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Sisters of Different Mothers

Driving through Northern Arizona from Albuquerque to San Bernardino to have breakfast with my friend Shoshana that I met at La Verne Law School. So excited that I leave at 4 am when it’s black out and one can see the shooting stars and those that are still only flickering. A couple of hours fly by down I-40 and I’m near the Painted Desert signs and light is coming up all around, so I pull off at Highway 77 to the State Park.

It’s pink, peach, mauve, ivory, and palest of yellows, tans, mochas. The colors are overwhelming, remembered when one closes their eyes to sleep or writes poetry about such momentous events. I pull the car over and wander out to stare at such bounty saying a silent prayer of gratefulness to the Almighty. How did I get so lucky to be here in this moment in time?

Looking down at my shoes I remember from college geology class that most of Northern Arizona was once under water and seashells are everywhere.   I am positively enthralled at what I see. Seashells, lots of seashells near my feet. I reach down grabbing several handfuls laying them gently in the bottom of my purse. Off I go to meet my best friend and bring her a present of seashells. I can’t remember if I ever told her about the Grand Canyon being carved out by the waters of an ocean.

A couple of hours later I pull into a Denny’s and Shoshana is already at the table inside. I start chattering as I always do when I see her or hear her voice. I tell her about the stars, the colors of the desert (she hates cactus), and of course the seashells. She feigns interest, smiling as I reach into the bottom of my purse and place a handful of shells in the middle of the table.   She bursts out laughing, shaking her head.

I respond with, “What?”

“One certainly can tell you’re a poet,” says my friend.

“What do you mean,” I ask?

“Don’t get upset,” says Shoshana. “Those are pistachio shells, not seashells.”

All rights reserved. ©2017 by Sara Fryd

My friend died Saturday last.  This was the last email I received from her.

—– Forwarded Message —–
From: Shoshana Anne Simon <shalom.shoshana@gmail.com>
To: “Fryd, Sara” <sfryd@yahoo.com>
Sent: Saturday, February 11, 2017 3:00 PM
Subject: Sea Shells in the Desert

Ever since you found shells in the desert and we may have mis-identified them as pistachios, something about that whole transaction has bothered me.

I’m reading The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho, which I’ve never read and is now a classic, and the boy (the hero of the book) find sea shells in the desert (in North Africa) and I’m bounced right back to you and me and the pistachios, which may have been shells.
In this book, the idea is that everything in the world/universe is connected and that the desert was once the sea and is just waiting for the transformation back again to the sea.
So, a google search turned up this neat article
 
With pictures.  I thought your poet’s soul might appreciate this turn of events. Especially in the time of craziness.   And I hope we don’t have to leave this country with it’s “religious registries” and clown president.
Love,
Shoshana

After Shave

aftershave

The car engulfed
with waves of mulled citrus mist
warmed by your face watching mine
in the mirror from the hallway
as I lacquer on deep burgundy
candy apple lipstick
before the sun awakes early
one April morning.

Memories of orange blossoms
permeating the night sky
on Route 66…
the beige top down on
the old black convertible with red leather seats
When I was eighteen

and Steven French kissed me
behind Paradise Mountain
where the sheriff watched
with the gigantic flashlight
and I was told “good girls” never go
alone.

Underneath the auburn henna
graying hair peeks.
Longer jackets of fine silk smooth the hips
and lengthen the torso.
Longer skirts cover the knees.

And still…

I am overwhelmed by emotions
that smother my driving
North on the 605
with one whiff of warm mulled citrus
transferred from your face
to my sheerest pink silk blouse
during our dark, early morning embraces
that still make my knees weak an hour later
my heart pound.
Remembering again how it felt
to be wide-eyed, eighteen
and waiting for my prince.

Anticipation

Albq enhanced

I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

My soul was touched at twilight,

melting my five year old heart

as first stars appeared on the horizon in winter.

Whispers…

Hold my heart’s attention

like the saxophone notes

that breeze past gracing walls

as sounds drift up the stairs

stirring my eyelashes

as sleep envelops me.

For I have known the thought of you since nine…

When Alan pulled my hair and made me cry.

Not felt feelings this intense since twelve

when Michael kissed my mouth in darkness

on my childhood porch;

As she was imminently awaiting me,

the woman I could hardly wait to be.

I have heard the music of this melting voice,

my blood has turned to maple syrup more than once.

Whispers…

So intense they’ve since become

a warm caress of summer sun, ivory sand in late July.

For I have loved and lost but not as this,

knowing love and loss go hand in hand.

I still can hardly wait to feel your kiss…

This love of yours will surely be the one

that lifts my spirits higher than the plains.

Gently held in trust above the clouds,

time escaped though never lost in vain.

My arms are open wide to grasp the sun as if in reach…

praying for your touch so warm at dawn

as sleep surrounds my silent waiting heart.

Joy as this comes only once then may be gone.

For I have loved the thought of you since dawn…

and I will love the thought of you till I am gone…

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd  

Black Widow

Some people beg entranceblack widow

For a while…

Eyes wild, heart on fire

Words flowing, arms open

Promises tossed like candy

To small children on Halloween

Capturing you in their net

Requesting your soul for eternity

A safe place…

“Rest assured my Dear,” says the spider to the fly.

“Come stay awhile, rest your weary heart

Here, next to mine for always.                                    

I will care for you forever

You will be safe from harm.”

Then the voice who sits on your shoulder

Behind your right ear

Reminds your heart

Who will protect you from them?

 

All rights reserved.  ©2009 by Sara Fryd

Coffee Ice Cream

Words nourish meice_cream_sundae

Fill me up to saturation

Desert storm deluges

Soak my soul

As two scoops of Hagen Dazs coffee ice cream

With peanut chips and hot fudge.

Do faucets like wells ever dry up completely?

Will these fingers ever stop talking?

Or run out of things to say

To discuss or argue or feel about?

Will Hagen Dazs ever run out of coffee ice cream?

Now that they know how much I love

A spoonful on my tongue?

 

Criminal Intent

Last minute presentsflower_delivery

I think they call them

Bought by some at a car wash

            or an airport.

An afterthought, not a real present

            purchased by someone

            who remembers

ahead of time

            intending to watch

            your eyes light up the room.

 

Afterthoughts…

            …like reasons and excuses

                        forget intention.

Though the one receiving

            always knows the difference.

 

Somewhat, like the difference

            between the flowers one buys at the market

            and the ones delivered

                        as a surprise

            to the office by the florist.

 

Last minute afterthoughts

I think they call them

Given unconsciously

            always by someone…

…with one foot out the door.