Two Poems, “Trinity” and “Chore,” by Gale Acuff

Posted in Gale Acuff, Junk 16: Fall 2017 with tags , , on September 4, 2017 by Tim Elhajj

by Gale Acuff


If my parents separate I’ll go live
with—which one? I have a choice. I stand there
on the little oval rug on the oak
floor and look at one and then the other
and then the one again—by then, of course,
the other—and fall to my knees (I’m short
for my age so it isn’t difficult)
and cover my eyes with my hands, hoping
that when I open them and look up, there

will be God, and if not God, then Jesus.
And either one will surely satisfy,
though I forget if, at church, They’re equal,
or the Son of God is the number two
man, that is, God’s number one, not that He’s
a man—Jesus, I mean, not God, unless
Jesus is God—but is, at least Divine,
making God even more Divine, or is
that Diviner? What the Hell—Divinest.

Then there’s the matter of the Holy Ghost
—the third other, or the third in line, or
the Speaker of the House to Jesus Christ’s
Vice President (Who would take over for
God were God to die in office or be
impeached. But then I open my eyes to

the fireplace, empty even of ashes,
down which Santa Claus descended—until
Mother told me that he didn’t exist.

Father, I say, softly but steadily,
I’ll come live with you, please, Sir. Mother moans,
or at least a voice chokes on her silence.
Father says, I’d wish you reconsider,
Son. Your mother isn’t in good spirits.
Father walks over to where she’s crumpled
and sits beside her. Now they’re holding hands.
I rise, taller than before, taller than

ever. Father says to Mother, Now, now,
Honey. We don’t have to do this, you know.
She cries on his chest, head beneath his chin,
or is he resting his chin on her head?

And here I thought we’d had our last supper.
Now they’re stuck with each other again, so
I guess I should join them, now that I’m dead.



Here’s my wife at the window. We’re divorced

and I’m washing the dishes by myself
and she’s not alongside to receive cups
and plates and glasses, but I see her face
at the window, my right hand choking a rag
—I bury it, and soap- and water-blood,
deep into the bottom of blue tumblers
which she left me. Take all the good things,

I said—the services and the silverware
—and I’ll be happy with the essentials
alone. So I kept the cast-off glasses,
cheap plates and flatware, a pot and a pan
which I always tried to use anyway
because I was afraid of damaging the new
again. And when I pull the plug the parts
of me left over from bringing myself
together again at dinner disappear

down the drain or line in flecks on the sink-sides
or hide in a ring of foam at the throat
of the hole. I’ve used too much soap again.
It’s lying like a drift at the bottom.
I squeeze too hard. I waste what I don’t need
but if I don’t need it, why save it? Still,
I looked up from the nadir and I saw
her out the window, appearing to me

to be laughing. To tell the truth, I smiled
right through her and she went away.
I made her up again—she came out of
what I was creating when here I thought
I was only cleaning up. I made her
in my kitchen laboratory. She
conjured up like alchemy. I mean, I’m
here and she’s opposite of me but
it’s a partnership wherever we are.

This plate’s so clean that I can’t see myself.

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Take Heart

Posted in Junk 15: Winter 2015, Mari Casey with tags , , , , on February 14, 2015 by Tim Elhajj

by Mari Casey


The most difficult part of my recovery today, the most terrifying prospect in my life is not related to an urge to use or a potential relapse. It’s about dating. I’m twenty-six and single—a fun idea, right?—except I have four years clean, and just the thought of going on a date turns me catatonic. They recommend a year without sex when you first get clean. I didn’t do it then, but I might get it now, and not for lack of desire.

In my life, there are two major categories of potential suitors: people “in the rooms”— recovering addicts at the meetings—or “normies”—those strange creatures who can drink just one beer, maybe even hit one joint every now and again, normal people. I’ve dated in the rooms before. Pros: mutual understanding, shared experience, easy to meet. Cons: dating someone as sick as you are, and the whole “shitting where you eat” problem—when you break up you still have to run into the person on random weeknights in church basements and community centers. In short, since I’ve been clean, I’ve dated a friend I’ve known since childhood and two other recovering addicts. For a lot of reasons, including the whole “repeating the same mistakes” idiom, I’m ruling out dating in the rooms for now.

That leads to the problem. I’m petrified of dating with someone new. It’s a fear of explaining myself. It’s not really a fear of being judged outright. That’s easy. I know how to handle that. I say fuck off and walk off feeling self-righteous. The scenario that most terrifies me goes something like this:

I meet a man I like. We go on a first date. It’s awkward, but most first dates are. But it’s more awkward because I know there’s a huge part of me that I’m not telling yet. Of course, nobody can or should tell everything on the first date. But my recovery is a really big part of my life, and I’m consciously withholding that information for strategic reasons: in terms of the proverbial “baggage,” the story that winds up with me in rehab by the time I’m 21 is a U-Haul load. So we talk about a movie we both have seen. The date ends fine.

We go on another date. At some point during the second date I tell him I’m in recovery. It is probably blurted. It’s blurted because I’m nervous about it, and naturally, that’s how information comes out in an anxious setting: without much grace. It might happen when he picks up the wine list and asks if I’d like to try a merlot. Instead of saying, “No, thanks,” which is all I need to say, I say, “I can’t. I’m in recovery.”

This is the bad part. He is a nice person. He has sympathetic eyebrows and says in a voice raised half an octave, “Oh. That’s awesome. I’m really proud of you.” Which is what nice people say. Which is fucked up. And it happens all the time. Oh, we’ve had two conversations and now we have the type of relationship in which you get to be proud of me? Fucking great. And say it in the high-soft voice with which you’d congratulate a toddler for using the big-girl potty for the first time. Because now that you know, vaguely, that I used to do drugs—that stereotypically dark, gritty, felonious lifestyle—speak to me as if I’m a good little girl. Ok. I’m overreacting. I don’t blame this well-meaning man. How could he know what to say or how to say it? This normie is trying to be nice, acknowledging the positive side of things, so I let it slide. I appreciate his effort, forced and condescending as it might seem, he meant it to be nice. I smile and order a seltzer. We talk of other things for the rest of the night. I find out the names and ages of his siblings. He hears out about my career or my dog.

Three to seven conversations later, he asks as gracefully as he can, “About your recovery… What, exactly, did you do?” Same sweet voice.

And I answer, “I did a lot of drugs. I realized I couldn’t go on. I got help. I got clean. I work a program now.” I explain my program: do unto others, good Samaritan, trying to rejoin the human race, etc. It’s an honest if not original answer.

And he says, “Oh. That’s really great. When you were using drugs, though, what did you do?”

“You mean like pot, pills, heroin, cocaine?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Yeah. I did those. Other stuff, too.” And I know this answer is a little aggressive. It’s standoffish, but I want to stand off. I feel interrogated. Is he my date or the probation officer I never had? I’m intimidated. And immediately I realize my own answer was pretty fucking intimidating. I see that this person doesn’t understand, but he’s asking because he wants to understand. That’s alright. That’s admirable.

And we don’t talk about it again that night. We don’t have sex that night, either. We’re both a little put off. The next time we see each other, we don’t talk about it, and we’re both more relaxed. We like the same music. We like the same food. We like each other. We make each other laugh. And we have sex. It’s good sex. And we keep having sex. And we like each other’s bodies. And one time after sex, when we’re feeling really close, he asks –maybe he’s prompted by my remembering aloud that I need to leave soon to catch a meeting—he asks me, “Why did you use drugs?” And he looks at me with concerned, caring eyes.

And I know what he doesn’t want to hear. He doesn’t want to hear that I liked getting really, really high. That I loved the debauchery. Drugs made me feel free and wild and cool. Drugs made me feel numb and relaxed. I loved the chaos. I loved the nothing. I loved the way it felt to steal from the liquor store and smash the empty bottle in the alley minutes later. I loved the winding up. I loved the shutting down. And sure, there was the whole vicious cycle aspect, the deep-seated bitter self-hatred which I medicated with behavior that augmented the self-hatred and the need to medicate it, the textbook disease aspect. That was absolutely part of it, but so was the fact that I enjoyed the party, the darkness, the violence and the emptiness of it all. For a chunk of time, it was fun. Then it sucked, and I couldn’t stop. It was addiction.

But of course he doesn’t want to hear that truth. I can see it in his eyes. He wants to hear something that makes me forgivable—a sob story with neglect, abuse, foster homes, some chronic disease or horrible injury that required a prescription that got me “hooked,” any story with some mitigating factor. It wasn’t like that. He wants some part of my story to explain how I couldn’t have been as bad as he thinks I was, as bad as reality was. He wants an excuse because he needs me to be better than a drug addict to fall for me, and he wants to fall for me. He likes me. He thinks I’m funny. He thinks I’m kind, bless his heart. But I’m not a special type of drug addict, not some innocent who accidentally fell arm-first into a needle. I’m not a bad person, either, just an addict. And I’m looking into his eyes which are searching for excuses I don’t have. I’m not a heroic survivor of tragic circumstances. I don’t know what to say.

Why did I use drugs? For a moment, I pretend that I don’t understand the question. I pretend I don’t see it in his eyes. I break eye contact, and I think that I’m going to cry, so I close my eyes and kiss him and we fuck so that I don’t have to answer the question.

How does it end? I probably break it off within a couple weeks of that. It’s not like we couldn’t have worked past it. I could have invited him to a meeting so he could listen and learn as he was so willing to do. I could have told him the truth. I could have been honest with him about my fears, which probably would have made it easier for him to understand. But I didn’t because that’s so much work, so much trust, too much weight to lift so soon. We were just getting to know each other. I don’t know if it’s worth it yet. And these questions are things he’d ask within the first month. It took me years to talk about some of these things with my sponsor—and she’s an addict who asked to hear about it. But for a guy who’s kind of funny and likes that Syrian restaurant? Forget it.

That. That story is the hypothetical scenario that would crush me, the scenario that terrifies me. That I will see myself inadequate in the eyes of someone who wants to see me as good, who’s trying to see me as good. I know I won’t be that guy’s version of good. Don’t mistake this for self-pity. I think I can be plenty good, because I believe there are good addicts—that that’s not an oxymoron, that a good addict doesn’t require an excuse for her addiction, that it doesn’t have to be a big deal. It doesn’t have to be a big deal for me anymore because I have a few years’ practice accepting it.

This is the most terrifying thing about being an addict for me today (lucky me). No fear of contagious disease or incarceration. No visions of imminent relapse in a gutter. I’m scared I’ll let my world become very small in this very promising time—my twenties, about to finish grad school, as young and pretty as I’ll ever be, clean—because I hate how hard it is to get started. So I’ll never have sex again because it’s kind of hard to talk to nice people? Christ, I am one sick fucker.

I need a double-dose of courage. One for me to go out there and get what I want. I’ve braved meaner streets than the dating scene to get what I want before. The other is for the man who asks me on a date: oh you, sweet normie, be brave.

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Posted in Junk 14: Fall 2014, Merrill Sunderland with tags , , on November 17, 2014 by Tim Elhajj

by Merrill Sunderland



Few people are ever willing to barter with the boy: to trade a back rub for a neck rub, for instance, or a foot massage for a scalp massage. And those who even occasionally entertain such requests, he abuses without a second’s though. He becomes animal. He nudges and whimpers and lies down for them, his belly flat on the carpet.

The hair on his back, the boy has seen from pictures, is cropped like the ears of a Pit Bull. It has the shape of an angel’s wings at rest. But there is certainly nothing angelic about his back hair; it is curly and thick and has twice been waxed off, only to grow back at least as curly and thick as before. It gives him fits in the hot summer months. The back of his shirt is always the first spot where gray becomes navy with sweat. When the sweat dries and the residual salt cakes his skin, he itches like a madman. He must be scratched.

This wolf-hair on his back is a trait he shares with his father. And his father itches too. Unlike him, however, his father is content with scratching his own back; he keeps a ruler-sized wooden instrument, five-fingers carved into the end, on his bedside table. He can thread this wooden hand down the collar of his shirt, past the tufts of hair that peek out, and scratch and scratch and scratch until he is satisfied. More than once, when the boy has come to his father for a scratch, his father has offered him this tool. But he always declines. “Please. Please. Only for a second,” the boy pleads. He even bends a little to further entice his father, shimmies lightly up to his bedside—his father is always reading the thickest books in bed, he thinks—so his father has to move only minimally. When his father’s hands begin to scratch under the shirt, as requested, the boy closes his eyes and shuts out the world.

Sometimes the boy—now older—can get his girlfriend to scratch him as they lie in bed together. He runs his nose up her arm, down her stomach like the Tramp pushing a meatball before the spaghetti-kiss. This may seem romantic to anyone but him or her. His desire is motivated by something different, more primal, than romance, and she, she wants nothing to do with him when he’s like this. Needy like a child. But she’s very clever, his girlfriend, and she considers all her options. If she does not scratch him, he will continue to beg; if she says “in a minute,” he will turn sour and pout, which embarrasses her to no end; if she says “yes,” he will grin from ear to ear and tell her how good they are together. Perfect for each other. It is easier, she knows, to say yes.

The boy’s relationships seem less symbiotic than parasitic. It appears as though he is not trading touch for touch, but stealing. This is true, he knows, but it doesn’t have to be this way. He is more than willing to reciprocate with his own hands, small as they are, yet people rarely accept his medium of exchange. What is it, he wonders, that makes his father and girlfriend reject his hands? He knows they itch, his father in particular. What drives them to scratch by their own hands and contraptions instead of his? And what else, he wonders, do they do for themselves that he does not?


Whenever he gets a massage—a birthday gift from his girlfriend, a gift for both of them, really, because this is a day off from her massaging duties—he is amazed by the therapist’s hands. He is amazed by how easily this person gains control over his body. In seconds, he is a puppet and couldn’t care less who’s pulling the strings.

These hands of his cannot relieve the tension in his body precisely because they are his. They are small and weak. He has tendinitis in his wrist from a childhood playing baseball, swinging aluminum bats and flipping balls to lanky first basemen. On extremely cold days, even a decade after playing the sport, the weakness beneath his palm spreads to the tips of his fingers like a tide supplanting the shore, and his hand hangs heavy. His are not ballplayers’ hands.

Nor are they the hands of a laborer. Sure they can do the job, laboring that is, and they have in the past plied and planted, hauled and heaved, sawed and scissored. But with padded gloves and friction-reducing tools. Without such protection, his hands too easily crack and bleed and stiffen. Instead of hard-packed calluses sprout weepy, fluid-filled sacks.

But none of that matters, really. These hands could relieve the tension in his body perfectly well if only they weren’t his.


He must never touch the girls. This is the most important rule to remember at Zachary’s, a strip club twenty minutes from where the boy went to high school and a spot he sometimes goes with his friends from back home when he’s in town and the gang is too riled up to be pacified by the more traditional haunts. The boys are back in town.

Zachary’s is a one-story building that seems to sag, as if the roof might collapse on both the girls and the boys at any minute. The inside is dimly lit and the hallways are narrow, so narrow, in fact, the boy brushes shoulders and hips with other tongue-waggers on his way to relieve himself in the bathroom. But he never touches the girls.

They dance on a stage better suited for cock fighting (no pun intended) than stripping. The stage is canvas-dressed, the surrounding vinyl ropes barely thigh-high. One girl—no, woman—with sharp-angled bangs as though she has trimmed them herself does a special move in the ring. Dollar bills are folded tent-like over the highest rope, catching her attention, which is precisely when she sinks, slowly, to her knees and drapes her breasts over the dollars, snapping the vinyl as she backs away, now clutching the money between breast and rib cage like a spent mouse trap. By the time she’s standing on high-heeled feet, more bills have appeared, placed atop the highest rope with Jenga-like precision.

Between turns on the stage, naked women with names like Candy and June and colorful puckered lips ask the boy if he wants a dance. Never to dance. Always a dance. Nothing the two could ever do together, but a good to be sold. He knows this and yet finds these women—girls, really—difficult to resist.

During a dance, she bends and twists on him, but he doesn’t touch her; he cannot touch her. It’s a rule in this place, and a good one, the boy knows, but it defeats the whole purpose for him. He wishes, more than anything else, for a meeting of the flesh. His hands to her bare shoulders or, better still, her hands to his. The boy has come here to make some sort of connection.

He, realizing this too late, always too late, has come to the wrong place.

As these naked girls—no, women—dance on top of his clothed body, he never feels more disconnected. Most of the time, these women dry-humping the void between them, he starts a conversation about his girlfriend, his job mowing greens at the local golf course, a tough thing to be good at, he says, because you have to be sure to keep the lines straight and not scalp the edges. He’s doing all the talking, it seems, so he asks her questions. How does she like it here? Where is she from? Then, he sees, for the first time, maybe, the looping dragon tattoo that begins on her chest and ends on her back. He points to it, keeping his distance as if her skin might still be sore. Did it hurt? He asks.

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Some Things Calculable

Posted in Gina Warren, Junk 14: Fall 2014 with tags , , , on September 29, 2014 by Tim Elhajj

by Gina Warren

Some Things Calculable

“I’m noticing some tension between us,” Mom tells me, leaning forward to look past Dad, cramped into the narrow airplane seat between us. “And I would like to clear the air before our trip.”

Ten minutes until take-off.

Eighteen hours since I found Mom’s stash of Vicodin in the top left bathroom drawer.

Two pieces of luggage under my feet.

Twenty days since Mom put her elbows on the counter after dinner and held her face in her hands. She stammered that she’d been thinking about using for four months, since her father had died suddenly. She told me that night, “I haven’t used because I know if I do I will lose you.” There are no numbers or fractions to make pain divisible by a common denominator, to make computation possible.

Two hours and seven minutes before we land in Texas for a layover.

Four days we are about to spend together in New Orleans for my cousin’s wedding.

Some things are calculable while others are not. Time and objects broken down into some small segments are understandable, yet the idea of “clearing the air” does compute.

I slept three and a half hours last night, drank one beer and three glasses of wine, worried out-loud to one friend for two-and-a-half hours about the time I was about to spend with my parents.

“I don’t think it’s that easy,” I tell her. “I’m really upset about this and I don’t know how long that will last. We can’t just clear the air.”

Her cheery demeanor switches suddenly. “Fine. Fine,” she says sharply before shoving a water bottle into the seat pocket in front of her. The plastic crunches and crinkles as it bends. “You can decide to be mad,” she snaps. “Would you be happier if I was sobbing constantly?”

Five alarms set to wake me up at 5:00 a.m. Two cups of coffee and three Excedrin in my system. One mild headache. One upset stomach.

“No.” Dad is still sitting between us, leaning back as if to avoid the crossfire that has been characteristic of my mother’s and my brief morning interactions.

Nine minutes until take-off.

“I think you would be. I think you want me to feel bad,” she says, and I can’t help but think that she should be sobbing, at least a little. “Well, I’m going to have a good time in New Orleans.”

Thirteen hours since my mother and I sat in the kitchen together on high bar stools, talking about what happened. Six oblong white pills imprinted with M365—the remainder of her stash, relinquished to a Ziploc bag—on the counter between us.

Three things opiates do: one) relieve anxiety, two) dull pain, three) physically addict you. Out of five Americans, one has misused prescription drugs. One out of ten high school students has tried Vicodin. Five to ten percent of the population walk through life carrying a brain predisposed to addictive tendencies.

Five days since we sat at the kitchen counter at six in the afternoon and I asked her if she was still thinking about using. She said no, asserted she was happier, promised she would ask me for help if she needed it.

Zero ways in which I know how to comfort my mother in the wake of her father’s sudden absence.

Zero minutes until take-off, the plane rattling cold and metal around us. I try to disappear into the mild, warm nausea in my stomach. Somehow, as if to defy physics and gravity and everything calculable, the metal bird inexplicably rises.

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Red, Brown and Navy Blue

Posted in Junk 13: Spring 2014, Kathy Curto with tags , , , , , , , , , on May 19, 2014 by Tim Elhajj

by Kathy Curto

Red, Brown and Navy Blue

Jack’s scabs are back. Crusty and mostly brown but there are some red ones, too, and they go up and down his skinny arms. On the top of his arms he used to have smooth, round muscles that looked like perfect baseballs when he flexed which always made my mother say “Sure, this one’s Hercules with those arms.”

I told him once he had Popeye the Sailor Man arms. Except Popeye lost his baseballs again and now it’s just skin and scabs. Some of the scabs are round like mosquito bites but there are a few rectangular ones, too. I spend tons of time looking at my brother’s arms.

One of them even looks like the deep scrape I got on the back of my ankle last Tuesday when the screen door closed too fast and I lost my balance. I was wearing my new, navy blue Dr. Scholl’s and still wasn’t used to the bump under my toes. The special bump that’s supposed to make legs skinnier. That’s what the ad says.

“You’re gonna break your neck in those things,” my mother snapped when we were in Grant’s Department Store two weeks ago and I waved the pair of the sandals I wanted in front of her. “Ma, please,” I begged. She caved fast but, when I think about it now, I’m not surprised. She’s real tired these days and things are all mixed up. So she didn’t actually say yes to the Dr. Scholl’s but just motioned to put the shoebox in our shopping cart. Then she sighed her famous long, deep, hard sigh. She was fed up, I could tell. “Alright, let’s go pay,” she said and pushed the cart toward the registers. I walked beside her and when we stopped to wait next to the other shoppers who were buying summer shoes and bathing suits I noticed the frosty white eye shadow she put on that morning looked grey and there was a loose bobby pin just above her ear sticking up and coming out of her beehive hairdo.

And so as we waited together to pay the Grants cashier something hit me: I realized that she wasn’t the only one who was fed up. I was, too, but with myself. I was about to take the box back to the shoe department and say, Ma, I changed my mind but then the cashier said “Next!” so I just put it on the counter with our other stuff– her new panties and the stockings she was buying for the lady on our block who doesn’t leave her house.

The truth of it all is this:  I got the shoes because Jack’s using again. My mother’s had it up to here. These days she walks around with bobby pins falling out of her hair and dirty-looking eyelids. She’s tired, scared and worried and I should have just kept my trap shut about the sandals.

Navy blue Dr. Scholl’s that can make fat legs skinny are the last thing on her mind.


“Jack, stop picking at that,” I say. “It’s so gross.”

It’s eight o’clock on a Wednesday night and we’re lying on the couch in our den, eating pistachio nuts and watching The Waltons. He stops picking at his arm and then he starts throwing his empty shells, one by one, into the ashtray on the coffee table. When he does this I notice the scabs even more because he’s moving his arms around.

My mother’s lectures the last couple of years, the ones about Jack getting clean and staying clean obviously didn’t work. It’s not just Baggies of reefer and clips with feathers on the ends that he hides in stupid places like his underwear drawer and the console of his Camaro. There are needles now, the Baggies are way, way smaller and the stuff inside is white powder not weed.

He calls it crank and my mother calls it crap. I only know what they call it and where he hides it because I snoop. I spend almost as much time snooping as I do looking at my brother’s arms.

Which brings me back to the den. I zero in on his arms again when he throws the nutshells. I try not to dwell because my mother is always telling me, “Don’t dwell, for God’s sake!”

I pray instead.  Dear God, help him stop. Then I wonder if I should be saying make him stop instead of help him stop. Can God make somebody stop?

“Ha, ha,” I tease when he misses the ashtray. Then I smile which is weird and unusual because it makes the whole scene feel like we could have a white picket fence in our front yard. Or like we sit around and eat apple pie all the time. This worries me. We’re not a white-picket-fence-apple-pie family.

He laughs a small laugh and I wonder if he’s high. These days, I’m always wondering if he’s high. Then he tosses a whole nut at me and laughs again. I smile (Again? Is this a dream?) and am closer to the white fence and the pie than ever before. But I don’t throw any back at him. I want to but I don’t. I can’t. I want us to be like the brothers and sisters on television, like the families on television, who play football in their grassy front yards and toss nutshells at each other for fun. But we’re not like that. So I let him toss the shells at me and I don’t toss any back.

We finish watching The Waltons and he says, “I’m outta here.” Then he grabs the keys to his Camaro and leaves. I slip into my new Dr. Scholl’s. I want to ask God for skinny legs but decide to hold off until Jack gets clean. So I take a walk around our block three times instead.

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Mountain Light

Posted in Junk 13: Spring 2014, Mark Liebenow with tags , , , on April 14, 2014 by Tim Elhajj

by Mark Liebenow

Mountain Light by Mark Liebenow

Light flows down the mountains and fills the photographs of Yosemite I took a few weeks ago. October’s sunlight crinkles and flashes off the cascades that rush toward Happy Isles, and when the river enters the green shade under the trees, on the left side of the island where Evelyn liked to sit, it evens out to a powerful black surge. The memory of sitting here with her last year radiates through the glen. It was her last trip. Six months later she would die of an unknown heart problem in her forties, and my journey through grief began.

In one photo of the far side of the river, I notice the reflection of a face, and it looks like Evelyn’s. Kind of. The water is still, and the image doesn’t look like the reflection of the trees, bushes, or anything else that could naturally be there, no matter how the photo is turned. So it must be her face. But not quite. I mention this to Barbara when she calls a day later. She says her psychic friend was talking to her recently about other matters when he mentioned that Ev was interrupting him, wanting to know what Barbara was looking at. Barbara said it was a picture of Evelyn. Ev laughed. She had forgotten what she looked like.

But the reason that Barbara was calling was to tell me that when I was in Yosemite and asked Ev to do something to let me know if she was still around, that Ev had responded. “That must have been,” I say slowly, realizing that I hadn’t told Barbara about this yet, “when the yellow sunset turned red.” I had been sitting in Leidig Meadow and on a whim asked Evelyn to give me a sign. At that moment the clouds changed colors and I was speechless. I wrote it off as a coincidence, even though a friend who lives in the valley had never seen anything like it. Now it takes a step closer to being real.

I was in Yosemite for a number of reasons—to hike through the mountains in its fall colors, but also to honor last year when Evelyn and I helped our friends Francesco and Molly celebrate their fifth wedding anniversary. Molly had been struggling with brain cancer for most of their marriage. Surgery and chemotherapy had halted the disease, but we wondered if Molly sensed her remission was ending. That evening the four of us thought of nothing but love and good friends at an elegant, candlelight dinner at the posh Ahwahnee Hotel.

The next morning, Ev spotted a Native American craft item that she knew would be perfect for Francesco and Molly and bought it for them. Recently they wrote about this in a card of support, “We have an image stuck in our heads of Evelyn coming from the native museum, impishly grinning, and holding a bag with the Indian corn maiden angel inside it for us. It was something we had just been looking at and decided we couldn’t afford.”

I weave these threads of memories together to keep me connected to the past and to the people I’ve loved. It turned out that Molly’s cancer was returning, and they moved from the Bay Area to Southern California to be closer to her doctors. Their journey together is now measured by time.

Closing my eyes, I still see Francesco and Molly standing in their wedding clothes by the flat rock in the woods where the Ahwahnechees ground acorns into food, sharing their promises to be there for each other, no matter what happened. Evelyn and I still walk in the warm sunlight that seems shaded in eclipse, a half light careful not to shine too bright and overwhelm the valley. Immersed in light, we make our way through the golden grass of the meadow down to the Merced River, the River of Mercy.

Moments of eternity like this do not come often, nor the grace I felt sitting next to Evelyn in the hospital. Although she never woke up, I sensed that she waited for me to arrive so that I could share the grace of being with her when death came. During those long, quiet hours, in the space of ordinary time, life and death quietly exchanged places, and darkness whispered its secret that this was the completion of light.

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Posted in Junk 12: Winter 2014, Robin Silbergleid with tags , , , , , on February 10, 2014 by Tim Elhajj


by Robin Silbergleid


Here are the basic facts: A ceiling fan is a mechanical fan, usually electrically powered, suspended from the ceiling of a room, that uses hub-mounted rotating paddles to circulate air. Ceiling fans generally spin between 80 and 300 revolutions-per-minute (RPMs) with about 220 RPMs as a common high speed and 100 a common low.*


What do I do? What do I do? Her feet shuffle back and forth, her weight bouncing on her knees like a marionette. This is what I can see from one eye from beneath the towel, where I am curled, in the single hallway of our upstairs, before I collapse, holding my face because if I don’t it might fall off. My right hand is shaking, twitching. I don’t know what to do.

I am thinking: blood, bone, brain damage. The children will be orphaned.

She is eight. She was in her bedroom reading. I was in the bedroom with the baby. I had just nursed him, changed his diaper.

In his crib, now, where she put him, the baby is screaming. I hear him. And the whir of the blades.

911, I tell her, now now now.

And then, when they don’t come, neighbor.

Oh jeez, he says, eventually, oh jeez, his big feet on the creaky floor.


There are five blades on the fan above my bed. There were four wounds to my face: two low on the forehead, one on the right side of my nose, one under my left eye, so close to the eyeball that when the doctor stitched up my face I could feel her tickle my eyelashes with the needle. I had two black eyes. My hand twitched from brain trauma.

According to the TV show Mythbusters, it is impossible for a domestic ceiling fan to decapitate a human being or do more than cause “minor” injury.

The upstairs of the house looked, my friend said, like a murder scene. There was so much blood that when I pulled down my pants in the emergency room I was sure I had gotten my period. It was July in Michigan; the fan was spinning fast.


I could say, this is why you don’t clean.
I could say, a different kind of domestic violence.
I could say, this is why you don’t ever stand on a bed. Ever.
I could say, I got lucky.
It’s only a scar.

But I am thinking of my daughter’s small white chair where I sat while my neighbors swapped cell phone numbers on construction paper and crayon. The one whom I know from the bus stop slipped sandals on my ruddy feet. The one who lives next door, who likes to garden, stayed with my children–the baby with a bottle of breastmilk from the freezer, the big girl praised for her bravery– while her husband drove me to the hospital. This is the spin I choose to put on the story, a story of human kindness and people looking out for each other, because the other story, the one where small children watch their mother’s blood pool on the wood floors during the twenty minutes it takes for the ambulance to arrive, is unfathomable.


Every morning my daughter watches while I put make-up on. If your scar was flipped over you would look like Harry Potter. My hand trembles. She turns off the fan. The damage is not minor.

*courtesy of Wikipedia

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The Miserable

Posted in Andrea Clark Mason, Junk 12: Winter 2014 with tags , , , , , , , , on January 13, 2014 by Tim Elhajj

The Miserable
by Andrea Clark Mason

When Anne Hathaway walked onstage in a pink gown to receive an Oscar for her role in Les Miserables, I remembered the year I had seen the musical of the same name: 1988. I was in seventh grade. I had been happy and well-adjusted in elementary school, but in middle school, my female friends became intimidating, and an influx of hormones meant I suddenly didn’t know how to act around boys who used to be my friends. I turned silent, unsure of what to say to anyone except my best friend, who attended another school, and my family. I took refuge in the story about the French revolution. Les Miserables had come to Philadelphia, and my parents had taken me to see it. I was enchanted with the story, with revolutionary France, with the young French orphan who seemed to be about my age, with all the songs. I bought the double CD and would play it in my room, singing along with the lyrics until I knew them all.

I ended up seeing the musical three times, once more with my grandmother, and then again with my best friend. Each time I felt more and more part of the story and like everything would have been okay if only I could be swept up in revolution. I was a romantic, taken with stories, and it was hard for me to conceptualize that this was just a story, not what real revolutionary France must have been like.

In the one class I liked at school, Humanities, we were allowed to do a project on “something that interested us.” One of my classmates wanted to be a TV news anchor woman when she was an adult, so that’s what she was doing her report on. I remember wondering how she could know already what she wanted to be when she grew up. I had no idea what I wanted to be, and there wasn’t even anything I was really interested in … except Les Miserables. My teacher looked dubious when I told him what I wanted to do my paper on, but he finally conceded, saying I could find reviews and so on.

One day we had class in the library, and we sat at small tables. My bag was up on the table, but I was paying attention to the librarian, who was telling us how to find sources on our topic. I heard some snickering behind me, and when I turned, I saw two boys holding a sanitary napkin. They had gone through my bag, opening compartments until they’d found the pad. I should have been angry, but instead I was embarrassed and unsure of what to do. I had gotten my period for the first time a few months before but not since then. I was carrying a pad around “just in case” in the event it returned at some unexpected moment. I grabbed my bag, and checked to make sure everything else was still there. Then I closed the zippered compartments they’d opened and tried to sneer at them. But I couldn’t. Instead, I hung my head and thankfully got up quickly when the bell rang only a few minutes later.

When the movie came out, I didn’t expect that seeing it would make me remember seventh grade, the year before I eventually changed schools and began attending private school. Perhaps I had connected with what most of the characters in Les Miserables display – a lack of power to change the difficult circumstances around them that are larger and more powerful than their own lives. Perhaps everyone in my grade was busy growing their first pubic hairs, learning the ins and outs of cliques and realizing how much their world was changing, but I was lucky to have a team on my side, even if they were imaginary characters – Jean Val Jean, Fantine, Cosette, Marius, and of course, Gavroche, the pre-adolescent street urchin around whom I felt pretty sure I knew exactly what I would say – Let’s sing a song!

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Reading While Driving

Posted in Junk 11: Fall 2013, Michael Lacare with tags , , on December 2, 2013 by Tim Elhajj

reading While Driving
by Michael Lacare

Whenever I drive, I often find myself reading a book. Not an E-book, but an actual hardcover or paperback book. I don’t do this every time I’m driving, nor do I do it if there happens to be someone else with me in the car, but typically when I’m riding solo.

I pry open the book at a stoplight, prop it up against the steering wheel and gaze down at the words. Every sentence or two, I habitually glance up at the light. Once it turns green, I hold the book up with my right hand while I grip the top of the wheel with my left. I’ve become quite adept at the art of reading while operating heavy machinery, and I’m convinced that no one is more skillful at it than me.

As of October 1, 2013, the state of Florida banned texting while driving, but nowhere does it say anything about perusing a good book. I know what you’re thinking: Distracted driving is still dangerous and I’ve got to be a few sandwiches short of a picnic to even consider it, but I couldn’t help and think about all that time I spend behind the wheel, and how many books that equates to. I once read Steinbeck’s, The Winter of Our Discontent entirely from behind a steering wheel. If people can apply make-up or stare at their GPS devices, I figure I could catch up on my reading.

This works especially well on interstates, since there is less stop-and-go traffic. There I am, barreling down the highway somewhere in the vicinity of 70-80 MPH, my hair disheveled from the wind, all the while absorbing Russian literature.

I’ve spotted other drivers committing equal, if not, worse offenses, by gabbing incessantly on their phones, or head-banging to music that blares from speakers that make your chest thump. There’s the soccer mom who’s distracted by her kids; a father who spends an excessive amount of time reaching behind his seat to discipline his children; a pet owner who permits their dog to sit on their lap, as though the Bull Mastiff was the one actually doing the driving; and last but not least, the law enforcement officer who is much too preoccupied with her built-in laptop that protrudes from the dash.

One time I stopped at a light and a man in the car next to me, sitting in the passenger seat, caught me reading. We locked eyes for a moment or two and when the light changed, the car he was riding in darted forward and I never saw him again.

Geez, I thought. I never got the chance to tell him that The Road by Cormac McCarthy had altered my life for the better.

This brings me to the long-form novel. I don’t bother with these in the car, since the longer the book, the heavier it tends to be and the more difficult it becomes to hold with one hand.

The other day, I observed a woman chomping down on a burger and fries while she drove, pushing the burger deep into the recesses of her mouth with both hands, and steering the wheel with her knee. I wondered if eating in the car had been a habit with her, or was this just an isolated case. Maybe she was running late for an appointment. I often tried justifying these kinds of things in my mind.

When I drove from New York to Florida, I watched a man change out of his suit and tie, and into a T-shirt and shorts, all the while driving down I-95.

He’s got game, I thought and let my eyes drift back down to the book I was reading. I started it the day before I left on my trip and by the time I reached the Blackjack Oaks and Slash Pines of South Carolina, I was more than three-quarters of the way through.

My hope is to make the transition to crossword puzzles, and not the easy ones found on the racks of grocery checkout lanes, the ones where the average clue reads something like, What’s a three-letter word for feline? I’m referring to the Sunday New York Times edition, the grand Poobah of crosswords.

Picture this: I’m coursing down Route 66 with the top down and the end of a pencil in my mouth thinking, a seven-letter word for Distracted is Abashed.

Life is good.

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