Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
We try
to soften the blow
with bubbles
that snap and
make us giggle
as we pack
and unpack
our memories,
long damaged
from the traumas of our past
and fears
of the future.
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
A laugh.
A sigh.
A jump.
Then back into the box it goes,
intentionally leaving
behind a small
squishy scrap
so that we can…
Pop!
Pop!
Pop!
Remember
with fondness
and not pain.
Namastè
©NicholeDonjè
Walking down the village main street of Cold Springs. It smells like vacation: a faint scent of firewood and river tides. That sticky cotton candy smell a dropped ice cream cone gives after sitting hours in the August sun. An Elvis tribute artist plays at the Silver Spoon Cafe drawing us back to simpler days. There’s an air of excitement. Fireworks tomorrow; I envision children running up and down the street with sparklers as energetic mutts chase their tails.
I smile silently. My heart is quiet, beating softly as we hold hands like high school kids just discovering the twinges and jitters of true love. By the river’s edge he points to look up, the stars reel quickly toward the horizon. We watch as they disappear in the distance one by one behind the silhouette of the Storm King hills. Our closeness is silent, our lives content.
Namastè
Southie: the protector, the defender and the neighborhood that wasn’t mine
I look out onto the street from my second floor window. I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for, but I know it’s different from what I see.
Silver Street is dirty and filled with jagged memories. There are the stairs I sit on longingly waiting for my dad to drive by. I watch the corner with an eagle eye hoping the tough girls don’t come around. The gym where the nasty boys hang out and where Atilla and Finegan (two very large and scary dogs) reign sends shivers through me. I’ve spent more time running into this house and away from the world than living in it. I’ve confronted meanness and aggression too many times, I’ve had to stand up to protect a friend only to bawl my eyes out from fear the minute I’m alone.
Yet I sit here watching – remembering the laughter, the singing, games of kickball, and the old man who comes by every day to give Rags bologna. I think about the flames breaking out from behind painted wood windows during a warehouse fire across the street that fascinated and terrified me. I’m reminded of the many special 4-leggers who have come and gone; my beautiful Vicious who wandered into our lives introducing us to love bites – gentle nibbles of gratitude on the cheek, our handsome Bruno – a stunning tramp of a Shepherd who let us adopt him for a couple of months then moved on, Medford Tom downstairs who’s wild stories of his harrowing life scared the pants off us and his rottie Eric who stole my heart, Buffie my best friend whose belly was my pillow, and Rags – the most well lived dog I’ll ever meet- he knew more of Southie and its secrets than the many humans who live here.
I picture how beautifully Silver St. lives up to its name in a thick snowfall. The light sparkles over the uninterrupted drifts of snow covering the grittiness. There is a quiet sadness in my observations. This place is my foundation. My parents are from here, it’s in my blood. I am so different than this world. I don’t belong and I want nothing more than to leave; to run far and fast from the hardness of it. I am a stranger here and yet, it is a part of me.
People in Their Environments 056 – South Boston 1983 by, Sage Sohier
In my search for an old photo of my hometown, I came across this picture and was immediately awed. I reached out to the photographer to tell her how much the photo moved me and reminded me of my childhood. I asked her if she knew the girls in the photo, she did not. As an artist and photographer myself, I wanted her to know she had captured something visceral for me. In the poem above I mention the “tough” girls. While this isn’t all of them, it is some of them…the actual girls! That is the corner of the street I grew up on, straight down across from that car was my house and the fire I mention was in the warehouse the car is parked in front of. I have personally destroyed a bike and my nose on that very pole these girls are sitting behind.
I want to share how much a simple photo by a stranger can unexpectedly move someone even years after it is taken. I am nostalgic of the location itself, but also by the girls. These girls terrified me as a child. They were hard, mean and often cruel. Looking at them now as an adult knowing so much more about life and considering those around me, I see their pain their longing and their dreams of escape. I see now that their anger was not at me, I just happened to be the easy target.
I love this photo. I wish I could afford it. Its only available through a gallery for quite a hefty fee, so I will simply admire it from afar. I highly suggest looking up the artist. I am grateful to her. This photo allows me to look back at where I came from. To see the pain of my past in a new light, to see and forgive that hardness of life and to remind me of how fortunate I now am.
Namastè
I love this picture for two reasons. One is that its a great photo and it was taken in a moment when my creativity recently took off again. Two is that its a reminder. This was taken at Fort Wetherill in Jamestown,Jamestown, Rhode Island. My family and I went there a few months back to get out and chill out for the day. For me it is far more than that.
In high school my best friend Shawn and I would spend hours on the weekends climbing the cliffs and wandering the abandoned fort, talking and laughing for hours. In college I went often with my friends Liam, Gamache or Jonathan and sometimes a group of us. It’s a beautiful ragged place filled with forgotten history and caverns of secrets. To this day some of my most vivid and favorite memories are sitting on the rocks in one of the many coves listening as the waves crashed against the cliff walls. To me it will always be magical and is a huge symbol of creativity, friendship, memories and dreams.
I think I’m thinking of this site, because I am seeking. There is a mystery in the tunnels and caverns of that old fort, places to be re-discovered. These locales have been filled with debris; covered and sealed to keep others out or warn them of possible danger. I’m realizing this is a bit of where I have been. Hiding in the caverns and under the facade of danger.
As I start digging myself out I am realizing that I have covered and hid so much beauty. I have forgotten about the precious secrets and ignored the treasures lying in the debris. Its a puzzle. I am pulling my world apart not to rebuild or change whats there, but so that I can actually see what exists. There is such potential and life behind the walls and within the mysteries. Its exciting! Under and inside all of this is who I am and how I got to where I am.
It’s as if I’ve climbed out from a dark place and there is a new world to explore. It has been a week of acceptance and breath, of peace and true clam. Today I have managed to do a bit of everything I love. I am moved by the simplicity. I have uncovered the joy I feel in a quiet day filled with thought, nature, physical exertion, friendship, love and art. I have a new perspective and clarity. The time I have had for my recovery has been more than physical, it has given me the nourishment my soul has been searching for.
Namastè
©NicholeDonjè
The Wizard of Oz and the Monumental Mission of a Five Year Old
Each year near easter the giant console in the living room became a gathering place. It was the only time the family came to our house. We had the color tv and I believed with all my heart that deep down I was Dorothy on a monumental mission to save the world, so I had the biggest pull.
The adults would get the black leather couch and chairs as all us kids gathered on the floor with pillows waiting for the magic to begin. My heart would pound as the music began and Kansas, in whimsical black and white, filled our eyes. It was my favorite time of year. The spectacle drew me in and my mind overflowed with phantasm of it.
I regularly convince my cousin to play Wizard of Oz with me having the explicit agreement that, next time she get to be Dorothy. It was never a long journey since I never reciprocated and always insisted she be Toto. I’d convincingly plead, “Whats Dorothy without Toto?!?”.
That world was unlike anything I knew; brilliant colors, fabulous voices and terrifying flying monkeys. I was fueled, enchanted, driven to find my yellow brick road and wondrous friends. To be in a place so different from where I lived where evil monkeys equaled mean boys, the wicked witch was my Nana, and sirens where the whirl of the tornado outside my window.
©NicholeDonjé
Stella Doro S Cookies, Wise Onion & Garlic chips, a Maxwell House Can with Bacon Fat and Hellmann’s Mayonnaise
The smell of bacon fills me with excitement as I run to the kitchen. Grandma is standing at the stove cooking her daily lunch of Wonder Bread, Hellmann’s mayo and bacon fat. I beg for a bite. Disgusted yet again at the horrible texture I spit it out. My brain refusing to connect that something that smells so good can taste so bad.
After she eats I sit on her lap admiring the hard earned lines in her face. Every day she wears a nurses uniform blue and white, it never changes. I like to think she loves and misses being nurse in the war. But her eyes are sad, and though cloudy, they share so much. Her lack of English limited our conversation, but her heart and touch fill me with love.
I start to bounce as the familiar sound fills my ears and she sings “oom pa oom pa oom papa, oom pa oom pa oom papaaaa….”. I fall between her legs to be swiftly saved and pulled back up again and again. This is a highly anticipated time in my day. We share Wise onion and garlic chips, the bright green bag that religiously sits on the top of the fridge. Happily we crunch as the sweet and tangy flavors rush across our tongues.
Soon she will head for her afternoon walk. She leaves for hours walking from South Boston to Cambridge and back; our ragamuffin dog following the whole way faithfully at her side. She carries an American flag tapping the houses she passes with the stick. Her collar always adorned with an embroidered four leaf clover sticker. I think she feels lucky to be in America, and each tap is a thank you to the country and god. On her return she makes tea and grabs the Stella D’oro S cookies as a treat. I don’t like them much but I love her and the love they represent.
For me, Grandma is a collection of fascinating objects and broken memories. She fills my heart and helps me understand what a smile is for.
She is the faded virgin mother poster with broken glass that sits behind a washing machine that never works.
She is a green rabbit’s foot that sits on the window sill next to a faded black and white photo of my grandfather in his coffin; the back covered with writing in Lithuanian.
She is laughter and love without language.
She is an old long navy blue coat in the closet with the tiniest waist I’ve ever seen.
She is the one who makes me eat with my right hand and never with my left.
She is an adventurous traveler and a lover of lost pets.
She is Stella D’or0 S cookies, Wise Onion & Garlic chips, a Maxwell House can filled with with bacon fat, and Hellmann’s mayonnaise.
She is my creative internal compass for understanding love.
©NicholeDonjè
Dear B,
I have no idea how many years its been but I know I think of you often. It was a strange relationship we had. Some would say you were a father figure, but those who really knew us knew it was unique, a close family friend who played a huge role in my life.
When I think of you so many memories come to mind. I grew up with you. Many of my childhood memories not only included you, but were because of you. I would never have seen so many places, learned I loved theatre or simply had a color tv if it weren’t for you. We were a strange little dysfunctional family unit and I am so grateful for all you gave me.
I saw Canada; Montreal and Quebec, Virginia Beach and Disney World. I had weekends in Vermont and New Hampshire, and I first experienced NYC with you. I saw My Fair Lady with Rex Harrison and Camelot with Richard Harris! Who can say that. I went to the ballet and took classes. I remember Christmas caroling with your daughter at the senior homes and getting in trouble for inappropriate laughing in church by you mom. I remember weekends going to see singers who were your friends, at the local Chinese restaurants. I remember bowling and end of season banquets, I have trophies because of you.
You took care of us more often than not and helped us through hard times over and over; though you weren’t the best at showing emotion, I know your heart was good. I thank you for these gifts and I think of your grandchildren often hoping they are well. I wish it was different in the end, that you hadn’t given up and checked out. Reckless with your health you ensured your fate and it still makes me sad. You were more distant and more cold. I know how hurt your were by your daughter. I wish it had been different, that she had been different because I know how much you loved her and how damaged it made you.
I hope you knew how much I cared for you, how appreciative I was and am for everything you did. You ensured I never felt as poor as I was and that I didn’t go without. You were one of the most influential men in my life and I just want you to know I miss you.
Love,
Nickie
Namastè
