Coffee & God

From "The Last Storyteller"
The Last Storyteller available on Amazon.

Coffee and God

            Early morning, I settle into the worn and over-used step of my back porch, holding a steaming cup of coffee, witnessing a glorious sunrise, listening to the morning song of a nearby bird. The chilly morning of Texas’ winters has arrived, carrying with her a morning dew, gently sprinkled over a seemingly revitalized lawn. Perhaps the plentiful rainfall of the past week has added new life to a lawn that suffered through a broiling Texas summer.

            Suddenly, the deep baritone of an eighteen-wheeler’s air-horn, traveling Interstate 35, drowns out the morning melodies of the innocent bird. The highway is not much further from my back porch than my neighbor's cornfield. The serenity and numbness of my perfect morning end abruptly, crushed by the rig driver's obnoxious warning.

            Reality rains down. The world is waking up. My coffee is not as hot nor as good as first chronicled. I inspect my lawn and understand the new growth, in truth, is just weeds. Bermuda has gone dormant, anticipating Winter's inevitable return. There have been no ears of corn in my neighbor's field for months, having succumbed to record high heat and water restrictions. Calling him my neighbor is also a bit off target, we have exchanged a few morning nods over the last seven years, but I don't even know his name. My porch, which moments ago, felt spacious and liberating, in this realty is only four feet by four feet, and once again just a place to wipe your feet.

            My experience this morning is a microcosm of the daily life of the Addict. For many addicts capturing long moments of serenity and numbness by simply swallowing a pill or puncturing a vein is a daily routine. The Addict thinks they are fooling people into believing the addicted one is "straight and sober". They believe their enslaving behavior goes undetected by friends and family. They do not realize their secret life is just being snubbed by these others after years of concern, unmeasurable patience and buckets of tears.

            With great hypocrisy, the addict attends their weekly support meetings, purporting to be splendid examples to the other addicts, sadly, even before the newbies who are dying to begin a new life of sobriety. After the meetings, after a time of practiced deception, the seasoned Addict returns to her own hidden back porch and commits to going numb.

            I pray, their moment of numbness will be interrupted by God's air-horn, suffering reality to rain down upon their blindness.

            This morning, on my back porch, there are but two realities- coffee and God.

The addict believes their "coffee", their drug of choice, is trustworthy. Do they not realize the veritable nature of God? Can they accept that God will help them? Will they allow God to paint sunrises in their life, creating a new beginning? A beginning that could provide a second chance?

Another morning will find me on my porch, enjoying conversations with God. You see, it is through these conversations with Him, faith allows me to know—

Interruptions are temporary; beautiful sunrises will turn into dark gray clouds, lush lawns give way to ugly weeds, and when the songbird is silenced, when my coffee turns cold, He will still be there...listening.

Tomorrow will come soon. My back porch awaits...maybe you will join me.

The Letter

Coming this Spring, 'A Red Dress Night', is a collection of short stories and flash fiction. The stories are about love, pain. tangled history and strange things that sometimes travel through my thoughts. "The Letter" is a short story about pain.

Dearest,

The window is open just enough to let in the cool night air. With precise aim refined by years of experience I flick the burning butt of my cigarette through the opening. The spent cancer-stick soars over the sill without a solitary ash defacing the freshly painted surface. The orange ember explodes into a million dancing fireflies before tumbling to the street twenty-three stories below. That was easy. You should have seen it.

Jumping won’t be easy.

Raising the window another two inches, my hands tempt the drying paint. It’s cowardly to press on at this miserably slow clip. I know that, you don’t need to point it out. A few more inches and I will be able to pass through the opening. My butt this time. You can laugh if you like, it doesn’t offend me. Nothing does. Suicide jokes are no longer off limits.

A fresh cigarette awaits stoically in the worn crook of my fingers anticipating the flame that will touch its crown. I surrender to its call. Don’t judge me, you have done that enough. The damage is done anyway. The cancer has returned.

I don’t mean for this to be a pity-party. I am a smoker. Have been for more years than I can remember. I read all the warnings. The Surgeon General was spot on. But you know what...it’s my goddamn party and if I want to cry in my beer there is no one to stop me, not even the friggin’ General can do that.  Cry, I will. After all, it’s my last hoorah. By the way, I don’t need to point this out—but I will— you didn’t even bother to come.

Nine-hundred-fifty-two days since my last chemo treatment. I counted them; every day remembered by a tick mark on our bedroom wall. There is one mark with a red circle around it, that one is for the day you walked out. Gone with the wind. Vἁmonos, Adios amigo. No looking back. I want to remember that one the most. Do you remember what you told me? You said it was too hard on you. Too hard? On you? Try fucking chemo! Has your throat ever burned so badly you couldn’t eat? So bad you couldn’t breathe without screaming at the pain? But you can’t scream because your throat is so raw it will bleed if you do. Hard on you? Have you ever been afraid to look in the mirror? My hair never did come back completely, although it does have a curl to it now. Was that the hard part for you, the way I looked? Was it the weight loss? I didn’t wear scare-a-crow very well, did I? Maybe it was my sleepless nights? But did you know about those, sleeping beauty? Probably not. Or the horrific medical bills? Or the throwing up? That was it? Right?

Or was it living every day of your life fearful of the next test result? A test that will reveal the cancer-demon has returned and is lurking beside your tombstone chiseling in one...more...letter.

No. Silly me. That wasn’t you, that was me.

You just left.

Well now, that was a bummer. Sorry to put a damper on the party. Maybe this will make you smile; did you know this is the hotel where we first made love? Do you remember? I had rose petals laying across the bed, a bottle of Champagne waiting on ice and two long stem glasses resting on the pillows. It was cheap bubbly water and plastic glasses from Kmart. I bought the rose from that blind street vendor on 42^nd street. We didn’t have a dime to spare between us. In love and dead broke. I sang that Lionel Richie song to you, say you, say me, say it together. You told me to shut up and make love to you. Naturally. It was the best night of my life.

I would like to tell you it was the same room, only freshly painted. That would be romantic. But it’s not. You were afraid of heights, tall buildings, elevators. I laughed telling you not to be afraid, It’s the fall that will kill you.

Irony?

Our son was a baby when you made your unexpected departure. My son. That really hurt. On my weekends, he cries every time you leave. He doesn’t know me. I cry every time he says bye-bye daddy. I bought him a new baseball glove for Christmas. The one he has now is too small. I think he will like it. You can tell him it’s from you if you like. I was going to take him to a Yankee’s game, you know dad and son kind of stuff. We would eat crappy hotdogs, dribble mustard on the front of our look-a-like jerseys, yell at the umpire (no bad words, I promise). We would have fun, just father and son, a day at the ballpark.

Tell him that’s what I was going to do. Please.

The doctor told me we could try the chemo again. We? I can’t do that. This is the place where you tell me to fight. Remind me how precious life is. Tell me how our son needs me, at least every other weekend and for two weeks each summer. This is where you take my hand and look into my eyes the way you always did and tell me I can do this. But you’re not here now, are you?

Do you want to hear the hardest part?

I’ll burn one more cigarette before opening the window to critical mass. The outside air has become colder. I hear the music of the city below. An urban symphony. Car horns are the brass section, percussion provided by ill-fitting manhole covers. Violins, compliments of Winter’s breeze rushing over frozen snow.

The window slides upwards without resistance. I can smell the paint. Somewhere, a baby’s cry. It’s too cold for a baby to be outside, what’s wrong with people?

I flick my cigarette out the window watching the ember explode into a million dancing fireflies. It’s so cold.

Do you want to know the hardest part?

I still love you.