All the way to San Fran:
The 101 jammed faster than a school of pirhana on a deadly target. Traffic darted left and right of us, passing us from the airport to my friend Rachel's flat in North Beach. My sister had met me, flown in from Pattapong. Now she fell asleep on my shoulder, her fiery red hair popped against my chartreuse sleeve. She barely moved, drooled a little. I noticed an omega symbol on her ankle. New tattoo. It felt strange, the silence, as more than a decade had passed. Still, holding her upright, and even more, keeping my body still, was my focus. The funeral arrangements were made, and we'd get through this. I stared out the window, the fog creeped up the Avenues like a spectator. I tried to feel something, anything, but, as usual, my heart was empty.
All I can remember:
She was never around much. Our mother was a cellist, and she refused to give up her career to raise us. Why did she have us then, my sister would say. Before they gave up, before Dad died by his own hands. Sis took his death personally, like she'd let him down. Well, she'd called 911 more than once. When Sis took off with Bennie, I never thought it would be the last time I might see her. I never heard a word. Rumors that she was in Los Angeles, or Seattle. I even hired a detective during college, when I had a dream that she'd drowned. Enter Facebook and Twitter and Tumbler. It took less than a year to track her down. My heart, a vacant memory now, emerges from shadows. And now she's here, in this cab, approaching the Tenderloin, and we used to dance to Boz Scaggs “Harbor Lights.” And I was her Tokyo Rose.
All the camera shots:
Flying from the roof of our house into window- high snowbanks. Sitting at the piano plunking chords while she sang her own tunes: high, spacy, haunting. Egregious attempts at theater for neighborhood kids- her Cleopatra re-written, scored to lyrics of Joni Mitchell. A first fall day walk to school, maneuvering through goldenrod, queen anne's lace, jonquil, gathering bunches to take to our teachers. As the cab lurches, I hold her tighter. We are only these past selves to one another; nothing new, but a cab ride through a torn, shell-shocked landscape. As we arrive outside Rachel's house, the sky opens, and a torrent of rain pelts the cab. We dash, drenched, giggling, already soaked. When we reach Rachel's door, my missing heart bursts, beating in my ears.
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I tried to play with the idea of waking up without a heart, but wanted more subtlety since I'd selected such an immense topic.
Published in Addicts & Basements:
http://copingmechanisms.net/addicts-basements-by-robert-vaughan/
I really enjoyed this one when I read your book. Congratulations on all of your hard work!
Love the contrast of life vs. death, the emptiness reflected in the landscape vs. the missing heart that bursts forth at the end. Wonderful and sad and joyous. "*"
I love these stories, I know these stories. We are these stories. Thank you for sharing them.
All the camera shots. ***
I've read this over and over, combing over all of the intense details. Quite a life captured in three short sound bites, and great sensory details. *
Great, Robert!*
This is definitely subtle.*
Love so much how it mingles into camera shots. Great work. *
Mike, Kyle, Andrea, Tara, Theo, James, Amanda and John: I'm so grateful for your comments and support. So, thanks!
Fantastic writing. Loved this piece when I read it in your book, Addicts & Basements. Fave.
Wallace, so kind of you to say. I appreciate your comments.
Recovery. A fine sequence.
Lovely subtle work.*
To the Gary's: double thanks!
Oh, yeah. I surely remember this from Addicts & Basements, Robert. Love everything about this and particularly taken, as I always am with your work, with the interesting/innovative structure. Bravo!*
Kathy, so thrilled that you remember this piece. And for your support, as always, so lovely. Thanks!
* One of my faves from A&B. Love this piece.
MGM, thanks so much. You're the best.
Good details. Mothers who are there buy not there. *
Thanks Daniel! I appreciate it.
*After reading this through I looked up "fallow." read it again, and enjoyed it even more. Well done, Robert.
Thanks so much, Nonnie! Love the candor of your comments.
Gorgeous. *
Thanks, Charlotte!