Turn the page.

There’s more story.

There’s more to find out—discover, behold.

Oh, you say you want to linger.

Then mark those parts.

But do turn the page.

There’s more in store—surprises! thrills!

Probably more troubles too.

But turn the page.

And if turning pages isn’t your preferred form …

Then scroll on.

or The Pilfered Amaryllis Plant

Well, I didn’t actually “steal” it–
I chose not to give it to her.

I kept it for myself.

When Christmas day plans were postponed
due to a blizzard of a head cold,
I looked at the plant’s shoot poking out of dirt
and appropriated it.

I reasoned
I could give another such plant to my aunt
or I could re-gift a box of chocolates from Trader Joes.

I rationalized
I had had a bad year—a calamity-ridden bad year.*

And that valiant shoot, like a switchblade knife
seeking sunlight, spoke to me.

The plant’s info tag cinched the decision.
It promised easy maintenance
an outrageous growth rate,
and glorious red flowers the size of salad plates.

So, I removed the pot’s Christmas wrapping
and placed the Amaryllis plant in direct sunlight.

Next, I eyed the box of home-made brownies
intended for my brother and sister-in-law.

*My dog needed $800 worth of oral surgery
My car ‘had a broken crank shaft.
My favorite lipstick and brassiere brands were discontinued

Costumes on dogs are demeaning, insulting, and humiliating!

That’s what I believed in all my self-righteous heart.

Many of our devoted pets were bred to hunt, to retrieve, and to kill rats,
not to be spectacles.

But recently, I cast off my moral/ethical canine beliefs—radically.

It happened innocently enough. I was browsing online for a holiday
sweater for my friend’s pug, Princess—something functional for Chicago’s winter.
Maybe a discrete plaid, or a knit.

And then—amidst all the outerwear—I saw it!

A fifties costume. A black-and-white striped top with a pink tutu skirt with a
black poodle applique—topped off with a pink velvet bow for the dog’s head.

Irresistible!

It was as if La Vie En Rose or Rock Around the Clock were playing
in the background.

I mailed it off to my friend in time for her Christmas party.

Of course, Princess, in all her finery, was the star of the evening.

True, she wasn’t fond of the bow on her head, but she coped.

Guests swooned.
“I’ve never seen such a fabulous dog!” they exclaimed.
“So adorable!” they gushed.
“She’s the best dressed one here!” they giggled.

Princess beamed. She enjoyed her new celebrity role.

And my disapproval underwent a reversal: I realized dogs were also bred to bring joy.

Occasionally, late at night,
I took a break from my vigil at the hospital
by sitting in an area across from the nurses station.

I watched medical people go in and out of the elevator.

I drank my tea from a large paper cup that I placed
on an end table next to my chair.

As I got out of my chair to leave,
I knocked over the tea, which spilled
on the carpet.

The nurse, a dead ringer for Nurse Ratched from
One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, gasped and
frowned.

“You should have had a lid on it,” she said.

She was right.

“I’m so sorry.” I said. “I can clean it up.”

“Just leave it.”

So I did.

The next morning I checked on my mishap’s status.
The area was no longer wet, but a stain remained.
Tea is stubborn.

Every day, I checked. The stain remained.

Three days later, my loved one passed away.

It gives me comfort to know that my tea stain
still has a presence on the 4th floor carpet
near the elevators, across from the nurse’s station.

Life goes on, but the tea stain remains.

“Missing Cat—Needs His Meds!”
Poster with photo at a suburban train station

In the photo, Missing Cat has a dull
gray goat, a bell-adorned collar, and
a glint in his one good eye.

What kind of meds? what health issues?
Not stated.

Perhaps, Missing Cat decided he had had
enough of meds and interventions.

Perhaps, he heard the call of the wild
in the sub-division and yearned for the
thrill of the hunt.

Perhaps, he just wanted to be left alone.

I sympathize with the owners, but

I respect Missing Cat’s ethical, moral, and
feline decision.

Imminent signs of decline had appeared:

A new liquor department to boost sales
Late milk deliveries
Sparse seasonal flowers
The absence outside of the fellow who sold Street Wise.

Of the stores fifty-plus years in business,
I shopped there twenty-five.
I knew the store so well,
I wrote my grocery list based
on the store’s layout.

I also had a personal history with the store.

I lived through the years a cashier’s daughter
went to college, attended medical school and
became a doctor.
I knew generations of produce managers and staff,
and they knew me.
When I no longer included a separate set of groceries
for my mother, they expressed concern, and
later, were sorry to hear she had died.

Oh, wretched progress!
I’ll have to “learn” another store’s inventory–
probably at one of the mega stores—
the size of a football field.

Everything will be bigger, more complicated,
higher up.

If I want frozen chocolate banana babies,
I’ll have to trek to the store’s frozen foods
tundra section in aisle twenty-three.

My final tribute–
My local store was small-to-medium-sized,
only a few blocks from my home,
and neighborly, too.
In other words—perfect!

It is no more and I am forlorn.

Using Google’s street view app, I visited
my childhood home, a 2-story Georgian
in Chicago.

I cruised the street, north and south.
I zoomed in; I zoomed out.

That night, I dreamed I went into the house
of my childhood.

My mom was preparing lunch, Campbell’s
chicken noodle soup and a peanut butter
and jelly sandwich.

At the staircase, I saw myself tumbling
down on a makeshift cardboard sled.

Then lying on the sofa braiding the fringe
along the bottom while watching
I Love Lucy on TV.

I went to the backyard and
saw the peach tree in full bloom
before it had been hit by lightning.

Then I cruised the alley,
where we kids went when we were
told to go out and play.

Finally, I retraced the five-block
route to school and back.
I spent eight school years
on that route, four times a day—
Jeffery, Euclid, Bennett, Constance,
Cregier—Cregier, Constance, Bennett,
Euclid, Jeffery.

I used to think I could walk
that route in my sleep …

And that’s what I actually did.

I like watching my flowering mandevilla
plant find its way to its trellis and then wrap its
vines around the metal rungs and climb, climb, climb.

The plant exists in a perpetual growth spurt.

At least twice a day,
I check to see how much the plant has advanced.
By sundown, it usually 3 to 4 inches.

I make bets with myself.
By what date, will it make it to the top of the trellis?
Which vine will reach there first?
How much width will it gain in a week?

My hollyhocks try, but they can’t keep up.
Petunias trail and meander a bit—that’s about all.
The gladiolas also sport trumpet-shaped flowers,
but they’re not athletic.

I wouldn’t bet on the mandevilla, though,
in a Plant Climbing Tournament.
It could easily be outdone by clematis and wisteria.

Maybe you’re thinking,
“Doesn’t this person have anything better to do
than watch a mandevilla plant grow?”

“No, not really.”

It was summertime,
a night we caught fireflies and
later released them.

I was only five—
it could have been my imagination—
about the moon winking and all.

Except …
It happened again when I was thirty.

It was a slow, knowing wink
a conspiratorial wink
a once-in-an-eon wink.

I knew it was real that time.
Because at thirty,
I was a woman of the world.

So, I winked back.

Benji, our Benjamina Ficus tree, was given a name
because he’s been a part of our family for over
three decades—ever since he was a housewarming
gift from my grandmother.

My daughter’s wedding ceremony was performed
next to him. Our two grand-daughters had their
naming ceremonies alongside him, too.

Six-foot-tall Benji resides indoors for protection
from Chicago’s cold weather.
But come summer, Benj’s captivity ends,
and he is moved to a natural habitat—the backyard.

I imagine …

His delight when the rain drenches him and
the sun comes out and dries off his leaves.
His thrill when cardinals and sparrows perch on
his slender branches
His gladness when wind buffets him about and
breezes float by.

Within a couple of weeks in his new home,
Benji bursts forth with dozens of bright new leaves.

It must be how he expresses joy.