The grass unfurls like a carpet all the way to the dusty road. We are playing, my laughter emerging in firecracker bursts. Clark has his baseball cars splayed out on the ground where we've trampled down the lawn with bare feet. He points to Joe DiMaggio and waves a freckled hand over his face. Joe is gone.

I hoot again, disbelief swirled up with my joy like on a painter’s palette. “How’re you doin’ that?”

He grins, and dimples sprout on both cheeks. “I ain’t gonna tell.”

I shake my head at him. “I’ll just look it up in a book.”

Previous Chapter

Had God created me for pain? He had raised me up and blessed me that I might fall further. Instead of being bruised, I was broken.

"It would have been better if I had not been born!" I cried to God, "Why did You give me a sister, Lord? To break my heart with? And why did You make me prosper so young? To agitate me with? And why oh why did you bring Sarah into my life? To crush my soul with! God, Your ways are cruel against man.

Only from relics in the attic did I know my mother had been a formidable painter in college. The faces of her Navajo women were sand-cracked and the flanks of her colts rippled with chestnut flesh.

But while I was growing up, the only thing I ever watched her paint were snowy pansies, pattered with butter yellow, on flowerpots. They were an Easter gift for the neighbors, and she covered the kitchen table carefully with newspapers. My father called her flowerpots dross.

"It takes away from her time with you kids," he said, "and the house."

Your hair
drips
in soft wafts
across your face
I drift
without aim
tease my legs
with a tan
Summer's land
my terrain
and your hand
without shake
pointing through
the maple leaves
where I can see
just the
thinnest tease
of blue sky
and following the line
of your arm
where it meets my shoulder
I can try
to believe
and as I lick at
my ice cream
Summer's feed
that you could be
mon amore
that you would never

For Nanny with love, for many precious years
Of joining in laughter and drying up tears,
For prayer and encouragement, tender and true,
For the times of welcoming with "I love you."
A beautiful heart given beautiful hands
To pour out her love and fill up all demands.
Short in stature; a fearless warrior and bold;
Every life touch'd will miss her wisdom of gold.

Francis Schaeffer wrote Art and the Bible in response to an attitude running through the church that troubled him: Christians were shying away from the arts.

There were other things, too: pastors preaching to their congregations in King James English. Christians certain that rock music and abstract art were less holy styles than the music and paintings of the past. Concerns that an emphasis on beauty was shallow or that artistic pieces could fuel idolatry.

Raindrops, falling. Like my tears. This is so like those sad scenes in the movies. Thunder rolls, trees bend and sway. Lightening dances across the ground up ahead. Chaotic and hazed, the air is full of foreign objects whirling around. I shudder as I watch the hail and debris tear through glass windows, shattering, like my heart.
This isn't sadness, it's insanity. My mind is in turmoil. I clench my fists and clench my jaw, hard. I want to reach above the storm with my screams of anger, fear, and hurt. I hold it back, knowing how useless it would be. I give up, and let it go.

1. RAK - 2013
Driving.
Red-gold dunes
With pockets of shadow

Buildings change
Juxtaposing West & Arab
Striped sidewalk and scattered edifices
Boats and water.
So near.

Sweet baby, dear friends
Heart yearning

All in black, painted eyes
Bangs loose and free
Conversation speckled
with words of English
But mostly Arabic

Lights on the water
Joy
But bittersweet,
Savoring moments
As time in this land
Runs out.

There were a
thousand little
parts
of me
waiting to take flight
Fluttery
iridescent
wings
turned to vapor
in those lights
my mind was
sparkling
as it
fantasized
I was blazing
with content
amidst bright streets and
cold concrete
my nerves hit
with intent
and I gave
in
to the
gut-punch
sharp
desire
but it was later
cherry splash
club soda
turned
to fire
in hand
I saw the way their bodies moved

Joyfully at home I shall wait,
Never sigh in my single state.
Indeed, better Hands hold my fate;
Joyfully at home.

Life at home is not always "fun",
But brings more joy in the long-run.
Contented to serve a good Son;
Joyfully at Home.

More hands to do the needed work,
Less for mother who does not shirk,
Time learning patience is a perk;
Joyfully at home.

Someday I may have my own place:
A diff'rent man will set the pace.
With my fam'ly running life's race;
Joyfully at home.