Not one...

Imagine: the start of an extra long holiday weekend—‘summer’s kickoff’ we relish the notion, here in the north.
The icing on the cake… some exquisite quality time spent with a couple of your favorite kids, with the added bonus (their choice as Ab proclaims, “I haven’t had a sub in forever and I JUST LOVE SUBS aunt Jenn!”) an informal dinner from your friendly, neighborhood Subway… the sun, working on setting for the night all golden, bronze and blue-skied.
Having just finished disc three’s Spanish lesson with, ‘soy Northe Americana de Chicago’ we practice and then proclaim with accuracy, ‘soy Northe Americana de Michigan’. We flip to Abby’s favorite song from Rodney Crowell’s album, Fate’s Right Hand. The cute thing is that for years, Crowley’s ballsy lyrical masterpiece was Isaac’s favorite as well. Granted, there are a few, shall we say, ‘choice’ lyrics, a bit more PG-13 than G in the song—but the kids in my life have more soul than they know how to handle.
If you’re like me, you let ‘em take it in deep, in long, slow draws.
So you drive along, headed toward a red traffic light & hear Jack as he busts into his red bag of Dorito’s, too anxious for the two-mile trip to a Friday night retreat on Long Lake. Three seconds later, over the traffic, the music, and Abby’s throaty serenade, auntie-Jenn ear’s perk to hear a devastatingly familiar rattle—Jack’s throat, mid-choke.
You look over your shoulder, swerve into the right lane and onto an extremely conveniently placed, extra-wide sidewalk, rip back the emergency brake, flip the hazards, (somewhere deep fearing police, but not really caring one iota), and hurriedly extract a frightened, slightly overwhelmed, choking four year old Jack from the belt of his booster seat.
Faintly remembering the Heimlich maneuver for adults and then some fragment of ‘what not to do’ with children, you ask Jack to bend over; to try to expel. Rubbing his back, holding his tummy, you notice he is bleeding; panic, but see that he has ‘just’ bitten his lip during the ordeal.
You realize he is no longer choking, just crying. Phew. Hugs. He sips something cold to drink. More hugs.
Afterward kneeling on the sidewalk holding Jack closely—car improperly parked, hazard lights beaking their ‘emergency’ signal, you glance around—watching drivers at the busy Traverse City intersection. As each of them pass by, many pointing, laughing, and making assumptions, you are overwhelmed. You are also, disappointed.
Not one car stopped to ask if we were ok. Not one.

little Red

little red-hot anger,
I see you
all scrunched-eyes
and pendulum swing
volcano-scorch-dirge
you make me sweltery
at my neck
itchy
pin-prickle

seethe in your cave
in the corner
engulf
or
release the
pent-up-mess-of-it
your torrent
[like a kombucho lid]
tell it like it is
just
sayitsayitsayit
one-by-one inch mosaic-tiles-worth-at-a-time

deep breath this time.

your heart won’t race.

your insides shred to mush.

articulate your heart
steadfastly,
and calmly

Instead.