Post by jeannerené on Jul 25, 2007 7:13:27 GMT -8
Sweet Loretta and the Buffalo (working title) ..work in progress...
I find myself day dreaming of buffalo. The checkout at Albertsons by rote sliding my ATM card, signing my name, but in thought as the bagger says goodbye and I smile demurely in return, I marvel at the stampede of majestic brawn. I withstand the rumble rising up from the yellow plain as I walk hypnotically through the parking lot. The buffalo circumvent their run magically around me.
It seems hardly like working, watching Sitara sing third period, Monday through Wednesday. Her tiny voice is lost among those in a chorus of more vibrant teenage boys and girls, but the concentration on her face is striking. Her head ever tilted forward to the right to compensate for the near lack of vision in one eye, Sitata follows the choir director's every move. Unless she is particularly tired, and starts to fall asleep standing up, I pretty much sit back and enjoy fifty minutes of song. I enjoy the smile on Sitara's lips and the sheen of her long black hair under the fluorescent lights. On Monday, noticing my arm was achy and heavy as it had been at the end of last week, I wondered if perhaps I had tweaked a muscle after all, but other than the passing concern, I sat back to take in a youthful rendition of The Song of Democracy. An epic lyric, with crescendos in volume and intent, I wondered if the fervor of the song was lost on ones so young. Perhaps not.
The pain started with a piercing stab to the underside of my left arm between the shoulder and elbow. It spread down quickly twitching my wrist and bearing down to the ends of my fingertips. Is seems as if having reached a dead end it ought to proceed in the opposite direction, and began to travel upward through my shoulder, into my neck, and finally, seizing my lower jaw. The nerves shouted with a momentary vibration in unison, and then suddenly dropped dead. I sat stunned, feeling at the same time, the numbness dissipate and the cold sweat creep across my brow and back of my neck. I will ignore this. I certainly can ignore this.
I wonder at the massive head. The size alone of the buffalo's head demands my respect. It's low broad forehead and short neck do not speak of elegance, but of simple brute force I crave. My eyes roam over the high humped shoulders covered with foolish tufted hair, and I grow envious of the inherent strength clearly evident. I want to run my hand over the dark woolly hair draping the humped shoulders. I want to reach out and draw my fingers through the long hairs of the chin.
At the hospital, my husband, Marty, keeps giving me quick nervous side-eyed glances. I can sense his blood starting to writhe inside with little popping bubbles of impatience. The line longer than two people, the wait extending beyond the time immemorial of five minutes begins the rage. I give him a good jab in the ribs with my elbow, just to set things straight and ensure him that he can relax. Yet at the same time I'm tearing my purse apart trying to find my medical card, and he laughs at me. We still hold hands. We still run together, growing older and slower. Years ago we'd race with disregard, stomping and pounding our feet on dance floors, frantic flying through kitchen doors and chasing under the sheets or on the blacktop with hair slapping our faces. Now we migrate together with the seasons.
A grandmother in the emergency lobby paces back and forth in front of us, rhythmically bouncing a crying toddler in her arms. A large black and blue bump protrudes from the towhead's crown. Emergency rooms have had only one definition to my husband and I, and we reminisce through a series of our two sons' illness and scrapes. Emergency means stitches and dislocated bones, scarlet fever and sinus infections, the flu and bronchitis. Emergency means not too long ago I struggled to hold up a fourteen-year old son severely dehydrated, and breaking down and crying as they took him away from me, and being furious with myself for not realizing he was so sick.
Sticky little tabs above and below by breasts placed gingerly by a young male nurse forces one to bite down on one's teeth and forgo modesty. The tabs placed on the ankles I found to be quite interesting, along with the fact that I expected an EKG to be more complicated. At the same time I lay there embarrassed, but with the utmost respect and amazement at what can be discerned by scientific and technological advancements. I am a modern woman, caught up in the elaborate network of operating systems, an all consuming web, strand after strand of conjoined and interfaced discovery and application.
I am a child of days which do not end with the setting sun. I am a child who considers the grain crushed by the smooth stone. I am a child who longs to sleep in the home built by the father's hands, the child who waits to hold the book read by candle light. I am the child who weeps for never having known the horizons of the plain and the mounting thunder of its buffalo.
The blood rushes through my body pounding the vessel walls . . . sacred byways of life. My sacred life which I would so miss if not here to enjoy it. So it seems my blood pressure is over extending itself. Not that I every paid too much attention to my blood pressure, or ever had any cause to be concerned, but after several readings starting at my arrival at the hospital late morning to my departure at dusk my blood pressure's lowest reading is 161 over 103. The EKG is normal and enzyme tests show no damage to the heart. Still my symptoms concern the doctor , and I am now in possession of nitroglycerin . "What am I going to do with these?" I say to myself. As to the hypertension, my doctor, a bright and handsome young woman, goes through a rapid litany of interpretations and expectations. She expects a lot from me. She expects changes from me.
Tuesday morning I'm up early, headed to the hospital once again with my husband, to give more blood as requested by my doctor. The lobby area for the lab is packed at 7:30 in the morning with faces held fast toward the flashing red number displayed above the clock. I am amazed at how many people walk in and promptly stand in line, not seeing the sign that clearly reads "please take a number and be seated" only to be very disgruntled when someone (with a precious number) finally taps them on the shoulder and points to the counter. Since I am feeling particularly flawed at the moment, my eyes survey the faces that surround me, taking note of all their imperfections. Conversation is at a low mumble until he walks in, sweet Loretta's husband, right up to the Lab window, past the sign, the number dispenser and past the line.
...to be continued....
jeanne rene 5/05
I find myself day dreaming of buffalo. The checkout at Albertsons by rote sliding my ATM card, signing my name, but in thought as the bagger says goodbye and I smile demurely in return, I marvel at the stampede of majestic brawn. I withstand the rumble rising up from the yellow plain as I walk hypnotically through the parking lot. The buffalo circumvent their run magically around me.
It seems hardly like working, watching Sitara sing third period, Monday through Wednesday. Her tiny voice is lost among those in a chorus of more vibrant teenage boys and girls, but the concentration on her face is striking. Her head ever tilted forward to the right to compensate for the near lack of vision in one eye, Sitata follows the choir director's every move. Unless she is particularly tired, and starts to fall asleep standing up, I pretty much sit back and enjoy fifty minutes of song. I enjoy the smile on Sitara's lips and the sheen of her long black hair under the fluorescent lights. On Monday, noticing my arm was achy and heavy as it had been at the end of last week, I wondered if perhaps I had tweaked a muscle after all, but other than the passing concern, I sat back to take in a youthful rendition of The Song of Democracy. An epic lyric, with crescendos in volume and intent, I wondered if the fervor of the song was lost on ones so young. Perhaps not.
The pain started with a piercing stab to the underside of my left arm between the shoulder and elbow. It spread down quickly twitching my wrist and bearing down to the ends of my fingertips. Is seems as if having reached a dead end it ought to proceed in the opposite direction, and began to travel upward through my shoulder, into my neck, and finally, seizing my lower jaw. The nerves shouted with a momentary vibration in unison, and then suddenly dropped dead. I sat stunned, feeling at the same time, the numbness dissipate and the cold sweat creep across my brow and back of my neck. I will ignore this. I certainly can ignore this.
I wonder at the massive head. The size alone of the buffalo's head demands my respect. It's low broad forehead and short neck do not speak of elegance, but of simple brute force I crave. My eyes roam over the high humped shoulders covered with foolish tufted hair, and I grow envious of the inherent strength clearly evident. I want to run my hand over the dark woolly hair draping the humped shoulders. I want to reach out and draw my fingers through the long hairs of the chin.
At the hospital, my husband, Marty, keeps giving me quick nervous side-eyed glances. I can sense his blood starting to writhe inside with little popping bubbles of impatience. The line longer than two people, the wait extending beyond the time immemorial of five minutes begins the rage. I give him a good jab in the ribs with my elbow, just to set things straight and ensure him that he can relax. Yet at the same time I'm tearing my purse apart trying to find my medical card, and he laughs at me. We still hold hands. We still run together, growing older and slower. Years ago we'd race with disregard, stomping and pounding our feet on dance floors, frantic flying through kitchen doors and chasing under the sheets or on the blacktop with hair slapping our faces. Now we migrate together with the seasons.
A grandmother in the emergency lobby paces back and forth in front of us, rhythmically bouncing a crying toddler in her arms. A large black and blue bump protrudes from the towhead's crown. Emergency rooms have had only one definition to my husband and I, and we reminisce through a series of our two sons' illness and scrapes. Emergency means stitches and dislocated bones, scarlet fever and sinus infections, the flu and bronchitis. Emergency means not too long ago I struggled to hold up a fourteen-year old son severely dehydrated, and breaking down and crying as they took him away from me, and being furious with myself for not realizing he was so sick.
Sticky little tabs above and below by breasts placed gingerly by a young male nurse forces one to bite down on one's teeth and forgo modesty. The tabs placed on the ankles I found to be quite interesting, along with the fact that I expected an EKG to be more complicated. At the same time I lay there embarrassed, but with the utmost respect and amazement at what can be discerned by scientific and technological advancements. I am a modern woman, caught up in the elaborate network of operating systems, an all consuming web, strand after strand of conjoined and interfaced discovery and application.
I am a child of days which do not end with the setting sun. I am a child who considers the grain crushed by the smooth stone. I am a child who longs to sleep in the home built by the father's hands, the child who waits to hold the book read by candle light. I am the child who weeps for never having known the horizons of the plain and the mounting thunder of its buffalo.
The blood rushes through my body pounding the vessel walls . . . sacred byways of life. My sacred life which I would so miss if not here to enjoy it. So it seems my blood pressure is over extending itself. Not that I every paid too much attention to my blood pressure, or ever had any cause to be concerned, but after several readings starting at my arrival at the hospital late morning to my departure at dusk my blood pressure's lowest reading is 161 over 103. The EKG is normal and enzyme tests show no damage to the heart. Still my symptoms concern the doctor , and I am now in possession of nitroglycerin . "What am I going to do with these?" I say to myself. As to the hypertension, my doctor, a bright and handsome young woman, goes through a rapid litany of interpretations and expectations. She expects a lot from me. She expects changes from me.
Tuesday morning I'm up early, headed to the hospital once again with my husband, to give more blood as requested by my doctor. The lobby area for the lab is packed at 7:30 in the morning with faces held fast toward the flashing red number displayed above the clock. I am amazed at how many people walk in and promptly stand in line, not seeing the sign that clearly reads "please take a number and be seated" only to be very disgruntled when someone (with a precious number) finally taps them on the shoulder and points to the counter. Since I am feeling particularly flawed at the moment, my eyes survey the faces that surround me, taking note of all their imperfections. Conversation is at a low mumble until he walks in, sweet Loretta's husband, right up to the Lab window, past the sign, the number dispenser and past the line.
...to be continued....
jeanne rene 5/05
