How to Poach an Elephant

Galana

“There were no other elephants nearby, but there was a pride of five lions not far away. The calf had made a tiny den within the salt bush where she was hiding. The visitors alerted the Kenya Wildlife Service (KWS) personnel at Sala Gate who got in touch with our Mobile Veterinary Unit which was soon on the scene with some of our De-Snaring personnel. The calf was captured and transported to our Elephant Night Stockades at Voi.  She was weak and therefore easily restrained without the need for sedation for the one hour journey, squeezed into the back of the Mobile Veterinary Unit vehicle to the Elephant Stockades…where the baby received a rapturous welcome from the other orphans. They surrounded her and comforted her whilst our De-Snaring Team Leader made the phone call to Nairobi, advising us that the elephant was fragile and weak and should be air-lifted to the Nairobi Nursery, being still milk-dependent and orphaned at a difficult age.” {This excerpt is from Dame Daphne Sheldrick’s website: www.sheldrickwildlifetrust.org

A few years ago, I watched a documentary on Dame Daphne Sheldrick and her rescue work of orphaned elephants whose mothers have been poached (ambushed and killed) for their ivory tusks. The World Wildlife Fund estimates that over 4000 elephants are poached in Africa, only for their ivory. In the 70’s and 80’s, the numbers were much higher. “Unfortunately the demand for ivory in the Far East, particularly China, has pushed the price of ivory up too far,” Sheldrick said. For those people who live in poverty, poaching elephants and selling the tusks are lucrative ways to survive. Dame Daphne says that is why Kenya has got to enact “very draconian sentencing for poaching crimes…so that it’s not worth it for villagers to kill elephants or rhinos.”   However, so far, the penalties remain low.

****

Reading this, I begin to think that those who sell ivory should face severe penalties.   And those who buy it could also face a penalty.  If not for them, there would be no market. Those who sell and buy the ivory trinkets as a sign of prestige are creating the demand. “Robert Godec, the U.S. ambassador to Kenya… said policing efforts and prosecutions of poachers must improve and a lowering of demand for ivory in places like Vietnam and China must take place to save the animals.” Mingling with the baby elephants, Ambassador Godec noted “They’re very human in a way.” Dame Daphne replied: “Oh, I’ve been working with them for 50 years now. They’re just like us but better than us.”

****

The Galana River flows east from Lugard Falls and enters the Indian Ocean in 30 12’ S, north of Malindi. Tsavo East National Park is one of the world’s largest game reserves providing undeveloped wilderness homes to vast numbers of animals. The Galana River punctuates the generally flat, dry landscape.

It was not far from the campgrounds that the couple first spotted the orphaned elephant. They were very English and too proper to be rousting about in Africa even in a proper campground. Though the word proper doesn’t belong to anything African.

****

I am elephant –wild– tough of hide wide of eyed beneath my trunk a semi-smile, and knowing wise retreating eyes glazed in trauma. Little body, floppy ears, these wide eyes have cried their tears take me back to my mama remove from me all the trauma of mama lost. My shrieking cries could topple trees and echo louder than a gaping mouth collapsed on the forest floor. Mama, bloodied and beaten by men who neither see nor care –the fear implanted.–

It’s her tusks they want though I don’t know why;  my cries go inward and I want to die. I become a whimper, a shiver, and charge in circles while they carve my mama to free her tusks. I don’t want tusks, not ever, if that’s what they’d do to me– a child I’ll stay …but who will feed me,  teach me how an elephant behaves, show me how I’m naturally brave– that there is a way of respect and pride that though my hide is tough, my heart is not?

Elephant, noble and proud, some say …and left to ourselves, there is wisdom; only a beast to these traders of ivory, traitors of the forest, the poachers, encroachers claiming what isn’t theirs to sell elsewhere.

And I,  burdened by the image of her tragic death. This greatest sin stealing my mother from me and me from her. …the greatest sin for on her I do depend.

How do we live free and safe? Our mothers, their young? Where is the respect and honor which should be ours?  Where is the freedom to roam the forests and forage for food?  The freedom to play in an elephant way? To watch the sunrise, the sunset with neither fear nor dread. Today, I watch as my mother lays dead.

Who is going to rescue me?  Where do I go?  Does anyone care?  Whose government can intervene?  Where is the law?  Who does it favor?

How to poach an elephant?  Get a really, really big pot for starters.

****

One would think that there would be shame in showing off an ivory trinket.

Why do I care about the orphaned elephants and their mothers? It’s basic…the way that any creature is disrespected is reflected in the larger world. Women and children continue to be disrespected across cultural boundaries.   When is that going to change? What causes change for the good?  When do the values and voices of women
and children count?

When does the voice of the earth get heard?  When,  if not now,  if not soon,  when do we, as the human species,  find a harmonious place in the order of things?

What if heaven on earth could be achieved with a change in perspective—that we are all deeply connected; and if we live from that, how would we live?  How then would we foster our relationships?  How then would we care for all the creatures of the planet and steward our resources and our earth home?  Why do we presently think this is a silly ideal to aspire to?  Questions that are worth asking of ourselves and one another…before there is no earth,  no resources,  no other species,  no us.

He’s Not Right for You!

She’d fallen for him–it was the way his big blue eyes took on a narrow slit that made her forget her vow not to fall too deeply in love with  him.  At times, he fooled  her and himself–an unnatural calm emanated from him and she thought, in that moment, that one convincing drawn-out moment, that he was a solid, steady man.  Not one given to emotional outbursts or a mouth that leaked verbal abuse until she felt properly flattened.

She wanted him to be this calm and steady man that she needed since she’d mislaid those qualities in herself.  When she told him that she was “warped” and he admitted that he was too–that didn’t reassure her nor did it dissuade her.  It only made her think that he couldn’t then be the one-in-the-world for her.  Sadly, as they had played together so nicely.  And when she wasn’t worried that he lived meagerly and sloppily, they laughed a lot.  This shared laughter was the boon for an up-to-then overly harsh life.  Although the kissing wasn’t the best she’d sampled, she could get into it like a young teenager playing with kisses–soft, hard, tiny, deep, daring.  She knew she’d be something more like a mother to him over time, rather than an equal partner; he liked her for her qualities of nurture which shouldn’t be denied or minimized.  She grew somewhat bounteous for him–voluptuous and overflowing, more than she cared to be–his Rubenesque babe.  Now, she’d have to diet again, lose the damn weight she’d so easily collected while in love.  And, although angry while missing him, she told herself that it was for the best.  Certainly, his gentle qualities attracted her as did their invigorating discussions.  And, that he thought and told her she was beautiful, that he genuinely loved her…that she was one of the three great loves of his life.  Did that include his cat, Louise, she wondered?  And that he imagined they would go on and on like he had desired with only two others.  And now, she was the lucky one–was it a fault in her, she wondered, that she ran from him?  Was she afraid and would she run from even the best possible man as he often said?  Or, was it truly her intuitive voice saying “he’s not right for you!”

This Wandering Mind

1) I’ll tell you this
a body likes comfort
lingering in bed this morning
it’s time to put on the flannel sheets
These shores of comfort’s complacency
the siren’s call to action
the planet’s doom
Where is my friend
for the end of the world?

2)Errand completed
I drove to a favorite Thai restaurant
Only two other women are sharing lunch
so I get immediate service.
This sinus condition
spicy Thai food is often the cure.
I sip my medium hot red curry
as the restaurant suddenly bulges
with the late lunch crowd.
Two older men
looking somewhat beaten by life,
sit at the table in front of me.
Urgh.  It’s not the view I want
while eating lunch.
I avert my eyes
though they inadvertently rivet
to…
I rearrange the water carafe, teapot
and a bottle of soy sauce,
strategic guardians,
to occlude this less than desirable view
of pants that sit well-below a man’s hefty waist
exposing the infamous butt crack.
I’d change my seat however the
restaurant is suddenly full–
a migration of citizens
hungry for Thai food.
I frown and raise the book I was reading
Paul Hawken’s Blessed Unrest and try to read
about the ideology of isms…
how an ism creates a movement
with its own set of dogma
and gathers followers like a dog attracts fleas
and then, believing it is the ultimate truth,
how it proceeds to force
its belief system on others.
And those who are prone to manipulation
who fear thinking for themselves
get on the tram
and point fingers at the others
who are left behind on the ground
isolated in their own set of beliefs.  

3) is activism only
another ism
but if we don’t act
how does the planet
know I care?
and has it conjured up you
and me to be its advocates
called us forth
to “dance our clumsy dance”
fracturing the siren’s song
of looking the other way
when there are cries for help
everywhere?

4) At my age,
I do not want to
simply keep house
for a man
to see to his care and feeding
I’m done with the years of bearing
completed with the season of breeding
It seems that the men on match.com
have the same old requirements
of a woman…

and she is no longer me!

5) The violence of birth
an entry point
we are all players here
what capsule did I take
that made me forget
my origin?
Are these words a tunnel
I follow towards that illusive speck of light?
When I reach the end, I might…
dissolve in a fizz or spark
Some say a star is flung into the night
“Find your place in the order of things”
says one of the true gods
or is chaos our real plight
and are we doomed to try to carve
sense out of nonsense?
or not?
Can I then “dance my clumsy dance”
stop seeking truth long enough to see it
dazzling everywhere?
Can I be satisfied with this?

6) Cleaning the cat’s litter box,
I wonder if nuclear fallout
understands that it must hug
the shores of Japan?!?
I might think I live in a bubble
but then how do I explain this stray germ
that’s taken over my sinuses?
What’s so important today
that I must speak it?
Sometimes words are inadequate
constructed of mere letters
then grouped into sentences,
thoughts, extracted from…air?
The mind is always grasping
for something else
to grapple with.
What does this little woman
with the cold nose
have to say
that hasn’t been said
a million times over?
Nothing.
As the jet streaks the sky
with a contrail tail
the memory of kids
screaming skyward
shouting with all their might
“don’t crash.”
Did they foresee then
this fragile ecosystem?
A man hiking in the mountains
above Chernobyl
commented on how
“pure” the air
looked from there
after the explosion.
Mountain climbers breathe deeply
what invisible warfare was  he
unwittingly subjected to?
Are we subjected to?

 

 

 

Grief–again

Grief…again

I had no intention of visiting the grief pool again…so soon.  (Though at times it seems I never get very far from its edge.)  When I got the telephone call that Elizabeth died, I cried with her sister, the messenger, hung up and went into shock.  During the day, I told a couple of trusted friends, put her name on a Tibetan Buddhist prayer list for 49 days, intermittently cried, recalled our last meeting, the phone call that I hadn’t got around to returning yet—waiting to have the energy for our conversation.  Felt guilt about not being a “perfect” friend to her.

Then for half a day, I went into a happier denial.  Since we didn’t live close enough to see one another every day, week, or month…it seemed this might work.  Then, last night, before bed…the loss flooded me.  I couldn’t drift off into forgetfulness.  I wondered where she was at that moment, 12:00 midnight and beyond.  I got up several times, opened the curtains to let
the full moon enter.  She could keep me company during this vigil.  I cried, felt guilty, then angry, wanted a coverlet of denial to pull over my head.  Yesterday morning, I had a dream image of Elizabeth and we hugged.  But it wasn’t a face forward hug.  It was her standing sideways, facing another direction as I wrapped my arms around her.  She gave me some  piece of advice or a directive on an aspect of life…to live it is the synopsis of what I remember.

I thought I might drive south to her memorial today.  It would involve packing—it would require a couple of overnights, hotel reservations, map-questing to find where the memorial is being held.  With last night’s vigil, it doesn’t seem wise to journey anywhere.  I know, I know, you can be somewhere in spirit and that’s the most important.  But I thought that being with her family and friends in grief would help me to accept this final transition, this untimely loss, this sudden departure.  Crying with others somehow solidifies the leaving and there is company in grieving this shared loss.

With so many losses over my lifetime and especially over these past three years, I thought that maybe I had a free ride, a ticket that said “it gets easier”, this letting go of someone you love.  I thought that I understood something true about loss–that it’s only a change of form and that no one we love is ever far.  That, yes, once you know them, they are always in
your heart.  I might have thought by now that there was a natural immunity to this pain of loss.  Or, that I had enough spiritual enlightenment not to be this affected by Elizabeth’s dying.  But there it is, sitting like a boulder in the middle of the road, in the middle of my chest.  It won’t be ignored.  Damn it!

That’s it, it’s easier not to love, not to open your heart and let anyone in.  Then, you don’t feel loss.  However, it seems that people do sneak into the heart space and though I have a naïve rule that no one in my circle younger than me can leave before I do, it’s been broken once again.  This is f…..d.

The Key

Soft kisses, lingering looks
open me
–sweet torment.
These are what I miss.
Don’t let me slip
into this memory’s groove;
I might think I want you back.

Soft kisses, lingering looks
–the temptors.  Forgetfulness of
everything that didn’t work.
Can’t be so gullible
as to lose myself
in those eyes
that pretend profound innocence
and those lips that kiss softly
and speak so harshly.

Soft kisses, lingering looks
ah,
the key to any needy woman’s heart.

No Title

I showed him not my secret path
through the woods
…not wanting him to know me
so well.

Love’s loss
flattened
as a spring dandelion
daring
to burst
through cracked pavement
–crushed.
Is it improper
to be dismal
when spring sparkles new?
Love affairs and spring
are synonymous.
It’s anarchy
to fall out of love
in the crow and cackle
of early spring!
Rushes, flutters and quickening
of the season
nudge even the begrudging
towards
some new venture.
The broken heart
seeks rapid suturing
–pain and stitches dissolve
at light speed.
Can Cupid capture
another rapture
before spring’s departure?

The Dare

Appearances
Pigeon Holes
Labels
“What do you think of me?” categories
“How do I see myself” boxes
Houses and fences
Rooted and bound
Classified and classed
Titles
Race and religion
Latin derivatives
Descriptive words
All of those imprisonments

A soul is an impatient creature
wild and misbehaving
Resisting the soul’s prods
is unwise
It’s about change
The grist of one’s life is
the dissolving springboard
The leap is that place
the wild soul most loves
the risk, can do, the daring flight
the adventure that forms,
reforms, shape-shifts.
“Break down the door!” the soul commands.
Go outside
Submit to harsh and penetrating elements
Get lost in star rapture
And let it change you!

Never, ever be the same as you were yesterday!

Overhead Lights–a short story in episodes

Overhead Lights–final episode
copyright 2013 by Christine O’Brien

Returning to my cozy cabin beside the lake, I race from the car to the cabin.   It’s pouring rain by now.  I turn the radiant heater on high.  The hot air blasts the small space. Thank God there’s a bathtub.  I fill the tub with hot water, pour in Epsom salts and add a few drops of rose essential oil.  I slip out of my damp clothes and into the fragrant bath.  I soak. The healing power of water, I think.  But what would heal this lake?  Thoughts float to the surface of my mind and then evaporate.  As the water begins to turn lukewarm, I climb out of the tub and dry myself with a small rough towel then wrap myself in my faded orange terry cloth robe.

In the kitchenette, I heat my homemade vegetarian minestrone soup in a small pot on the apartment-sized stove top.  A slice of crusty buttered French bread and half a glass of a mellow merlot complement my meal.  Warm from the inside out, I prepare myself for one last adventure before settling down for the night.  I dress quickly, bundling myself from head to toe in all the outer gear that I brought with me.  Looking like a refugee, I open the cabin door.  About thirty yards away, near the clubhouse, stands a solitary, door-less telephone booth.  This is an El Niño year and due to heavy flooding, sandbags are the upraised stepping stones to the phone booth.  I hopscotch from sandbag to sandbag.

Huddling inside the booth, I call my sister, Rachel, in Portland.  She is a Yoda in my corner and the only one who knows where I am besides Paul.  While we talk, I watch the rain falling over the lake.  The ducks quack loudly at times, seeming to mock my words.  The lonely willow bends lower with the pelting rain.  The boat docks are completely submerged and nudge one another like old friends.  Lights across the lake shimmer in the water, a forgotten, drowned city.  And there are so many trees.  Being a city girl born and raised, trees are not a familiar sight, but they feel comforting somehow.

“This is such a beautiful place,” I tell Rachel.  “Today, I hiked through the state park in this mystical countryside.  At first, I was lost in my thoughts, worrying over Paul and me.”

“How sad to miss the beauty of your surroundings,” Rachel gently chided me.

“Yes, I know.  It got better.  I followed these narrow paths through the trees, scaring the deer from their foraging. Deer, can you believe it!  And then there was the cutest quail family skittering off into the bushes!”

“Was it raining then?”

“Only a light mist.   The air was so fresh.  I breathed deeply and finally calmed down enough to appreciate the enchantment of this place.”

“Glad to hear that,” Rachel said.

“Driving a country road, I circled a bend and coming out of the curve, there was an orchard of walnut trees on the right.  No leaves, no fruit, only their naked branches grasping towards spring.  These bare trees wading in a meadow of pastel wildflowers!  What a sight!”

“You’re such a poet.  Did you take a picture?”

“I didn’t bring my camera.  Darn!  I wish you were here. Or that Paul had stayed to sightsee with me.”

“What’s his problem?”

“I can only guess why he left this morning.  I made the most of the day despite him.  After what I’ve seen and experienced with Paul yesterday, I don’t want to move here. As beautiful as the lake is, I wouldn’t fit in.”

“So what’s next?”

“Home tomorrow.”

“And what about Paul?  He seems so set on moving there and getting his resort going?”

“Perhaps Paul is only my transitional man.  You know, the man who helps you release your old relationship, the bridge to a new life.  I don’t really know.”

“You don’t need to know right now.”

“Good because I have more questions than answers these days.  Mostly, I feel cared for and appreciated by him. On the other hand, there is a gap in our values.  All I can say is, we’ll see where it goes.”

“You can’t negotiate your values, Lacy.  That’s one thing I’ve learned in my life.”

“That’s true.  Thanks for being there.”

“I hate to think of you standing out there in the rain.  Is it still coming down?”

“In buckets!”

“Call me when you get home tomorrow.”

“Thanks for being there, Rachel.  Love you.”

“Love you. Bye, Lacy.”

Finally, I call Paul to say good night.

“I’m standing out here in the rain in a partially exposed telephone booth.  I called to say good night.”

“Are you alright,” he asks.

“I won’t go into detail right now, but I’m pretty certain that I don’t want to move here.  I’m glad that you left this morning so I could have this time to explore this place and my feelings.”

“Lacy, I’ve got some news for you.  The resort project has fallen through.  That’s why I had to leave so abruptly this morning…to see if it could be salvaged.  It turns out that the main financial backer has invested in too many risky schemes and he doesn’t have the available cash flow to follow through. The bank turned us down.  At this time, there’s no chance of getting someone else to come up with the start-up funds for building the resort.”

I felt a sudden calm, like heat, rising from my belly.

“I can’t say that I’m sorry, you know that Paul.  I support you but the whole thing felt wrong from the start.”

“Lacy, there’s no guarantee that someone else won’t come along and pick up where we left off.  It’s bound to happen eventually.  That’s the way of things.  I can tell you this much, I won’t be involved with it.  You’ve got me thinking about ethics.  Damn, that’s going to complicate my life.”

“That’s a start.  Thanks, Paul.  I miss you.”

“Lacy, we’ll talk when you get home.  Get in out of the rain now.  And dream sweet dreams, Hon.”

“Good night, Paul.”

Slogging across the sandbags to my cabin, the rain is a blurry wall I walk through.  Outside the cabin door, I twirl, clumsy dancer in hiking boots.  Face to the sky, I relish the rainwater’s cool caress.  Once inside the cabin, I turn off the overhead lights.  I strip off my wet clothes, lay them across a chair near the heater and snuggle into my flannel pajamas. Settling down in the lumpy double bed with my journal, I listen to the rain falling, falling on the dying lake.

 

 

Overhead Lights–a short story in episodes

Overhead Lights–episode 9
copyright 2013 by Christine O’Brien

I had hoped that Paul and I would visit Clear Lake State Park today.   Of course, there’s no reason why I can’t go on my own.  Clear Lake is actually a pretty lake, very scenic with a beautiful curvature, ensconced by guardian mountains.  If man were not here, I’m sure that its natural pristine qualities would be intact.  Man has invaded bringing some of his shoddiness and an obvious lack of appreciation for nature and its beauty. The lake reflects its disapproval.  It is dying, choking on scum-like algae.

Years ago, my ex-husband, daughters and I vacationed here at a summer resort.  It was the oddest vacation.  It seemed like everyone we knew from the big city where we lived had been transported to the same resort.  Hordes of people bobbed up and down in one of the many pools.  There was no room to actually swim.  While my husband and kids played in the over-populated pools, I grabbed my towel and went to swim in the lake.  I waded into the warm, soup-like water.  I jumped forward and kicked my legs, pulling through the water with my arms.  I hadn’t gone out very far before I had the odd sensation that the lake was clinging to me.  I swam back to shore and when I stood up to wade in, my skin and swim suit were covered with this grimy slime.  The next morning, we noticed the dead fish floating outside the cabin’s window.

What did Paul mean when he told me this morning “You have to be nice to me?”  What was my response?  Was I a smart ass?  What did I say?  I try to remember my exact words.  They are gone like him, but a feeling of righteousness remains.  I’ve decided that I get to be myself whomever I’m with.  If I feel like being nice, then I will; if not, oh well.  Take it or leave it!,  He left it.  Where did this back-talking girl come from?  He laughed as he got into the car.  Was it a laugh of irony?

Being directionally challenged, I study a map of the entire perimeter of the lake.  There are many little townships that skirt these waters.   My map shows the names or numbers of roads, streets, significant parks, buildings, museums, and other points of interest.  With my index finger, I trace the route I need to take from here to there, then from there to what’s next.  I create a cheat sheet for myself written in big, easily legible block print. Significant street names are noted and whether I am to turn right or left or to go straight.  I even go so far as to reverse the directions so I can get back to where I began.  I enjoy driving, but I do not instinctively get directions like Paul does.  Though I understand that on the west coast, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, I do better when someone who is giving me directions says explicitly, go left or go right rather than go west or east.  What can I say?  I have learned to compensate.

If Paul had stayed, he would have driven.  He would be confident and I would have been content sitting in the passenger seat.  I would have entrusted the tour of this area to him as I did yesterday.  He would have considered what I wanted to see, yet he would decide for how long.  He is, after all, the driver.  I am only the passenger, along for a ride and to be entertaining company.

In the driver’s seat of my 1990 blue Dodge Dart, a reliable family car, I take several deep breaths, feeling a sense of nervous exhilaration.   I place my cheat sheet in front of me on the steering wheel.  I’m at point A and point B is Clear Lake State Park northeast of Kelseyville on Soda Bay Road.  Ten minutes later, I’m there.  I pay the day use fee and the ranger hands me a trail guide.  I park the car in the designated parking area.  Aside from the ranger in the booth and myself, there is no one else around.  An eerie feeling envelopes me.   I walk to the end of a pier.  The mist is sitting on the water.  I kneel down as if to pray.  I want to dip my hand in the water but it’s a dying lake and I don’t dare.  I do say a prayer. “Spirits of the lake, renew this lake…let it return to health and life as it once was.”

Walking along the marked trails through low vegetation, I nearly bump into a trio of deer munching on a clump of brush.  I take a slight detour, stepping over branches that have fallen across an alternate trail and dipping under low-hanging limbs.  I squeal in joy when a family of quail flutter and race as I blunder into their covey.  Finding a bench, I lay on it knees bent, face to the sky.  The mist thins in places and the blue sky seeps through.  My mind gets quiet.  There are no thoughts.  Not of Paul or me or the Pomos.  Nothing.  Nothing. Thankfully, nothing.  I am learning to seek my own wise counsel and that works best when I enter this nothing.  There is no sense of time.  After awhile, the mist turns to a light rain.  I sit up and retrace my steps to the car.

Overhead Lights–a short story in episodes

Overhead Lights–episode 8
copyright 2013 by Christine O’Brien

The next morning, Paul is up before me and has brewed a small pot of coffee.  I sit up.

He says “You look cute in the morning.”

I pat the bed beside me.

“Can’t,” he says, “gotta go.”

“What?  I thought you booked the cabin for two nights.”

“I did, but I have some business to take care of.  You can stay.  It’s paid for.”

I shake my groggy head and say “Hmmm.  What changed since last night?”

“Lacy, something has come up and I need to go.”

“But Paul…” I protest.

“I’d prefer not to discuss it right now.  Let’s have breakfast and then I’m going to hit the road.”

Puzzled and pouting, I fry him two eggs and toast two English muffins.  I pluck the jar of strawberry jam from the ice chest and set it down on the table with emphasis.

“Won’t you change your mind?  It’s a rare weekend that you don’t have your son,” I try.

“Hon, I really do have to go.  Sorry.”

Breakfast done, he loads his one piece of luggage in the Mercedes.  Coming back inside, he looks around the small space and then grabs me, presses my face between his two warm hands and kisses my creased brow.  Then he kisses me passionately on the lips as if to seal our bond.  The day is gray and he walks out into the mist.  The screen door slaps shut behind him leaving me in the wake of his spicy aftershave.  I stand in the doorway watching.

Before getting into his car, he turns and says “You have to be nice to me.”

I sass back “I’ve decided that I get to be as I feel in the moment.”

I guess that isn’t the correct answer.   He turns away and gets into the car.  He backs his Mercedes out of the driveway and drives off.  I shut the cabin door behind him.

Paul hates overhead lights.  Since he’s no longer here, I switch them on.  I wash the breakfast dishes, staring out the window into the mist that hovers on the lake and weaves through the trees.  My thoughts and feelings are as muddled as the lake is turbid.  One leafless willow dips low towards the water, a lonely note without a symphony.  We’re still dating after a year and three months.  It would have been four months but I didn’t see Paul for one month.  We were getting too close too fast and I needed to slow it down.  I still do. After being married to one man for twenty-five years, I’m in no hurry to hook up again.  Although the dream of someone better, a Mr. Right, soul-mate type, is a lingering fantasy.  I wonder does such a man exist.  Would I recognize him?  I’ve had such limited experience and having once chosen wrong for what appeared to be the right reasons, am I overly cautious now?  How can I be sure I won’t make another wrong choice? Surviving a marriage to an alcoholic man I can’t be too careful.  Can I?

I shower, towel-dry, dress and do my morning ablutions.  Brushing & flossing my teeth; applying the mousse that promises to tame my curly hair. The whole time, my mind reconstructs the events of yesterday, trying to understand what might have lead to Paul’s early departure.  Why am I left alone in this cabin?  What business did Paul suddenly need to attend to?  What did I do or say wrong?  The “Thank You for Not Smoking” sign glares at me from over the cabin door.  Although I don’t smoke, I feel like lighting up in defiance.  Is that why Paul left this morning?  Am I too defiant?  Then again, am I supposed to fall into step with his goals and dreams if they in some way violate my own values?  So then is it “Bye-bye, Lacy?”