Ruth Douillette

—Photo Serenity and Wisdom by Ruth Douillette

Coffee Break

He wanted coffee on the drive back to the halfway-house. I pulled into a shabby variety store and watched as he went in to order an extra large with two shots of espresso.

His belly stretched the 3XL tee shirt that hung over long, baggy shorts. He still had a wiffle, a no fuss hair cut, but his face was full, double chin fringed with a neat goatee. What happened to my skinny little boy?

He stood beside the truck to smoke a cigarette before getting back in.

When he flicked away the butt and huffed into the passenger seat, setting his coffee in the cup holder to cool, smoke still flowed from his nose.

He saw me glance at his tattoo, the one on his left arm, the grim reaper.

"You don't like my tattoos, do you?" He rubbed a hand fondly over the length of the figure on his fleshy forearm. His nails were neatly trimmed, but needed a good scrubbing like I used to give them each night before supper.

"I'm not wild about them, " I said.

"Mothers never are." He chuckled.

He stretched out his right arm where the sharp tip of a cross pierced a heart. His shirt hid the wolf on his shoulder and the thorns encircling his right bicep, but on his neck I could see the skull with a rose in its teeth, a ghoulish flamenco dancer with a wicked grin.

He pulled a lottery ticket and a quarter from his pocket, and scratched, fingers trembling, pausing slowly after uncovering each number to blow the scrapings away. His breathing was noisy, labored sounds made by a heavy man who's smoked a pack a day for twelve years.

"Whoo hoo! Fifty bucks!" He looked at me, more light in his eyes than I'd seen since he won the fifty-yard dash in fifth grade.

He grinned, then, ever sensitive, said, "I know, Mom. You think I should save my money."

I nodded.

"I should," he said, getting out to cash the ticket.

CP

Ruth Douillette is a freelance writer and photographer. She's an associate editor at the Internet Review of Books and blogs at Upstream and Down.

Ruth Douillette

—Photo by Ruth Douillette

Dinnertime Waltz

Strains of music filled the room, wrapping her in sensuous sound. She slipped into his waiting arms, and stepped left to his right, back to his forward, around and around. The melody tied them together—his fingers pressed her to him, his hand warm on her back—they skimmed the floor as one person.

She inhaled the soapy scent of his neck as she relaxed her cheek against his chest. When she lifted her eyes to his soft gaze, he lowered his face until his lips met hers. They danced more slowly, heedless of the music until they simply swayed in place, holding each other close.

She stepped back, and clasping his hand pulled him toward the staircase. She felt his eyes on her, as warm as his hands had been, and warmth spread through her body.

Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.

At the harsh electronic sound she jolted upright.

"Mom! The meatloaf is done. The stove's buzzing."

She pushed herself from the chair and turned down the CD player.

"Susie, tell Daddy and Brian to wash up. Set the table for me, will you?"

Before slicing the meatloaf, she walked back to the living room to get her wine glass. She drained the last swallow and stuck the glass in the dishwasher.

"Dinner's ready. Come and get it."

CP

Ruth Douillette is a freelance writer and photographer. She's an associate editor at the Internet Review of Books and blogs at Upstream and Down.

Ruth Douillette

—Photo Bruce and Memories by Ruth Douillette

Memorial Day Tears

My husband and I sat on the patio at dusk, rehashing the day.

"Are we going to the parade tomorrow?" I'd asked. It was Memorial Day.

"I suppose," he said.

I mentioned that there would be a ceremony at the cemetery. "Taps" would be played in honor of the dead who'd died serving the country in war.

"That would be tough for me," he said.

"It would be too emotional?" I asked, tentatively. He nodded.

He'd been a Captain in the Marines. He was going to get drafted, so he signed on to become an officer. He was sent to Vietnam after Officer Candidate School. Then, Camp Lejeune after Nam. I really don't know much more than that.

He came home in 1968. I was in still in high school. We didn't know each other then. We met twenty-four years later. He would never talk about Vietnam. But he choked up watching war movies.

I tried to get him to open up. I felt shut out. What had happened? What was it like? Why would he not share with me? I loved him. I would never hurt him. I could ease the pain he'd buried.

But he wouldn't talk. Or couldn't. I let him be. For years.

But this night he seemed open. So I asked what it was that made it so difficult after all these years to talk of the past.

This is when the grenade split the air between us. My husband accused me of tossing it, but I didn't even know I'd held it, let alone pulled the pin.

This is a subject that stays buried, he said. I need to understand. I can't ask questions. He won't answer. It isn't that he doesn't trust me to be gentle. Yes, it might help if he talked, but he won't. He stormed into the house.

I sat alone feeling hurt. His hurt was bigger though, and he had every right to keep his experience to himself.

When he returned, he spoke haltingly of learning that survival meant making decisions, quick ones, life or death ones. Tough ones. He said sometimes those decisions were made "for the greater good." He said he was in charge of his men; it was his responsibility to bring them through alive. But some didn't make it.

We sat silently watching a goldfinch at the feeder.

The next day we went to the town common for a simple Memorial Day ceremony. We stood with others in front of the memorial with names of local men who'd died in war from WWI to Vietnam. Dignitaries spoke. Veterans spoke. There was a gun salute, and a bugler.

I stood beside Bruce. He'd begun wiping silent tears long before the bugle blew "Taps." I put my arm around him, grateful that his name was not on the monument. That was all I could do.

CP

Ruth Douillette is a freelance writer and photographer. She's an associate editor at the Internet Review of Books and blogs at Upstream and Down.

—Photo Follow Me by Ruth Douillette

The Same Path
Ruth Douillette

You were here where I am now.
You are there where I'm going.
You walked where I now place my feet.

In thirty years, will I be sitting where you sit?
Stroking the cat. Watching television.
Waiting for the phone to ring.
Missing the man I married.

Will I share meals with people I see more often than family?

I march forward. You hobble on.
I fear I will pass you as you stop to rest
in the familiar comfort of people and places that no longer exist.

Then who will I follow?

In thirty years will I be sitting where you sit?
Stroking the cat. Staring out the window.
Waiting for time to pass.

Will someone bring me my pills and dress me?

I turn back.
There's a door.
But though I pound,
it remains sealed by time.

I'm on a one-way street.

In thirty years will I be sitting where you sit?
Will I nap in a chair before noon?

I look over my shoulder.
A young woman strides confidently toward me.
She smiles, long hair blowing behind her.
She reaches for my hand.

Slow down, I want to say.
But I know she won't.
She can't.
She walks the same path.

In thirty years will she be sitting where I sit?
In a nursing home, holding her mother's hand?

CP

Ruth Douillette is a freelance writer and photographer. She's an associate editor at the Internet Review of Books and blogs at Upstream and Down.