Angel Codes in 5
The first time, I was gifted a smooth, white quartz. A milky crystal to hold and cherish for protection. That’s what my mother-in-law, Marge, urged me to do. “It’s already blessed,” she said, “on my last trip, I stood inside the circle of the round temple and held it high to the sun. The shaman assured me it is charged with my good wishes for you.” Of course, I accepted her benign gift. “I believe it’s Archangel Gabriel’s, maybe Raphael’s stone, but don’t quote me on it, It’s blurry,” her post covid memory speaking. Not particularly bothered or elated, I thought it a nice thing to have around and admire. She went on about her visit to the traditional ritualistic site in central Mexico. Next time, they came as music. Celestial chants from a relatively new choir popped up. The music app said it was something I might like. The Poor Sisters hailed heaven. Their Elysian voices enveloped the old SUV’s interior, lighting up the world. A sense of bliss popped up as something I might live. Again and again, I let it repeat, like a junkie for the fix, all the rest of the month. The third time I located a feather, resting gently between the intersection of two branches. Its delicate filaments shuddered softly in the early spring air, calling my gaze into twilight. Soon after, a casual search on the Internet found me a handful of sites. They stated I might find such a sign, in case doubt was too set in its ways. The fourth time, they sent a token. ¿A secret password? ¿ A code maybe? Not sure, but they left a Rummi chip with a number twelve face up, partially buried in the warm dirt of the park, waiting to be unearthed. Back home, I googled lots, searching in a rampage for angelic codes. Confused, dazed after encountering such a vast mixture of data and tales, I retreated. I’d stay concise and follow their example. Twelve would be our simple token of trust, nothing more. The fifth time they just plain spoke. We were in the middle of yet another summer blackout. Our house stood silent, heavy with trapped in heat. Hubby called the electricity people to register a service failure report. Then a voice “¿How may I help, what seems to be the problem, where are you located, what time did…” static on the line, fizzy sounds. “You’re fading,” said hubby to the kind lady. Soon came their voices, electric words spoken, particles stirred in ether waves, rip roared in my mind. A language not any of us understood, but it brought the light back, instantly. Hubby pressed “end call” on his cell. That was that. Five times assured, five ways to tell, I’m in good company.
Pigeons
We still notice them, sometimes, but soon forget their presence. These days they swish more impetuously, in front of speeding vehicles, barely making it, overconfident. They stare down at us, perched on a myriad cables overhanging our city’s space. Curious groups overseeing our bustle, the haste of our misunderstood time. Poised on roofs or in the hollows of a rickety overpass, their plumped up chests point to the sky dignified. Then, a steep dive. In brief trips from one vector to another, deep murmurs infuse the air, whenever our ear manages to filter, the mass of sounds looming, echoes clashing against brash new buildings. They fly over our park, landing on the faded bridge that crosses over a turbulent river of cars. Their flights are oblivious to change from the increased traffic, our frantic drivers trying to beat the hour, lost in neurotic worry. Pigeons plunging into space that used to be innocent, now taken by construction sites, modern apartment buildings, sets of even more cabling, crisscrossing between. Reaching long, a gray palette of feathers extends before take off, and in a swift sweep, before I know it, they’ve landed with conviction on the next grimy roof. I heard their guttural remarks just the other day, talking amongst themselves, but their meaning got muffled by the wood polisher machine, the tile cutter going full blast, well into the afternoon. ¿What is the secret to their excitement? Pigeons everywhere, so much so, barely anyone ever notices. Coexisting on our roofs, inside carcasses of old buildings soon to be demolished. The common invaders cradle my afternoon, in layers of foggy gray, creamy white, and homey coos.
Commute
Not much is needed, besides good food, select music, and the same unruly road. The 2016 SUV still delivers, though we should at least promise to change her front tires. Soon. Fortunately, our Oxford gray ride is trustworthy, even if she croaks over the dimpled streets of this overgrown city. This morning, your avocado toast soothes with the aroma of sprouted wheat, and my coffee seethes in its metal thermos. But before digging in, you roamed my paid subscription to Spotify and decided to try our luck with an album we haven’t heard yet. It might be a good one. We are a curious pair, of tired city dwellers, commuting each day in hope and determination, that these repetitions will bear fruit for your future. Resolve has become invisible, we feel compelled. ¿Is it the strange working of destiny that makes us travel the twists and crannies of the urban sprawl? The SUV sails among a potpourri of vehicles and trailers, making their own ways, detached from our cause. You bite into the golden toast with certainty. I’ll take that as a good omen after a much needed swig. The piping hot brew disseminates hope. This is our ritual. You illustrate, without intending to, how it is to be so young, gambling on a road with few guarantees. You make me recall. I also used to love toast in the morning and looked out the window as I commuted to school. The city’s corners, its sequestered neighborhoods, populated by gamblers of life, watch us roll by. We loved the album, turned out your selected artist was a darn good songwriter. If it weren’t for you I’d never have known, that’s the thing. We are commuters compelled by shared destinies, travelers, and our road in company already contains the secret password, the lucky charm, your future behind the muddled housing. Soon, I see variegated meadows stretching ahead. Oxford gray roads meld into a new portrait. Our SUV is now venturing into crisp, new territory, the city left behind. Cows graze comforted, green is the guiding color, just as you finish the last of your avo toast.
My Antonia
A quaint, soft-cover book had been sitting around at home for years, in one of Mom’s Mexican rustic bookcases. Back in my twenties, she bought me a batch of English classics to read up. She saw me consume the dainty hardcovers from her Jane Austen collection. Brontë’s Jane Eyre found me a new heroine in the convenient pocket paperback. The yellowish pages from mom’s Wuthering Heights copy revealed the kind of obscure romance I could get hooked on, and dwell on its effects for days. Still, it was a bit difficult for my young self to read these works, as it was an older English than the one I was used to. Also, it wasn’t my habit to halt my reading long enough to dig into the dictionary, learn new words, and above all, retain them. But I never got to My Antonia, life just threw things my way, and I got caught up and entangled in her net. I married, got my own place, had three daughters. The gift kept to itself, stowed in a sturdy cardboard box after one of our many moves. My Antonia stayed put, together with Tess of the D’Urbervilles, Saki’s collection of works, and Jude the Obscure. Somehow not gathering too much dust, loyal to the classic sheen of friendly paperbacks. But how naughty life is. She decided it was My Antonia’s turn, rain or shine. It was for the best, I needed a healthy break from my phone. Checking on social media kept reminding me of my precarious financial situation at that time. Acquaintances flaunted their trips abroad on Facebook, and then reposted on Instagram. They strode along beaches, ate amazing foods, looked great at family get togethers, and were just so happy. Nothing was there for me, for sure. When my youngest began college, we had to drive 30 miles each morning to another district. Gas wasn’t cheap. My backside didn’t take kindly to hours of sitting in the car either. So I decided to wait for her on campus, saw no point in driving back home. I took out My Antonia from her station in the card board box and set myself up to read all about her. I unfolded the seat of our cherry red hatchback, propped up my loins on a couple of old pillows from the linen closet. My morning coffee was hot and ready in a thermos. I took a swig between bites of the breakfast cookies I packed that morning. I read like my young days, when I had no real commitments. Willa Carter’s book went back and forth between districts, Monday to Friday. I built a little routine of breakfast while reading. Took a walk. Back to the car. Read some more. Took a nap. Another small walk, while pondering on the wonderful story of Antonia Shimerdas’ untamed spirit. The realistic storytelling, tidy descriptions, the earnest portrayal of the native natural surroundings didn’t need additions. All was perfect, no Facebook. Those days were for Antonia, Jim, and their part in the building of a nation. Carved out of its earth, begun at the dugouts, moved upward with ambition, sacrifice, and spirit. I wept when, towards the end, after many years, Jim went back to the countryside to visit Antonia. I worried one of them might die before that day, but bodies weren’t frail like that; they could take quite a bit of the harsh wilderness of the agrarian country before giving in to pain and disease. Jim reencountered an even more beautiful woman on that last visit. Abundant in children, she’d borne the fruits of her incessant hunger for life. A love of the land, the physicality of work, and the memories of her father’s own hardship had cultivated her soul. Naturally proud of what she had built, she seemed to know that her mission had been fulfilled. Antonia tamed Nebraska’s wildness in her heart. Her sturdy spirit spoke to me, amidst incoming chat messages I cared little for, and commutes. Those were silly nuances under the rugged will that shaped Antonia’s body. She lost almost all of her teeth to pregnancy, but her eyes shone as always, even in the haggard face of struggle. They celebrated under her garden pagoda, talking as all of Antonia´s children played around. It was victory, the climb out of scarcity, a life lived to the very last drop.
Springs
That hope springs eternal It has been said Sarcasm or bliss But what if hope be the mesh? Sifting, Dread of sharp gravel Impoverished thought disgraced Pictures torn and mended Voiced disarray Chimes hardened to rust No message conveyed. And if hope be the finest Might she be formed by air Flickers of matter Mysterious substance Prowess of light? That nothing could touch her Yet power belied Such fabric confected by hands beyond mind To withstand our sorrows Doubts and dismay I dare say she lies quiet Amidst a spring they call faith So we hide behind eyes Soaked Striding terrains on the bleakest night Groping on forward Hoping to see But desperate hands grow numb We must stop to breathe And when in air unhindered By heavy footsteps dense We notice at last Her lonely hope of sense That hearts might flicker When chimes announce Hidden springs revealed Faith lost and found
Home Element
His hands should feel like home Familiar as fresh morning coffee Otherwise I couldn’t even imagine Steaming cups terrenal Espresso lust and mocha, Dribbling down the corners of our lips. And if our grounds were too alien I’d lose my way to such skin Because when a calm moons linger silent In his stoic eyes constricted His old beam permeates my phantom clouds Troubled from vapors Imprisoned in my mind. We may be two versions of the same As he reaches New heat ignites prudent blue Pink and orange Loosened soil from his grainy palms Tells familiar truth forgotten. And at the highest of life’s overwhelm With gracious hands humid After another grinding afternoon I can still tell He’s not all water He is more of earth So I lean on his chest and feel the evidence. A heart beating sturdy inside firm walls My hands lay on them assured Remembering things elusive. That home can stand amongst phantoms Unsettled Clouded And even then He holds me.
Lifeline
I’ve pondered lately, looking out this lighthouse, the one we never considered stopping at. Your childhood boat cannot get close enough, it seems lost amongst the peaks of heaving challenge, dipping in a yes, swaying in a no. Yet, the beacon keeps doing the rounds, shedding light over the restless ocean of epochs. And we’re still here, trying to moor. The sea hasn’t deceived us, we always knew. There is strength beyond our means, stirring under the waves, and yet, we pretended to navigate by the book, as if unsurprised. When I finally made it to land you weren’t with me. I walked to the stone tower, let myself inside its vacant walls of salt. The emptiness roared as I climbed up the spiralling stairs, the weight of our past heavy, on my dried out knees. But I chose to come. Every night, as I tried to sleep, I could hear them. Powerful waves of deep secrets crashed against the cliffs, all around. And every night my eyes snapped open, just before the worst and final blow. I got the chance you didn’t on that unexpected misty morning, when our shabby boats settled over a silent crystal pool. The creaking stopped, the wind grew still. I could see right through to the bottom. Blue-green rays rippled below, soothing the interior, making soft dunes. I imagined myself a seal in divine waters, so I dove in and swam unhurriedly toward the lighthouse. You were sleeping. But I didn’t expect the emptiness inside, and I wasn’t properly attired for virgin land. Love, nobody will tell you. Beginner’s freedom stands cold against a brazen ocean, no voices, no song. Will you ever forgive my leaving? I’m still here, at the lighthouse. Won’t you look up, ride a wave, leave the dried up boat. Break off the pretended vessel. Come to me. I’ll ask the sky for a misty evening, because I know you hate mornings. I’ll throw you a line, but only if you are willing. It’s the only way oceans really settle, the only way they abide.
Song Spirit
Song Spirit of days past delivers appropriate comment. Thoughts triggered by melodies ongoing in the city’s mist, uploaded onto particles invisible, that he knows well how to catch. Quickly, he throws in the right verse. Masterful in the art of capturing exact moments, almost a machine, he recovers musings leftover from sleep, memories believed to be forgotten, old coats hung in the cloakrooms of our past. He sings by day and, when night falls, keeps to himself, as we observe dreams unfold in curiosity. Dim meanings unravel in ways I cannot decipher. But his silence has a purpose. He waits until morning, when the proper wavelength travels back, again filling my head with sound. Upon awakening, Song Spirit catches passing vibrations and pokes at my ear. That I should know the song, that it sings exactly what we saw in dreams, that I should learn it already. We yawn. Soonafter he takes flight afresh, dismissing my pace. I asked him to stop for a moment, to explain the new tune circling my head. He answered it was impossible, for he catches moments riding sound waves, it’s a continuum. What he won’t say is that his work is play, when he tickles the sprites to release the song I had forgotten.
The Whale Shark
She discovered his animal demon after marriage. A shadow in their ocean cave, an obscure figure pumping bubbles out his gills. The beast drew up powers from the deep, where cobalt blue went true black. Her own demons came forth unannounced, after the hookup. His’ waited beneath for years, not needing oxygen to survive. When a baby, happiness was his native standard, but stale adults scolded from exhausted scripts anyway. He wondered at the beauty of the world, its immensity. Soon, a boy’s adventures clashed against the savage plight for survival. He learned about bullies, dense men, and women, fixed on not enjoying life’s mess. Delicious, irresponsible days got penniless; grit from reality, he got the message. Time was not his to spare. An emotional gut churned, as waters yanked him away from the warm beaches of young romance. In the fight for daily bread, his back muscles clenched the bone, nervous juices scraped inside. He became a talented swimmer nonetheless, able to glide in circles, sniffing in fears, hidden greed, and indolence. He wove convincing words in the undercurrents, and got his way, leading others to believe they were choosing. No longer in a fish tank, he morphed into a river grouper. In time, the man entered the business ocean, as a young shark. Dreams crashed against the stony walls of barnacle-ridden bosses, but the shark pushed on determined, expanding. His will paid off in size, grew respectable. Thus, the enlarged animal safeguarded his domain, demanding applause and recognition. He made arrangements. Patrolling his waters, pumping out bubbles, everyone had to attend when the beast exec spoke. Swaying between the continents of reason and emotion, past fears solidified, and ego set firmly behind murky eyes. Cataracts set in his older days, but he still sensed souls flailing in wide oceans, trying to determine their course. At such instances, the whale shark resurfaced from the deep, weaving currents, persuasion. For his kin, he learned to sacrifice and gave more of himself than he ever thought possible. When their own demons sailed too hard and too far, his gentle whale nature emerged, keeping vigilance, standing guard in cobalt seas. A true beast from a simple fish bowl, he fit the round peg into a square hole painstakingly, through wit and will. Scathed from battle, his skin turned to stiff rubber. And when the new tides came in and generations gapped, his words surged in echoes, bouncing against the old reefs where we grew up. We, his children, resolved then to keep alert. Swimming, not flailing, spiralling up steady, towards the Sun.
Greener Meadows
She needed proof from the outside, it wasn’t enough that her limbs ground and trembled from imposed rigor, cramming in the exercise session. “No more gorging, giving into cravings, no more nonsense,” ordered the familiar voice. It sounded so reasonable in her mind, that she could stop that silliness immediately. She’d forgotten, again, in the wide stare of the prejudiced mirror, in the parlor, that very morning, while absorbed in the tasks ahead. As a nonbeliever in the vague, muted sighs from intuition, she felt sure her condition was registered somewhere by a reputable MD. That didn’t save her from remembering she had never been able to restrict from oral pleasure. Disciplining cravings was never her thing. Soon, the pesky bug of ambivalence crept up, saying the meadow was probably greener on the other side of her. She was not a planner, no road was ever sketched, and no prospect ever enunciated. Her way was akin to the October gusts; unconcerned, always looking for something wonderful to “lo and behold”. Emotions tore her in two, back and forth, wanting to achieve what she wasn’t meant for. Then he came. She said yes, although at her core there was always another option, wanting to be revealed. But alternatives needed excuses to be taken, and he was no drunken idiot, just lying around, being as fatherly as a pile of dirty laundry, smoking a couple of packs a day. She saw no way of backing out of him. Her new mess would have to do. Worried, she bounced theories with her shrink, unraveling layers of herself. The professional hinted: might she be obsessed with finding fairness where there wasn’t any to be had? Could she be free in an unfair world, where willpower fails against cravings, thighs jiggle in faded jeans, and husbands aren’t as exciting as they were pumped up to be? The two faced caterpillar glissaded to her head, announcing options available. ¿A brighter, greener meadow, on the other side of marriage? But love happened. Perfection came, for a while, and it engaged her senses. Four legged with a mane, and during this time she felt free. At the end of thirty-something she found herself resolute, along trails of sweat and falls. Her mind balanced in the risk of art, thighs tightened steadfast around a noble back. An emerald meadow stretched ahead. Her husband’s fear of the future tipped the scales over. The green turned pale. After his drilling probabilities into her gauzy reality, she tore herself apart and acquiesced. She wouldn’t die riding, she’d stay put for him, and play along, pretending to be herself. The game of passion subdued, will against whim. It faded her discreetly. Se searched for worlds and found them in other people. Outside of herself other eyes watched, feet treaded, hands explored, voices told. Books piled on shelves around the house, in the coat closet. New theories brought back some of the lost gleam from her eyes, while her body grew old and achy. But temperate October always comes back in amiable gusts, and she dreams of greener meadows, still.