Department of Resurrection

 

“Department of Resurrection,” said Sherry as she answered another call. The call center was alive with phones ringing and lights blinking and various phone operators all repeating the same scripted dialogue.

“Oh, you again,” said Sherry. 

Sherry rolled her eyes as the voice on the other end of the line began to plead their case for Resurrection.  This was the seventh call from this guy and he just wouldn’t take a hint.  Sherry leaned back in her office chair, the good one, the XP-709 lumbar support Executive. She worked very hard to get it. It was amazingly comfortable. The sort of comfort and support she needed for this call.  She sighed and closed her eyes. The voice on the other end kept going. 

“Yes, I do understand that is a horrific way to die, but I’m afraid without direction from upstairs, we just can’t snap our fingers and just make it happen,” said Sherry. 

She looked at her co-worker Sandra, all the “S” named women seemed to work in the same section for some reason. She was sure it was sexist and misogynistic, but she was normally just to busy to think too long on it.  Sandra mouthed the words, “Him again?” and Sherry nodded deliberately.

            Sandra smirked and shook her own head in exaggerated agreement. 

                “Yes. Yes. I am listening to you, but I do need you to listen to me now. I’ve given you ample time to explain your position and I would hope you’ll do me the same courtesy. Thank you. Now, as I have said, we need specific direction in writing from the supervisor in order to grant your request. I understand that you feel as though you are currently in peril however, I can say with a great deal of confidence that it is entirely unlikely you’ll need the services of the Department of Resurrection. The circumstances you are describing are highly unlikely and…,” said Sherry. 

                The voice on the other end screamed loud enough that Sherry had to pull the headphone away from her ear. Sandra took notice as Sherry reacted. 

                “Sir,” said Sherry, “I am going to need you to calm down. Sir… Sir…, Sir, yes… that’s right, please lower your voice. If you want our help, yelling is certainly not the way to obtain it. I understand.” 

                Sherry covered her mouth piece and leaned towards Sandra. “He said they’re whipping him.” 

                Sandra shrugged as she was dealing with her own call for Resurrection. Sherry took a deep breath and uncovered the receiver.  “Sir, here’s the best I can do. I can re-submit your request, put a rush on it as best as I can, but it’s highly likely you won’t receive a response for at least three days. Yes sir, three days is the standard minimum,” said Sherry. 

                “Okay, then that is what I will do sir. I will re-submit your request as soon as we get off the phone. Yes sir. It’s honestly the best I can do. Okay then. Alright… thank you. Yes sir. Thank you. Good-bye,” Sherry hung up. She groaned once the line was cleared. She started typing the Resurrection request slip out and clicked the “Submit” button. Her phone rang again and she answered. 

                “Department of Resurrection…. yes, the standard is three days. Jewish king? Sorry, there’s no exception for royalty. No sir,” said Sherry as she leaned back in her chair again. Thank God for comfy chairs.  

Castles on the Sand

 

                   

The madness.

The meanness.

The unfathomable hatred.

Woefulness too ugly to bear.

How can we still be here?

How is this still a thing?

 

I can’t comprehend it.

I don’t understand.

We can have no agreement,

no reasonable discussion.

It’s only thoughts and prayers.

 

It has drained me to my depths,

to the very marrow of my bones,

with no weeping left in me,

replaced with exhausted stoicism,

I can’t make much more of it,

yet it won’t go away.

 

Over and over,

no lessons ever learned,

nothing is gained,

treading water in the ocean,

castles on the sand,

a ceaseless loop of inactivity.

 

I asked her what day it was

and she told me, “Today.”

I did not chuckle or smirk.

I thought it was a mean answer,

smug and condescending.

 

She thought she was so funny,

though. She smiled at me.

“No, really, is it Tuesday or Wednesday,” I asked.

“It’s Wednesday, I think. I don’t know

anymore. I stopped keeping track,” she said.

“I’m going to say it’s Wednesday,” I said.

 

I was hoping it might be a day

we weren’t killing each other.

But I’m not sure about it.

It’s too early to know.

I’ll have to settle for Wednesday.

 

Clean Plate

 

I had a plate of baking soda

in my living room, to cut down

on the stink of cigarette smoke.

I smoked a lot. A lot.

30 years of smoking,

nonstop. Unencumbered.

Before the great smoking

pariah, before the exile to

the exterior of everything.

And once the great smokers

purge began, I still didn’t quit,

because, up yours, that’s why.

So I continued, in my apartment,

smoking...forever. 

Until recently, 

I stopped smoking. 

Stopped.

Because Quit is a quitters

word. I stopped. Quitters,

they quit, but stoppers 

stop. 

It’s a hairline difference but

substantial.

So I said, “Hero plate of

baking soda, thank you for 

absorbing all these smells, 

if you did anything at all.”

I took the plate to the kitchen.

I dumped the baking soda

into the trash and then turned

to the sink to wash the plate.

I turned the water on and the plate

said, “I’m no hero”. 

“What,” I said.

“I’m no hero. I’m just a plate,

just wash me off and let me

dry,” said the plate. 

“Shhiitttt….,” I said. 

I washed it off,

wiped with a sponge,

dried with a towel. 

And it never said another word. 

Put Your Irish On

 

Putting your Irish on

is how we seem to celebrate

the religious persecution of

the native religions of Ireland.

Seriously.

 

Sure, we all love green beer,

green outfits, and fun Irish themed

tee-shirts with fun phrases about

how much of a bunch of drunks

we Irish are.

 

We love our Parades and bars

filled to the brim with Irish cheer,

music, dancing and copious pints

of our favorite libation.

We do indeed.

 

Yet, lest we forget, this Holiday

(one of my sincere favorites)

is all about the Roman Catholic

Church subjugating the Native

Irish.

 

Those snakes St. Patrick drove

from Ireland were not literal,

they were the Druids and other

home grown belief systems in place

long before dem dirty Catholics.

 

So, if you do celebrate your Irish

Heritage with a few pints, I just

would like you to keep it in mind

that this day, St. Patrick’s Day,

is more a day of subjugation

than Irish Pride.

 

However, if your celebration is

all about how happy you are your

ancestors rose up out of the muck and

mire of Irish poverty, crossed the pond,

and built a new life for the future and

future generations, then have at it.

 

Raise your glass in a toast to the Irish

blood running through your veins and

remember all the struggles of your

ancestors, be it through religious persecution,

poverty or a desire for sweet

freedom, that made you who you

are today.

 

Celebrate that with a pint

or two, or three perhaps.

 

Sláinte!

The Parlor Games

 

I watched her eat. 

She delicately lifted 

each forkful of the 

French silk pie to her mouth. 

She took dainty bites. 

I blushed. 

I felt silly watching her. 

The parlor games of flirtation. 

She knew I was watching. 

She knew I was in the game. 

I blushed again. 

The embarrassment of my desire filling my face.

The orderly entered the 

day room.

“Okay old folks, TV time,” he said.

I turned in my seat and reached

for my cane.

She wiped the corners of her

small mouth with a napkin

as another caretaker wheeled

her wheelchair away from the table.

I won’t see her again

until breakfast time.

I hope I can watch her eat

her scrambled eggs then.

The game never stops,

the attraction never wanes,

I imagine her and I together, being young, instead of old. 

Sleepless

 

So there I was,

awake in my bed,

tossing and turning,

rummaging through all

my anxieties, fears, and

my constant frustrations.

 

Sleep came in confused

waves, often very short

and startled, snoring and

wheezing with dry mouth

and nightmarish moans.

 

I’m exhausted by not sleeping

well. It came out of nowhere

really, minor annoyances that

sprang into full-fledged worries and

the endless pounding of insecurity.

 

I can’t wait to get back to bed

tonight, to try it all over again,

and this time I will not be

troubled by troubles that taunt

and tease.

 

I’ll relax and sigh,

hydrate and slow

the pace down,

get my breathing right and

put my worries under the bed.

 

Where they belong

with the rest

of

the

lurking

monsters.