#67

What you think looks good in the mirror may not really look good in a photograph. The eyes of the beholder are forgiving while the camera lens is not!

#92

You know you are old, when a song makes you smile and shake your head thinking of the good old days. You also contemplate on how much things have changed and how much you have changed.

Missing

I was so upset that they shouted at me last night. Maybe I should get up now. I can only see the sun coming out. I decide I will go out- it's cool and pleasant. I think maybe a snack will do good too. I grab my back pack, stuff my binoculars and go down to the kitchen. I pack a water bottle. Then it strikes me, I should take some cookies and milk, they would be totally awesome.
The cookie jar is a white pig. I climb on the counter and try reaching it. It comes down with a crash. Uh-oh! I grab the cookies and stuff them into my bag. There's also some money in there. I just take it by the handful and stuff it inside the nearest drawer.
I hear someone coming down the stairs and I rush out. I am not really in the mood to talk to them after how they shouted at me for running away from school. School is boring. And it was nice yesterday.
I go through the back door to the garden and through the garden to the field. I can hear some critters scurrying- they must be foraging for food. I go the the pond, feed the ducks some crumbs of the cookies. I splash water with my feet. I scratch cows in a field; they are so lazy, aren't they? I pilfer some apples from a cart that is loaded with apples- they wont miss two...ok...four!
I watch some horses run to and fro. I get dusty when a dusty wind blows. I dust off my dress and go the rail tracks. I put my ears to see if there's one coming. Yup! I watch it go thundering by. And after the last car is out of sight, I put my ears again on the tracks. I walk on one of it balancing like a tightrope star. It is getting late. Will go home now, a little hungry!
As I approach the house, I see cars, quite a few of them. A sherrif's, my nana's and my principal's. Uh-oh. School day! I approach with caution.
As I enter the living room, all pairs of eyes turn to see me. Furrowed brows, teary eyes, is anyone dead? I am anxious. I open my mouth to explain and my mom comes rushing to hold me and smothers me. My father envelopes both of us and smells my hair.
Maybe I can get a slice of chocolate cake too.

The couch potato

The door slams shut. Both of them enter the living room, talking animatedly. As they enter the living room, they glance towards me and their discussion stops. I don't look at them. I continue munching the popcorn. The butter is a little less, and I should have not added the extra dash of salt.
Wile E Coyote gets slammed by the anvil and the roadrunner beeps. I laugh at this joke every single time. It is funny if you think about it. And during the commercial, which I mute, I can hear them talking in the kitchen. One conversation that I have heard in multitude combinations of anger, disappointment, frustration and acceptance. Today she is frustrated and he is consoling. She wonders if I will ever step out of the house. If I will ever grow up and let go. He says to give it time. That I would definitely go out of the house soon. I need to do it in my own way.
I like this couch. It is well cushioned and I also have a blanket if I am too cold. This feels safe. I lost my best friend to a mugging gone bad. My grandmother was hit by a car and was paralyzed till her last breath. And I see the news everyday- I hear of so many accidents, deaths. And the food is good. It never hurts me and fills me up so that I don't think beyond my growing waistline. I am not a couch potato. I am a coward and am deathly scared to go out.
My mother comes and sits near me. My father on the other side. He takes some of the pop-corn. We all hold hands as we watch the coyote being blown up. Beep Beep.

The teacher

I am looking for an address. An address that I wrote at least a year ago. I am sure I wrote it on a paper and kept in a book that I was reading. I go through anthologies of Wordsworth and Burns. Maybe I kept it in my King Lear. I am not sure. I guess I will have to look through all of them. My old books, my friends. I don't quite touch them the way I used to 15 years ago.
Two decades ago I quit teaching. Two decades ago I stopped being the giver. When I first decided to teach, a lot of people asked an impatient woman with a quick temper why she wanted to get into teaching. Where children would inevitably test my patience. Where I would be alternately hated and  loved. Where the homework exercises would earn me grumbles. Where my strict grading would elicit strong reactions.
Teaching changed me. To knowing words, to knowing their meanings. Creating the magic that I experienced when I first read Paradise lost. I wanted to share my passion.
And then I see it. A card. A hand crafted card, with the crude charm of a fifth grader. Wishing me season's greetings. And on the inside, a handwritten "Happy New Year". I remember her. I remember all of them, in fact. I can at least recollect one incident about them! I smile, my eyes mist over. I am not sure where she is now, where most of them are. But to know that I was appreciated enough to warrant a personal greeting from one person is enough....quite enough.
Oh I remember, I kept the slip of paper in one of my journals. I think I will read my old ones now...I will remember again..

The donor

I sit staring at the blank white walls, when she sits next to me. I do not want to make eye contact, but I do. She holds my hands. Tears flow from her eyes; chest heaving, she makes futile attempts at speaking. She then tightens her hand around my mine.
He was born late in their marriage. Thirteen is an unlucky number. He was born 13 years after their marriage when they had given up hope. He was their little miracle. And their only miracle. To have him in an accident and have a failing heart is just about the worst thing that could happen.
They want my approval.
My daughter has been in a diabetic coma for 12 years now. She was 13. She fainted one day in the kitchen and has not woken up from it. The doctors say it may take days, weeks or years for her to wake up. They also tell me she might never come out of it.
Do I want that chance of having her wake up soon? Yes. What if she doesn't and the boy dies without ever having had a chance? How will my daughter feel about this when she wakes up? Am I that powerful and strong to deny another life when the one that is shouldn't be? Will I be able to live with the guilt either way?
I can hear monitors beeping, nurses walking, vending machines clink. And I sit staring at the blank white walls, waiting for some sign of superior intervention. I get none. I must make a decision.
I nod. I nod furiously now. She can have her son. I will have my daughter's memory. I will forever regret the decision and base it on what if, but at least I can take comfort in the way his eyes would hold mine- with life.

The w's

In tv shows, how are the men's hair neat and trimmed, the mustaches and beards groomed; and the women have sparkling skin and no hair even when they are stranded on an island with no supplies?