smile undoubtedly obscured underneath that damned, unwanted, unasked for mask would still radiate.

“You know, I’m in love with you,” he’d tell her, his own smile beaming behind the cloth covering, bringing the banter they had loosely shared just a bit further forward.

What did he have to lose?

What did anyone in this time of realized impermanence have to lose?

Things left undone? That was one thing, but things…

Yet, unsaid.

“You know, I’m in love with you,” he vowed to utter aloud.

The first on a list of some 40,000 somethings in his life that he still wanted to do.

Tom M.

May 5/22/20

On Again, Off Again

          Most incandescent light  bulbs last about 1500 hours. I looked it up on Google. So how can you account for how long the sensor bulbs on the side of my house are lasting? My nephew Micael installed then over forty years ago  and they are still faithfully coming on at the stroke of dusk and turning off at dawn.



          Michael was a bright child but in our current school system,he would have been classified as academically challenged. Although he had a learning disability, from early childhood he showed an unusual interest and skill in all things that had to do with electricity. In this throwaway society, he would take apart broken appliances and repair  them. He was known as the Electric Wizard in his apartment building. The saying was, “Give it to Michael. He will fix it.” When New York City had a major blackout in 1965, the half serious joke was that Micael caused it. This self taught electrician, in his early twenties started his own lucrative  business installing lighting fixtures and burglar alarm systems. Early on in his career, he installed my two exterior sensor lightbulbs. I’m not good at doing the math, but for over four decades, I continue to report to Micael, “Yes, your bulbs are still doing the job.”


          The fixture still functions like new. I still function like somewhat new but sadly, my nephew’s cognitive and physical skills are diminishing.  Michael has developed  an inoperable brain tumor. I worry my fixture will  outlive Michael.

Ethyl H.

May 2020

I'd Rather be Six Feet Apart than Six Feet Down

Hello Friend

An embrace would be comforting

A handshake would be nice

An inside joke refreshing

A slap on the back all right

Masked like a bandit

Gloved like a nightclub singer

Diving out of the way of a sneezer

I’d rather be six feet apart than six feet down

Lysol is my new aftershave

Scrubs my new summer shirt

Hanging on the daily utterances of the Governor

Listening for the Mayor’s new dirt

It’s a strange new world constructed from the pieces of what was before

Held together with sanitizing gel that I abhor

I’d rather be six feet apart than six feet down

Reality is a “B” grade Science Fiction movie

The world a shadow of its former self

Sidelined for now and put on a shelf

           I’d rather be six feet apart than six feet down

Jim

May 2020

BLUE

My handmade quilt is a blue Grandma’s Garden pattern, my couch is blue, my staircase carpeting is blue and so is my dining room wallpaper

So it’s a treat to walk outside, after being locked in the house, to find a beautiful blue sky. The surprise, as I take my daily walk, is to find all the blue fingers. Hey, I recognize you from all the days I spent visiting my husband, a patient in Lenox Hill Hospital. Doctor enters the room, blue gloves on. Nurse enters the room, blue gloves on. X-Ray technician wheels in his equipment, blue gloves on. Food arrives, with someone already outfitted in the blue gloves

Back in the neighborhood, notice all the discarded squished blue fingers here and there. Blue squished fingers in brown muddy water, some sunk and some floating on top after the rain. Discarded blue thumbs up sitting on the neighbor's lawn. They are surrounded by young purple blossoms poking out of new green grass. Further along, there’s a squished set of blue fingers reaching for a dandelion. Two blue fingers pointing together seem to be a duck’s bill.

Back in the house, my box of indigo blue nitrile gloves, artifacts of the science fiction era in which I live, is open and ready to supply me with a sanitary and safe way to open my mail, newspaper, packages and Meals on Wheels.

Ethyl H.

May 2020

40,000 Things I Still Want to Do

1. Travel around the world by boat.
2. Read the 20 books I have collecting dust.
3. Give a TED speech on mental health.
4. Write 40 mini self-help books.
5. Exhibit my paintings in 15 galleries and the MOMA.
6. Own a miniature sheep, miniature donkey, miniature goat.
7. Own 2 dogs and four more cats.
8. Commit to better physical health.
9. Sew two fabric journals.
10. Learn to line draw.
11. Learn to self-publish.
12. Learn to be brave.
13. Live in a house.
14. Buy an American made passenger truck.
15. Open a YouTube channel.
16. Organize my overflowing possessions.
17. Leave a legacy
18. Find a gargoyle as an urn for my ashes.
19. Meet 6 famous writers, haven’t decide on whom yet.
20. Make 39,980 new friends

Georgia P

May 2020

Psychic Signals

She had a bit of Romany blood in her—dark lustrous hair, tawny skin, large hands, a face that reflected a life of experience. I wish I could remember her name. Let’s just call her Gypsy. She was one of the secretarial assistants at the ad agency I worked at. We were friendly—lunch now and again, but not much else.

One day, over sandwiches at the coffee shop, she announced “I am training to be a psychic.”

“Really?” I said as flatly as I could manage. My eyebrows lifted slightly, but my mouth stayed closed. I did not laugh or look shocked. She took this as a positive sign.

 “Would you help me with a homework assignment? I have to do a reading on someone I don’t know very well.” 

“Well, you should know that I’m really skeptical about paranormal phenomena,” I replied,” but I’m really curious also.” Then I admitted that I had known things in the past that made absolutely no sense for me to know – once in a dream and once after reading a letter.

Two weekends later I visited her in her apartment.  After some pleasantries, she dimmed the lights and reclined on the couch. “I have a voice on the other side who I need to contact,” she explained. "She will give me the answers to your questions. You can ask anything you want.”

Applying my 7th grade scientific method education, I planned to ask questions for which I knew the answers and others for which I needed answers. She handed me her assignment sheet, printed with lines for me to read aloud. The instructions said that words would relax the beginner psychic and lead her deeper and deeper into the trance-state.

I read the words slowly and evenly, speaking without urgency, pausing between sentences. And then I waited.

Suddenly a small drugged voice broke the silence with, “You may begin now.”

My first question was extremely practical: “Where is my stolen car?” A moment passed.

Then she informed me slowly and dreamily, “I see a dark red, maybe a maroon car . . .  at night . . . near water. . .  down near a dock. . . on the west side. Oh wait, maybe it’s light blue.”

“What kind of psychic manure was this?” I thought. This was no help. I needed specifics. When she got the color wrong, I just shrugged my shoulders and continued on with ever-diminishing belief in her psychic aptitudes. I decided to check out something I knew the answer to.

“What did my mother die from?” There was a long pause, a painful look on her face, before she made the pronouncement: “Cancer.”

 “Not a bad guess,” I thought. Then Gypsy was more specific: “It started in her left breast.”  Still, not quite right. It actually started in her right breast, metastasized to the lymph nodes, then to the stomach, her reproductive organs, and her brain. A closer answer but not a jackpot.

“What about the problem with my eye? Will I go blind?” This really troubled me. Finally, the response came.

 “No.” It may get worse, but you’ll never go blind.” I let out a sigh of relief. Something I wanted to believe in. Turns out it’s been 40 years, and she was right (well so far anyway).

There were other questions and answers. I can’t remember them all.  Throughout the session, I kept thinking encouragingly,” It’s all right. You’re doing fine.” After all, she did get a lot of the questions right.

When she woke up from her trance, she told me that I was a strong mental transmitter and that no one had ever put her into a trance so deeply or so quickly. I thought, “Oh, boy, she’s trying to flatter me.” But then, my skepticism suddenly disappeared and I became a believer when she said this:

“I’m so exhausted, but I’m confident it was a good reading. My voice from the other side kept saying ‘It’s all right. You’re doing fine.’”

I swear I did not move my lips during the entire session, except to ask my questions. Gypsy’s eyes appeared closed throughout. I did not whisper a thing, but she heard what I was thinking, word for word, and repeated the sentences in exactly the same cadence I had said them in my mind. Did Gypsy’s little voice from beyond place the words in my brain or did it read my mind and transfer the words to her? I will never know. 

What I do know is this. The next car I bought was light metallic blue, and not because of the power of psychic suggestion. No. It was the only color left in that model in the showroom. I wish Gypsy had told me not to buy the car. It was such a piece of junk.  The car after that? You guessed it: deep, dark red. Happy trails and psychic paths to you all.

M. Hoffer

May, 2020

How There Came to be Flowers in the Spring

Every year as winter ended and the Sun grew in strength, the Earth would turn green in the spring and brown in the fall returning to grey for the winter. It was nice but a little monochromatic and boring. One year as the Moon gazed down on Mother Earth reawakening at the end of winter, she had an idea. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a party, a display, an extravaganza to celebrate the end of the dreary, cold, grey winter and the return of spring! The Moon made an appointment to speak to the Sun about her idea; the pompous one always wanted an appointment.

“It would be wonderful and festive to get everyone in a good mood for the coming year. What do you think Sun?”

The Sun was not very industrious, a  bit starcentric and lazy, happy to rest on his laurels just hanging there in the sky in all his nakedness radiating heat and light while all the sycophants told him that he was wonderful, worshiping him and all his utterances, enraptured in  his majesty, more  out of fear than admiration as if everything revolved around him.

“Well I don’t know, “said the Sun. “It sounds like a lot of work to me!”

“What work? All you have to do is hang there in the sky and provide plenty of light and heat for the plants and animals,” said the Moon. “You do that anyway. Now, Mother Earth, she is the one who would have a lot of work to do, coordinating the clouds and storms, dealing with all the questions and requests from the plants and animals. It’s  a lot of administrative work   for her!”

“I guess so,” said the Sun.

“What are your ideas for this celebration?” inquired the star.

 The Moon explained that she would like all the trees and plants to produce flowers, beautiful flowers from across the entire spectrum and not all at once, but in a constantly changing display as the different trees and plants put their best outfits on over the entire spring season.

Next the Sun and Moon went to Mother Earth with their idea.

“Wait a minute, Moon. It is a nice idea and you have convinced the Sun who merely produces light and heat, but I’ll get stuck with all the logistics, coordinating everything, in  the trenches, all the boots on the ground stuff while you two take all the credit and I do all the work,” exclaimed Mother Earth. “I’m not doing this by myself. I’ll need both of you to help me as well as the birds and insects to assist with decorations, coordination and communication!”

The Sun and Moon agreed to help her and they worked out all the details.

First came the crocuses, those impatient early spring pioneers with their lovely purple and yellow flowers, then the hyacinths and begonias, followed by roses and tiger lilies, daisies and peonies, each flower wearing a dazzling outfit and their best perfume.

The trees also participated, along with the bushes flowering in every beautiful color imaginable. The birds and insects did their part, spreading seeds and pollen while coordinating with the animals of the forest and meadows.

Each week of spring a different movement of the floral symphony played as the celebration continued into the summer. Dazzling deep purples, navy blues, fire engine     reds, blazing oranges and jubilant yellows burst on the scene and then melted into the myriad tapestry of colors.

The celebration was a monumental amount of work, but the Sun and Moon did their share helping Mother Earth along with the birds and insects. It had been a total success! It was the talk of the forest, and all of the wildlife enjoyed the display. The brooks babbled on about it and the streams roared about the show. The birds sang and tweeted, the mountains guffawed in deep resonating tones of mirth, while the trees swung their limbs around happily embracing the rays of the sun.

At the end of spring the Sun, Moon and Mother Earth met and decided that it would be an annual event.

And this is why there are flowers in the spring.

Jim

May 2020