The Hunchback of Neiman Marcus

  I’ve been passing by for years on my daily runs,

  littering my path like benign grenades.

  To me

  they’d seemed like nothing more

  than sprained ankles waiting to happen.

  AND THAT’S WHEN IT DAWNS ON ME

  That sometimes,

  when you

  stop

  and take a look around,

  when you pause

  for a moment

  and look again,

  through a whole new lens,

  at what you’ve been looking at all your life,

  you’re able to see for the first time

  the things you’ve been

  taking for granted…

  Which is when

  I decide

  that from now on

  even if

  I don’t feel like going

  to the party,

  especially if

  I don’t feel like going

  to the party,

  I will

  always go

  to the party.

  SAFE AND SOUND?

  Now that my mother is off of steroids

  and done with rehab and out of the hospital,

  she’s living at home.

  Alone.

  I’ve tried to convince her

  to come to California and live with us.

  But she says fish and visitors

  stink after three days.

  And besides,

  she’d miss her house,

  and her friends,

  and raking the leaves.

  I’ve tried to convince her to let me find

  someone to move in with her and look after her.

  But she says she likes her privacy;

  says she doesn’t need any looking after.

  And no matter how much I wheedle

  and threaten, no matter how much I insist,

  she refuses to wear

  the emergency necklace I gave her—

  the one with the button on it

  that she can press to summon help

  in case she ever falls down again

  and can’t get back up.

  “That thing gets in my way,” she grouses.

  “It’s ugly. It makes me feel

  like a helpless old woman.

  And I may be old, but I am not helpless.”

  So I call her every day

  to make sure she’s okay.

  And most of the time she’s perfectly fine,

  her wit sharper than a paper cut.

  Sometimes, though,

  there almost seems to be

  a suspicious frost in her tone,

  as though she’s not quite sure

  I am who I say I am.

  TODAY, WHEN I CALL

  My mother doesn’t answer.

  I tell myself she’s probably

  just taking a nap.

  But fear’s icy fingers

  grab my throat

  and won’t let go.

  I finally call

  her next-door neighbor Eric

  and beg him to knock on her door.

  Then, I stand here waiting—

  with my eyes shut tight,

  and the phone nearly crushing my ear,

  trying

  very hard

  not to imagine

  my mother’s corpse.

  DURING THE HELL THAT FREEZES OVER

  Before Eric

  saunters back onto the line

  and informs me

  that my mother’s fine,

  I promise God

  that if he lets my mother live

  I will finish writing

  my book.

  I’VE BEEN WORKING DAY AND NIGHT

  Sequestering myself in my office

  with Secret purring in my lap,

  only emerging

  for meals.

  Michael’s been great about

  not interrupting me.

  He’s even been cooking

  and doing all the errands

  and fielding calls

  from Roxie.

  I’ve been so totally focused

  on my manuscript

  that when my mother calls

  to ask me what I want for my birthday

  she catches me by surprise.

  “My birthday…?” I say.

  “It’s next week, dear. Had you forgotten?”

  “Wow…I guess I had…”

  Last year,

  my birthday loomed over me

  like a vulture waiting

  to pick my bones clean.

  But this year, I hadn’t even

  noticed it was coming.

  “So tell me what you’d like,” she says.

  “What have you been wishing for?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Mom.

  I don’t really need anything…”

  But then it hits me,

  in one of those blinding flashes.

  “Actually, Mom,” I say, “there is

  something I’ve been wishing for.”

  Then I pause for effect.

  “Well? What is it, Holly?”

  “I’ve been wishing you’d wear

  that emergency necklace I got you.”

  There’s a silence

  on the other end of the line.

  Then

  I hear a deep sigh.

  “Darling,” my mother says, “are you sure

  you wouldn’t rather have a Mercedes?”

  I crack up.

  “I’m sure, Mom.”

  “Then I’ll wear your damn necklace.

  But not when my beau comes over.”

  “Your beau…?!” I say.

  “You’ve got a beau?”

  “Why yes, dear…Eric—from next door.

  He’s a lovely man.”

  My heart dances a little jig in my chest.

  “That’s incredible, Mom. I’m so happy for you!”

  “I’m sort of robbing the cradle…” she confides.

  “He’s only seventy-five.”

  And both of us burst out laughing,

  as a river of relief flows through me.

  IT HAPPENS FOR THE ZILLIONTH TIME ON THE EVE OF MY FIFTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY

  I wake up drenched

  at 3 a.m.,

  thinking,

  Oh, no…not again…

  Wrestling with my blanket

  like a rabid beast,

  writhing

  in tangled smoking sheets,

  I keep on reminding

  myself while I thrash:

  no one ever died

  of a hot flash.

  I SHOVE OPEN THE FRENCH DOORS

  And rush out of the bedroom

  into the luscious cool of the October night

  and—ahhhhhh…

  I spread my arms wide,

  letting the chilly air envelop me…

  And that’s when I hear it—

  Clementine’s shrill cry,

  piercing the stillness

  like a siren.

  How well I remember that newborn bleat—

  the way it gripped me,

  rattled me, possessed me

  till I somehow managed

  to figure out what is was

  that Samantha wanted…

  I’d forgotten how it felt

  to be woken up every two hours,

  every single night…

  I’d forgotten how it felt

  to be so sleep-deprived that I

  brushed my teeth with Michael’s hair gel…

  so exhausted

  that my eyes felt like they were

  sinking into my head…

  so out-of-it

  that I couldn’t even form

  a sentence…

  And suddenly,

  I reach an astounding conclusion:

  I am glad…no—

  I am positively delighted

  that my baby-making days

&n
bsp; are over!

  ON MY BIRTHDAY

  Michael and I spend the morning

  digging a hole

  where our tree once stood.

  Then, together,

  we plant a new one—

  a ginkgo tree.

  We chose the ginkgo

  because it’s highly resistant

  to root rot.

  And because

  we fell in love

  with its fan-shaped leaves

  which, at this time of year, turn a golden yellow

  and shimmer on their branches

  like flocks of buttery moths.

  Some say

  the seed of the ginkgo tree

  is an aphrodisiac.

  Some claim

  it helps ward off memory loss

  and dementia.

  Some consider ginkgo trees,

  which have been around for 270 million years,

  to be “living fossils.”

  When I tell

  Samantha this,

  she says, “Just like you!”

  LATER ON

  After Michael has presented me

  with a beautiful painting of Samantha,

  and cooked me an exquisite lunch,

  I head over to Jane’s with some cake.

  Even before the door swings open

  I can hear the chaos within—Pinkie yapping,

  Madison throwing a whopper of a tantrum,

  the baby howling its head off.

  Jane greets me, bleary-eyed,

  with her frenzied babe in her arms,

  a half-hearted smile on her face.

  “It’s my birthday,” I say, offering the cake.

  She invites me in, murmuring apologies

  for the noise and for the state of her kitchen.

  “Don’t be silly,” I say.

  “You’ve got both hands full!”

  I walk over to the shrieking Madison

  and kneel down in front of her.

  “I’ve brought some birthday cake,” I say.

  She eyes the plate and stops bawling.

  “Babies can’t eat cake,” I say.

  “But big girls can. Would you like some?”

  Madison wipes her dripping nose

  on the back of her hand and nods solemnly.

  “I want da piece wit da rose,” she sniffs.

  I find a fork and settle her at the kitchen table.

  Next, I turn my attention to Jane and the baby,

  who’s still screaming bloody murder.

  “Can I hold her for a minute?” I ask.

  Without a moment’s hesitation,

  Jane pops her infant into my arms

  and flops down onto the couch.

  And because,

  unlike Jane,

  I’m not tense and worn out and frazzled—

  Clementine hushes instantly.

  I rock her in my arms,

  gazing into her calm eyes,

  feeling the strength of her tiny fingers

  hanging on to my thumb,

  and decide, then and there,

  that from now on I’ll be coming over here

  to hold this child for Jane

  at least once a day.

  That should satisfy me

  until I become a grandmother.

  Which, God willing,

  won’t be anytime soon.

  CULTURE SHOCK

  Samantha just emailed me a link

  to an amazing article about

  a recently discovered ancient African tribe

  called the Mamalasu,

  which, until six months ago,

  had been hidden away in the misted depths

  of a lush ferned forest

  somewhere in Eastern Gabon.

  Anthropologists have learned

  that the Mamalasu men

  believe wrinkles are the sacred handprints

  of the gods of good fortune—

  so the older and more lined

  a Mamalasu woman becomes

  the more she is desired

  by the men in the village.

  The more her breasts sag—

  a symbol of her gaining

  the supreme wisdom

  of the all-knowing ancestors—

  the more the men of the tribe

  yearn to lie with her beneath the dappled light

  of the Moon Mother, while the talking drums

  beat their chants into the night.

  The young men especially,

  their bodies toned and sleek

  from the many hours

  they spend hunting for food,

  vie for a chance

  to couple with these women,

  whose white hair is thought to be a sign

  of the soul’s deepest enlightenment.

  They run their fingertips

  over the shrunken bellies

  of these old women,

  and are said to feel a stirring in their loins

  so powerfully charged

  with the animal spirit

  that they are often overcome

  with unbridled lust…

  Is it

  any wonder

  I am thinking

  of moving there?

  AW, COME ON

  You knew I was kidding, right?

  That I made that whole Mamalasu thing up?

  But you found it surprisingly simple

  to suspend your disbelief, didn’t you?

  Well, to tell you the truth, so did I.

  Even while I was inventing them.

  But each of us believes

  what we want to believe.

  So let’s choose to believe

  that the Mamalasu are real.

  And, then,

  let’s take it a step further—

  let’s allow ourselves to believe

  that we are Mamalasu women

  and that our husbands and lovers

  are Mamalasu men.

  From this day forth,

  let’s think of our aging bodies

  as temples

  of ever-increasing desirability.

  IN THE MAIL

  A first

  in the annals

  of college history:

  the freshman

  sends a care package

  to the parents!

  We open the box and find a plastic bag

  filled with oak leaves—

  fiery gold, crimson, and amber.

  We dig deeper and discover

  two matching hooded sweatshirts,

  emblazoned with the name of Samantha’s school,

  plus some dark chocolates for Michael,

  some caramels for me,

  and some catnip for Secret.

  And,

  at the very bottom of the box,

  there’s a photo of our daughter—

  cheek to cheek with Monkey,

  both of them grinning

  their goofiest grins.

  I reach in,

  lift out the photo,

  and press it to my heart.

  IS IT A GOOD SIGN?

  Is it a good sign if you find

  that you’ve lost interest in looking up

  all your old boyfriends on Facebook?

  And that instead of getting pissed off

  when you’re offered the senior discount,

  you’re happy to save a few bucks?

  And that, these days, you don’t even have to

  come face to face with your own mortality

  before you’ll sit down and write?

  Is it a good sign if, now and then,

  when you think about your mother,

  you feel strangely at peace?

  And that if you hear the neighbor’s daughter

  singing “Now I Know My ABCs”

  you feel only the slightest twinge?

  And that instead of feeling the need

  to write yet another “bad sign” poem,

 
you find yourself writing

  this poem?

  NOSTALGIA

  All of us

  were young once.

  And for each of us

  there was a certain afternoon.

  An afternoon when we were

  as beautiful as we’d ever been,

  as beautiful

  as we’d ever get—

  and not one of us

  knew that it was happening.

  All of us

  are older now.

  And for each of us

  there will be a certain afternoon.

  An afternoon

  when we will pass by a mirror

  and see that the last bit of youthful beauty