gone with the wind

one thing that leaves a sick feeling shooting through my veins and seated in the pit of my stomach is receiving telephone messages too late to do anything about them. it's not so unlike wishing you had not eaten that last piece slice hunk or two of >insert food item here<. not a fan of social vomiting, i'm left with the shaky ohshit sensation in my bare bulb-lit kitchen, alone, surrounded by a humming refrigerator, crimson walls and...where did all this clutter come from? and it all makes me feel hollow and kind of disgusting and bereft.

it's seeing my dad's number on the caller id of my cell phone i left, in retrospect like a dumbass, on my kitchen table this morning. it's hearing his voice giving me directions to bee line it through the construction and into the damn front door of the nursing home where uncle frankie stays. it's hearing his voice: "see ya if and when ya get here."

and when i reply "nooooooooo noooooooooooo," nobody hears me. no sympathetic ear on the other end. just dad continuing. "hey, give a call if you need to. dad."

so i hit the number 7 key and away dad's directions go. no sense keeping them now. party's over.

it's no use telling you that my aunt cynthia also left a message. i haven't spoken to her in years. haven't seen her in years. but driving home from work or class one night, i was stopped at a red light in my parents' pre-marriage neighborhood and i saw aunt cynthia's ex-husband across the street from the corner liquor store, leaning on the front quarter panel of an old reddish black lincoln or monte carlo. i rolled down the window and turned down the stereo.

"hey, costello. is that you?"
"who's that?"
"stacy. bob's daugher."
"who?" he bends at the waist, leans to see into my car better.
"stacy....you were with, you used to be with my aunt cynthia," i yell over the street noise. people are starting to pay attention.
"who?"
the woman next to costello jabs him hard enough in the ribs that he loses his balance. he looks at her.
"your ex. cynthia!" she raises her voice at him, frowning. she makes a tsk sound.
"oooooooooh, yeah. bobby. on the east side over there. how's your daddy doing?"
"he's good. he moved about 20 minutes north. he's married now."
the light turns green.
"i just wanted to say hi."
"i'm glad you did, sweetheart. you say hi to everybody for me okay."

that was probably two years ago.

before that i missed seeing aunt cynthia b/c i missed her son's wedding. derek. what a cute kid. big fat cheeks with dimples all over the place. i had heard some time ago, more than half a dozen years ago, that derek had gotten shot in the foot b/c he was selling on the wrong corner. some time later i got an invitation to his wedding. i was looking forward to it. but i was running late and it was in the hood and my--jeff--didn't even rough it in a campground let alone rough it in areas of the city where cars didn't have tires.

we were an hour late and didn't see anyone at the reception hall. i couldn't convince him we should wait. back then i didn't even have a cell phone to forget at home. i missed the wedding, the reception, seeing a bunch of my dad's people. my people. the people who remind me what real can be.

so to hear her voice on my telephone at 11.30pm telling me where to go to get to the party at 6.30pm, everything in me sank a bit. my vision shifted. my back sagged.
amazing how our emotions affect us.

and who can say how my missing the party affected uncle frank. really, he doesn't have anybody. i mean he's got a family. but he doesn't have a family. never really did from what i can tell. he's not a victim, don't get me wrong. it's a life of his own making. but it doesn't make it any less sad. or true.

oh cockeyed day.

i think i understand now why scarlett o'hara used to say all the time: "i'll worry about that tomorrow. after all, tomorrow is another day."