Tragically it did not work.
And I just want to save you from spending the time and the money and looking
for the right flavor. Pinterest can lead
you astray. I pinned this idea on my
board, “I so gotta try this.” My heels
are a broken, cracked, ugly mess. And Pinterest promised me that Listerine worked.
So, Vance came home and found me soaking my feet in white enamel ware
pan and said, “What’s that smell and what on earth are you doing?” I said, “I am fixing my cracked heels. Pinterest said Listerine works. You just soak your feet in a half gallon of
Listerine with a cup of vinegar and some hot water for twenty minutes and
instant exfoliation.” Vance said, “Well,
I would have bought the blue kind. And I
never knew Listerine could be bought by the gallon.” I told him I opted for the original because Pinterest
said the blue would give me Smurf feet. So,
after twenty minutes, I still had cracked heels, so I did it again for forty
minutes. I crawled in to bed that night,
deflated, and wondering just how long it would take me to use that leftover
gallon of Listerine. I told Vance, “It
didn’t work. My feet still aren’t soft and now they burn.” Vance said, “Well, it is not magic, it is
antiseptic for your mouth.” And he
turned over, feel fast asleep and between the snores I pondered what he said for
the next hour. Occasionally, the men we marry will say something deep and
profound and it shocks us. And we think,
“Damn, I guess sometimes you do think about things other than sports, food,
beer and sex.” At least that is how it works for me and Vance.
It seems I have been dancing with you for about 49 years
now. That’s almost five decades of
dancing and I am still waiting on you to teach me the Harlem shake. Sometimes I look at your long wiry, salt and
pepper hair that has been torn and looks burned and your caramel colored faced with
deep brown eyes that hold the deepest wisdom and your tribal colored skirts
that tell stories of the most ancient secrets that are older than the
foundations of the world, and I smell that familiar scent of bread, wine, frankincense
and apple pie and wonder why we still dance.
I remember when I was young you would gather me in your lap
and sing low in that minor key reminding me that there was a rock older than
the earth itself that would shelter me and there was a fountain with water that
was alive. You would swaddle me in those
skirts and tell me stories about how you were there at the birth of the
universe and you just whispered four little words and there was light. You told me tales about the oldest magic
that made the waters rise and cover it all and a rainbow gave a promise that
the dread was gone forever. You took a
breath as deep as a valley and whispered on my forehead that you were there when
that ram ran out of that thicket and Abraham put his knife down. You spoke with the wind and made me wonder
how it felt when you put those rocks in David’s hand. You just held my hand and said, “Child, don’t
fear the dark.” You would smile brightly at me and nod knowingly that one day,
one day, one day I would dance in rhythm with you. You taught me the sacred
things that would grow deep roots I would need to face the storms one day and
you knew I would learn to dance in the rain. You rocked me to sleep whispering
to me that all would be well because you had already faced history’s darkest
hour.
So, you weren’t surprised when I needed you to chase the
monsters out from under my bed. I am a
little taller now, but still fight demons.
You saw me fall off my bicycle and worse things. You were my elbow healer and superhero. I would ask you to come if you can and you
always said, I AM. You weren’t surprised
when my heart broke and I promised never to love again. I was weak, I couldn’t speak and I was angry
at you who was my heartache healer, my secret keeper and my best friend but I could still call
you by name and you said, I AM. Life can
be cruel and harsh and mean and what kind of world is this that you fashioned
out of a word. You saw my mistakes and
when I was weak and unable to speak and not even able to call you by name, you
whispered I AM.
So, when I said
forever to whatever that means, you knew we would have our moments. You knew sometimes I wouldn’t want to dance
and sometimes I would not want to talk to you and sometimes I would forget all
the old stories and the sacred things you whispered in my ear so long ago, and
sometimes I just wouldn’t be able to find you at all. When you found me kicking rocks and walking
out in the desert, you said, remember and believe. I cried as you walked away and it was hard
living out in the border lands with people that looked different from my own. But I watched them say ancient words over
and over again, and cross themselves and kneel and stand and kneel some more and
drink wine and eat bread and I listened as they chanted those magic words, “eat, remember and believe.”
You came back and picked me up in your arms and said, “Child
when the feelings leave and every thought of certainty has been banished from
your mind, don’t forget me and my long,
old hair and tribal skirts and wrap yourself up in the old stories again.” I told you I was far too old to play silly games
with you and I didn’t have any rhythm and you raised your eyebrows, and told me I
had missed the point.
So I asked you one night, why your hair is such a mess all
the time. “You just shrugged your
shoulders and said when humans go looking for eternity; they rarely do so with
care.”
Sometimes now I see remnants of your skirts in fields and I
remember how we danced when I was younger and I think about all that has passed
between us and I wonder if you left those pieces there on purpose. I miss the magic and I am still waiting for
you to come back and teach me the Harlem shake.
But if I listen closely to those ancient stories, I can hear the hum of
your voice and I can feel your breath on my forehead and you gently whisper, “Child,
it is not magic, just remember that I can still see you in the dark and we are not done with dancing yet. I am still writing the song.”
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