Your Ghost

I slept with your ghost last night. Your soft blonde hair gently lay upon my pillow. I felt the softness of your skin beneath my arms and the whisper of your cologne washed over me, rocking me like a lullaby.

I slept with your ghost again last night. When you turned to face me I could still see forever in your eyes and the smile that lives in my heart and tickles my brain at the most random times.

I slept with your ghost again last night. Non-existent arms held me tight and breath that wasn’t real warmed the back of my neck pulling me deeper into the dreams where you waited.

I slept with your ghost again last night.

Grandma Cora

I meditate frequently. I find it peaceful and soothing and it takes me out of my crazy, chaotic, Christina brain to places that are much more adventurous, much more exciting, and, sometimes, much more safe.

One of the meditations I learned begins with choosing a place—any safe place. The idea behind the deep breathing and thinking about this “place” is to find comfort--to go to that one place, or those places that we have often found soothing. A quiet forest, a tranquil stream, an open meadow filled with wildflowers and a soft breeze.

My safe place has always been and will always be Grandma Cora’s. Grandma’s house seems forever etched in my memory. And when I close my eyes and wait patiently, Grandma Cora comes to me.

She sits in her recliner, partially-crocheted mittens in her lap (always a mint green yarn), her Carlton cigarette burns in the ashtray next to her. It is always winter in my mind—the snow deep and dangerous and the wind fiercely swirling atop the mountain where she resides. The windows in the kitchen are partially covered in a thin layer of ice but Grandma and I are warm. The wood stove blazing hot, I am physically, spiritually, mentally and emotionally warm. Grandma’s house is like that. It warms me to my core. My breathing slows and I forget that I am sad.

My meditative mind wanders around the house. Faded yellow counters, a refrigerator full of outdated salad dressings (she will NEVER throw out), a variegated blue/green carpet, and Grandpa’s coffee Nips on the end table next to his rocker remind me that nothing changes at Grandma Cora’s. Here is where I can always find unconditional love, sour cream cookies, and a scolding when need be. I inhale deeply and no longer am I here in “this world.”

Grandma never wears shoes in the house—only open-toed, pastel slippers—blue or pink with rubber-soled bottoms which she isn’t afraid to use on your rear end when called for. Her soft brown curls amaze me—no gray—never any gray—I like that Grandma doesn’t have gray. I like so many things about Grandma. I like that she speaks her mind. I like that she is nosey—I get that from her. I like that she knows everybody and all the sordid and wonderful details of their past. I have come to find comfort in our conversations. My eyes closed I talk to Grandma. I don’t realize the chaos has left me.

We watch her soap operas together. I see her hands—olive skin, wrinkled with years of determination, and long fingernails I always wished I had inherited. I smell her roast cooking and potatoes boiling. I hear the tinkling of Grandma and Grandpa’s spoons in their coffee cups early in the morning when they think I am still asleep on the sofa. I taste her Spanish rice—always served in the Red Poppy bowl she left me. And I touch her. Grandma is here with me. She is always here with me. It’s as if she never left.

I miss you Grandma Cora.

Baby Got Vac

Seriously. You ever have one of those days?

So, my daughter was kind enough to give me a used sofa. She delivered it, my Mom stored it in her garage, and I figured maybe I’d give it a good steam cleaning before the actual venture to our home in Liberty and up to the narrow hallwayed-second floor-apartment. And thus, dear con-artist reader-my saga begins.

I find mom’s steam cleaner, fill it with hot, hot water and ammonia and take it out to the garage. Try to turn on the lights in the garage, but they aren’t working. Hmmm. Check the cords, everything plugged in properly, follow the extension cord that supplies the garage with electricity to the back of Ma’s house—all plugged in. Damn it. Call mom at work, ask the receptionist for “Laundry”—no answer. Decide to wait a bit—maybe she’s on break. While waiting, realize the attachment hose isn’t on the steam vac. Go back into house and find it in Ma’s “Junk room” closet. Take it out and attempt to figure out how to hook it up. Seriously confused. Oh well, I’ll ask Ma when I call her. Decide to remove the cushion covers and wash them in the washer. Crap, there are two zippered compartments—not just one—and I know when I go to put them back on its going to be a helluva fight. OK, anyway, I remove all the sponge innards, set them aside, fill the washer with hot water, use some extra shout on each cushion and get the wash started. After about 20 minutes, I call the nursing home where Ma works and ask for Sandee Hall. Ma says maybe the reset button on the outlet needs to be hit again and when I ask about the hose attachment she gets a little scattered trying to explain. At that point I hear someone in the background say something—must be a smart ass comment because Ma yells “shut up!” Ma says to plug the one end into the little cubby and the other end goes in the part that you take out for dirty water. OK, I say, I’ll figure it out.

I take out the water tank and dirty water receptacle, get the one end plugged into the cubby OK, but can’t for the life of me figure out the other end. Sighing, I decide to just look it up on the internet. Go BACK into the house, check the internet—crap—forget to look at the name of the vac. Go back to garage and find name “Hoover Steamvac Spinscrub” got it. I recite the name all the way back into the house, find the Hoover website, type in Hoover Steamvac Spinscrub and am linked to a place where I can find and download (of course) the entire instruction manual. OK, I type in Steamvac Spinscrub—again—but am advised I need a model number. Out to the garage find the model number—recite it all the way back in, but forget it as soon as I go to type it in. Go to kitchen get a pen and paper, go back out, and find model number. Back into the house—the dog is now looking at me like I seriously need meds—and type in the model number—TO WHICH THE WEBSITE EXPLAINS THEY ARE SORRY BUT NO LONGER HAVE THAT MANUAL!!! Slight twitch. Big Sigh. I type in various things hoping to find other results. Lots of questions like mine, but the answers are vague and complicated. 3 more times I go back to the garage and attempt to follow some of the written directions, but to no avail. Bigger twitch. Bigger sigh. Swear. Find a website with video instructions and click on that. Careful not to get ahead of myself I watch the entire video to make sure I know what I’m doing. OK, I got it. Go back to garage—struggle for about a minute but get it hooked up. Start to steam clean the couch—although now the water is pissy warm-- and immediately discover that it really isn’t the tool I need to clean the sofa after all. What I need is a bucket, a scrub brush, and some elbow grease. Complete facial distortion, kick the steamvac, swear at everything and the dog, sit down, count to ten and compose myself. Go BACK into the house, grab a bucket. Turn on the hot water faucet---to find THERE’S NO HOT WATER because I used it all cleaning the goddamn sofa cushions in the washer.

Sit down, say a prayer and meditate for 5. Consider all my options. I really need this sofa. It really is in good condition. I love the color. It has to be cleaned, though, cause Katie’s little guys are rough and spill a lot. I think about my life. I give myself credit for raising a good daughter, making it through a difficult divorce, working my recovery and more, and make what I feel is the right decision—Fuck it—I’m going to take a nap.