#ChronicPain · #Humanity · #Survivors #CPTSD · #Truth, #Empaths · Uncategorized

Romancing Pain

Dancing with Eyes Closed; Accepting Pain as Part of Me.

In the morning there are yellow dandelions surrounding me, lifting me up with a wash of spring hope. I am rinsed in the sun’s warm rays and feel determined. I always think I will feel better than I actually do. Is that my own stupidity or perpetual stubbornness? I dress and make it to the rich Italian red wine sofa and prop my legs up on a stack of pillows. The pain starts just after I proclaim, “I am better!” and I succumb to my surroundings. The walls are a light gray panel of wood, the ceiling white, the old barn’s tin roof I can see from the sofa is a rusty burnt red with brown dried clumps of moss separating it into unsightly squares. My pain I feel is visualized as an electric zap of steel, sharp silver, shooting up my legs and my silent scream is a maze of terrestrial hues. Pain shares with me every drop of it’s colour, of it’s beauty and it’s sorrow; like the northern lights and milky way it is so breath taking and hard to believe that it is real. Living in a state of chronic pain is anxiety provoking. My mind is a puree of sounds and I am often perplexed. Why can’t I be fixed? Why must my colours be so rare and overworked? My self portrait is black and white as I spilt any hope of beauty out onto the porous surface beneath me. “My pain”, I said to the chronic pain psychologist, “I’ve accepted.” My mind lied that day. I hate it, I hate my body and my bruises both superficial and within. No amount of prayer or drugs give me peace and like the wild scribbling made by a toddler with crayons I lay in a chaos of colour; I am a bottle with layers of dripping wax from many different tints of candles. I am beneath the surface, beneath the beauty, buried in a colour of pain. My eyes close and I stare at the daylight as if my eyelids were window shades. I don’t see why I should open my eyes except to write this pathetic complaint that haunts me. I want to be a happy rainbow one more time. One more moment of brilliance is all I ask. Like any desperate lover, Pain beckons me back, takes hold of me and says, ” I will never leave you alone again.”

#Goddess · #Humanity · #NordicSaga · #Women'sStories #Love · Uncategorized

Not Forever; A Silent Viking’s View on God’s and Love

Soon he would say goodbye, doubtful his first taste of love would wait; boarding on the longship would begin at sunrise after two more nightfalls. He was not at ease nor feeling dutiful to set sail, his rough, calloused hands had been assigned to row, his grey eyes already set on defeat. In the chilly night he and his lover kept warm under a sheath of tanned hide; a warm fire encircled with stones lit up their faces. His lover was cold, she had been sweating earlier and she shared with him that perhaps she was carrying his baby. It had been two moons since her last cleansing. He held her close and rubbed her hands in his own. All night he stayed up, keeping the fire crackling and he called for a wise woman to look at his betrothed. He was given garlic for his neck and a tonic that tasted bitter as nettles to sip. He must prepare to board the longship and not fall ill. The woman wiped carefully with cool cloths the forehead and the nape of his lady’s neck and said she should be moved to the women’s tent so he too might rest. He was reluctant yet never questioned this miracle of her gifts from the God’s and believed in the sunrise of his departure his love would encircle him with the other strong women and sing a prayer to the heavens. At last he fell asleep and the fire dwindled. He was a large man, of long height with a wooly red beard; for years he had been called to help others lift heavy logs, roll stones and fell trees for boat building. His stomach grumbled and his dreams brought him no peace. His eyes closed, his mouth agape, a gurgling snore erupted. Deep within his dream state he saw his own mother, her pale white face, her eyes weary yet loving; she spoke. “Son of Gudrun, son of Ove, lift your spirit up to see. It’s been eighteen moons since we saw you. Your sister Ulla is here, too. Their faces were like a portrait in beautiful pastel inks. The heavens were soft as the first spring day when the sight of white and purple forest flowers burst through the edges of the footpath, gay as the laughter of friends when the sun was long in the sky, days were easier, their heart’s lightened by the dark winter’s end. Time for merriment and the smell of baking bread, the homecoming of the longship, strong fermented ales and hearty stews and loaves of bread with berries he could taste so sweet; stirred he woke with a gasp. One sunrise had come. He stood and walked to the women’s healing tent and the flaps were sewn shut with thick leather. “Naaaaay”, he screamed and he ran to the morning fire keepers boiling coffee and sharing porridge. Breathless, he asked if his lady was in the tent still. Blue eyes looked at one another and down. He knew the answer. He kicked the first iron pot and it swung from it’s iron chains molted flawlessly by the black smith and his apprentice. Hot scalding water splashed and the men jumped back. An old man who laid on sheep skin by the fire called for him to sit by him. His heart rapid, his cheeks red with rage, he succumbed to his elder. ” What can you say to comfort me?” The man, thin and weak voiced motioned for the giant, frightened man to sit beside him. “Are you the son of Gudrun and the sister of Ulla?” The old man already knew but asked even so. “Ya, I am.” Do you think, son of Ove that your father created such acts of arrogance when the God’s called his wife and daughter up?” Silence. “What name did they leave you?” “I am Per Ove’s son.”Well Per Ovesson do you dare to guess the will of the heavens? Are you in fear of the sea and hunger? Are you a messenger or do you serve?” ” I serve.” The so very big man, Per, son of Gudrun and Ove, brother of Ulla wept. The elderly man handed Per a smooth stone to rub and called for porridge. The big man, the thin elder and the fire keepers stood close. One by one they placed a hand on his shoulder and walked on. Night fell again and he laid by his fire alone sipping the bitter nettle tea. He did not want to dream and the silence soothed him. It had been nine cut logs when a woman he’d never seen came to stand before him. “You may see your lady now”. His lips felt numb, his eyes ashamed and he said, “Why do you want me to feel more pain?” The woman outstretched her hand and he stood. When they came closer to the tent the woman lifted the flap and there lay a clump of deep red flesh upon his lover’s abdomen. He moved closer and felt confused. Take the flesh and all of it’s blood and bury it deep in the forest. His lady did not breathe and small stones were on each eye. He did as told by the healer. Without sleep and it being soon the second sunrise he fought to keep focused on his task. Big tears from a big man with the heart of a child fell steadily down his face. When he returned he went to his fire to sleep and there sat the woman again with a white bundle of heavy fur. She stood and handed him a baby. “How can this be? My lady only missed two moons.” The woman smiled and said, “the God’s were good” and asked him to bestow a name before he sat sail. In a state of both sorrow and beauty he said, ” this is the son of Per, the son of Lea. He shall be blessed with the name of Liam.” The woman promised him the babe would be well fed and when he returned the baby would be his comfort. Per kissed his son’s forehead and slept with him in his arms until sunrise. The healers had prepared Lea’s body to be sent to sea where she would be taken up to the God’s quickly. He held one side of his love’s canvas and birch sewn raft. He did not weep for she had left him reason to believe that more would come to be good. The women sang as the longship prepared to launch. The sky was yellow and afire with sunrise. The horns blew and he pulled in unison with his mates. By sunset they placed Lea on her raft and she floated away from the boat, away from the father of Liam, the son of Ove, the son of Gudrun and the brother of Ulla. In the night the high waves plunged over the stern and wailed upon the starboard, the longship albeit strong rocked with brutal fervour. Per was the lead, each pull he thought of Liam, each horn he heard his mother calling. The God’s were trying his strength in a way he never had experienced, he was not only strong in his body now but also in his soul. The storm settled and he was sent to rest. A cool wind soothed his sweaty bruised hands and his lips cracked from the salty winds from the North Sea leaked sweet bits of blood. His thirst was mighty and he was given water with herbs to keep him quiet. His cough came on fast, deep and he heard other’s coughing, too. He spat green, thick phlegm into the sea. He hung his head over, the winds cooling his dizzying state. The head of the ship was also spewing a sickness from his body over board. Few men could guide the longship, and one by one they fell, coughing, wailing in pain, and now hope had no place for them. Another night would come, a morning with many deaths and each one was set free to float amongst the creatures that both fed on them and nourished their loved ones. Per Ovesson would be the last man to go. He ensured all were met by the God’s who knew better than he the true meaning. He would fall into a deep, long sleep, he would dream of Lea, mother of Liam and he would die proud as his father had bravely done before him. He drifted off further to sea and the sky above would open it’s arms and his soul would rise up, up, up into the arms of Ulla.

#Freeverse, #prose, #mindfulness · #Goddess · #Humanity · #Truth, #Empaths · #Women'sStories #Love · Uncategorized

The Tale of a Broken Ballerina

                                                                           A Dancer's Weep
 

Handwoven lace, spun from a magical spider’s web fashioned her posture; veiled were her dreams, old lover’s deceptions and all unbridled emotions. Before, as if in another life she had been the lead dancer, the one spinning to pretty notes, unwinding with the delicacy of her spirit. Poised, she leapt through memories both shiny like sapphire and fragile as opals. Around her was a still, mirroring pond of light. She was a lost feather, floating solo from high above, performing an impromptu pirouette and free falling in the breath of cool northern winds. Her eyes were stained with glassy ice blue tears which solidified as soon as they breeched from their ducts. Snowflakes flew around her and she became cold, landing hard upon the marbled stone beneath her. She lay there and closed her eyes. She wanted someone to stop the tinkling of a rhetorical melody from her own music box which continued to play beyond her control. She had broken her strongest leg, the one she used to lean on when avoiding painful lyrics that reminded her of flurrying youth. Her shadow was growing old and her desire to dance more began to fade. No hand came to help her up and no one knew that she lay in pain; truth be told she did not long for help. The ballerina knew she was doing all she could to mend her wounds and protect her future from being shattered. From the heavens the moonlight crystalized her beauty, shielding her from surrendering herself all together. Her strength although enervated, would call upon her to rise again. As all folkloric sagas have us to believe “amore-propre” is restored and the beast within is slain or out-witted, the beautiful one’s faith is redeemed, and the Prima donna always experiences a reawakening with butterflies swimming around her head and that which was her nemesis is obliterated. The ballerina in this story is glued carefully back together and placed en-pointe, center stage in a polished oak jewelry box; the golden key is wound and she spins ever so slowly as Lara’s Song resumes. Somewhere my love, within this broken Ballerina her own needs were forsaken without mirth; to see those she loved resuscitate their own dreams was a gift for she once again had an honorable purpose.

#Humanity · Uncategorized

One Person Can Flip Your World In a Direction You Never Saw Coming.

Photo by Mauru00edcio Mascaro on Pexels.com
  • Who changed your entire world on a dime?
  • Who made a difference that forever will echo a pivotal change in your thinking?
  • Who made you swear to never sink “that low”?
  • Why do other people’s experiences matter to you?
  • Why do we dance around the TRUTH to save someone’s feelings?
  • Is authenticity even capable of being achieved if you knowingly leave doubt in the air?
  • Can one truly change another person for the better, or is it just in the timing that we converge?
  • Is the Earth sufferring for the first time?
  • Is “man” innately selfish and blind?
  • If you had to choose between making yourself happy or your child’s life better what would you choose?
  • Do you think we are predestined in this life as we know it?
  • If you had to list your best qualities, what are they?
  • If you had to kill someone to save another could you?
  • Would you choose saving a thousand bottle nose dolphins or panda bears over having thousands of extra dollars a month to spend?
  • When you say “prioritize”, what exactly do you mean by that?
  • Can you accept TRUTH and still love the one who hurt your parent, child, sibling, or friend?
  • Would you prefer to be “left in the dark”, “turn the other cheek”, or “stay out of it” as a moral code of action if you found out bad things about one of your most beloved humans?
  • I, in the NOW, surmise that since ROCK has protected LittleMe for fifty – nine years, no one wants the TRUTH or the real story because it makes them feel guilty and messes with how they see the “family” as a whole. Lm is the Black Sheep because she stopped compromising. In the end will her TRUTH matter?
  • In one instance, a human being can cross your path and alter every single aspect of who you are and how you see the world. Am I that person or are you?
Uncategorized

Cherry Tree with Swing

Adorn me with flowers of lace, ripe cherries and encircle me with scents of love. The sweat, the tears, the glory, the risks. Swing me high toward the heavens where beyond the morning sun lies hope. Protect my heart from the fierce winds that lash against the sea coast, from the melting ice of wronged lovers, the friend that walked away, the past that tries to rebirth into my now. Let the taste of love, desire and acceptance which has been buried shoot up from the womb of our ancient gardens; ones we continue to sow and harvest from and breech without returning blessing from our gifts. Let love be released into the hands of kindness, kept from the grip of cruel misers who want it all for themselves. All. For. Themselves. Swaddle my inner child and embrace my womanly strength. Amaze me with praise just once, for I fought so hard with unseen swords and I came to know this place in me that I alone am responsible for. My courage came from the roots of all women before me, the blood and laborous calloused hands of every color of flesh, every stealth victory that was not recognized by the lone observer. I am adorned with the wisdom of wise, weathered trees that are like the bones deep inside the earth that lie and listen to the new steps taken above. Steps to become stronger, better not best. With smooth velvet, sanguine and rich I pour back my beauty of life into the land that I borrow from our highness, our home, our clawed and traversed planet. Swing me high above the cherry tree so I can see the hope. Swing me higher than the swallows and let me see the love that is in waiting; grace my heart and heal my sorrow for I am unable to be truly conscious without soaring above the ugly minds of those who tried to break me and the venomous souls that are the works of greed. Adorn me with solace so I may give again and again and more. Again, again and more.

#ChildhoodTrauma · #eatingdisorders · #MeToo · #Survivors #CPTSD · #Women'sStories #Love · Uncategorized

Running Off Track

Littleme, that is Lm, has a very bad drawer full of horrible, never released from her grip memories. They come from so far away but changed her entire life entirely when three words were said to her, “I love you”. By now she’d moved north to the east coast, the Mason Dixie line and Maryland’s capital, Annapolis. She was so stuffed with emotions, drowning in her regurgitated pain and felt smothered. She hoped this move would save her from hiding in the closed gymnasium during lunch, standing on toilet seats quietly, stealing cigarettes and never eating without self punishment. Sit ups and runs and more sit ups and excuses to hide her body from an ounce of flesh. It was her last chance at control. When walking along the city docks she loved the ting-a-ling sound of sailboats moored in neat rows, the fisherman pulling up baskets of crabs and the liveliness and freedom she’d not known before. Walking shop to shop, discovering alleyways and for once, even if BaDDaD had no time for her she was breathing calmly. A solemn walk around the historical homes, perfected gardens and boys eyeing her felt good. She was registered into a Catholic school as it was nearby and she could walk there in the morning sun or fog from Elle and BaDDaD’s home and her soft and sweet smelling sister that Elle had blessed her with. She loved her uniform which made her fit in without much judgement but make-up was frowned upon. Only three other girls wore make up in school and they were pushing buttons and perimeters. She didn’t want to push anything, just be loved. The one who got her attention was sly. Not that great of a young man but his younger brother was in her class. He was a straight A student and she had been also until she stopped caring. One sunny spring day, late March, perhaps it was St. Patrick’s Day, two older guys were sitting drinking canned beer from a small boat at a prime spot to see all the passersby. Lm walked past and a guy called out to her with messy blonde hair with eyes that looked like shiny blue gems. He asked her if she knew his brother and introduced himself. Both of these rowdy over twenty- one year old guys were brothers to a boy her age in her religion class. She presumed they could not be dangerous and obliged them with coy and polite conversation. The tornado of events and fucked up-ness that was unleashed from that point changed her entire life, her belief in Love, yes, the one with a capital “L” ; shame was all she felt. Her father was sometimes trying to keep the two apart but what could he do really? Parenting is a full time job and he couldn’t hold one down in his past so it was obvious he wouldn’t have the answers. The boyfriend pursued and among one of the places he lived was on an old fishing boat with his best friend at the time nicknamed, “Mo’. Lm hopped off her bus often just before her own stop over the drawbridge downtown. She had a craving for Love and he was meeting her needs even if he was a lying predator and a drunken druggie whom she obliged on a sinking boat. He always had weed and every drug imaginable. He told her how he liked her hair, what clothes suited him the best and mostly how to satisfy his sexual needs. What she didn’t know was he kept an entourage of young women to keep him happy and his demolition of Lm’s mental health would benefit him and confuse her for years to come. Nobody was stepping in or up to save her. He gave her an STD of some kind and she was terrified of seeing a doctor. She was absolutely nothing. Ruined. Used. Lost and lost again and again. To this very second Lm has not forgiven him or his friends who lied and withheld his sexual meanderings. Not even now can she let go. He soaked her in lies and words so tender yet he was the true definition of a monster. BaDDaD and this guy were much more alike than she realised. Within she had this desperate pleading need for her father and soon she would transfer all of her attachment issues onto this very bad man. She began failing classes, running away from her BaDDaD’s often to see her very unhealthy “boyfriend”and she would lose many opportunities for fun with good friends because she was always afraid of losing him. Eventually she did; his father intervened and he was sent to Maine for his Captain’s license and planned to join the merchant marines. She wrote letters, called often and even took me of BaDDaD’s credit cards and flew to Boston and then took a bus to Maine. The sheer vulnerability she carried was taking her down. She was on the Titanic and no one was going to throw her a life vest. It was one of the most pivotal changes she would go through and at her lowest point she had no one to talk to or see her suffering. BaDDaD just wanted her to be beautiful and continue to idolize him, which she did for many rocky years. Putting this drawer away so Lm doesn’t dare to dream of the nasty, cruel boyfriend. There will be much more on the wild, unreigned years of her life. No one knew, NO ONE how bad she felt inside and she would learn much later that men hurt you. The nice ones didn’t want her. A sweet friend paraphrased her redundant lack of genuine suitors as, they perhaps felt “out of their league” and intimidated by her beauty; she would carry a sense of a strange faithfulness to the horrid sleazy guy who used her nativity for his personal gain. The #METOO movement has brought Lm to her demons door and she will forge straight on telling her TRUTH. Rock will help her from swirling down the drain.

#Ukrainiancrisis, #SwedesforPeace · #Women'sStories #Love · Uncategorized · Women's Rights/ Women's Stories · Women's Stories

Vasalisa, la vadacita

Where are you? Woman2woman, war2war ; are we joined in witness to our crisis now? Is your wild and ancient spirit stirring up old hearts and graves of lost lovers? Will you whisper sister2sister and save our children tossed in the air by the same God that damned you, not once but over and over again? Shall our wisdom remain sacred or are we just comforting our egos with mythos and buying time against a world turning inside out. Did our feminine power ever reroute greed and spare room for the meek? I am ready to sacrifice my vanity, security and comforts for all of the suffering arrogant men who have bestowed division upon us. I will howl at the moon, drink from the battlefield’s trenches full of blood to save one true Varalisa. Our seeds are sown, yet our fields remain barren until peace and solace is restored. We were one in another time. Can we become together now and face the new world with keen eye to eye contact, hold the reigns of our villains and prevail. Oh, Vasalisa guide us to stability and give us back the stars to show us where we went wrong. Can we restore Unity? May our bravest of spiritual warriors tackle the beasts that rapes our own.

Uncategorized

Wake Up Call

In the darkest hours as we slept the Russian troops attacked the Ukraine. There is no time for LittleMe or ROCK. It’s not about them now; it’s about the people in peril, the ones stuck in bumper to bumper traffic trying to flee from Kiev. The men in power with suits and ties are saluting themselves with powerful words slinging back and forth like bullies on a playground. As families embrace their fears, and the sick, poor and invalids have nowhere to flee the missiles fire. I am aware that the skies are foggy and the rush of rain that splatters against the windshield is from the tears of stars, the same one’s that were shining as we all were dreaming. The beacons of light were witness to the early morning rampage; they could not have stopped this and are crying and know people are on their knees praying, looking up at them,wondering if God exists and they hear the desperate call out for a sign of hope. We are driving toward the Baltic Sea now and there is a sense of sorrow in the air. An unsettling quiet looms over us as we know that children are comforted by mother’s and father’s who are meeting the eyes of strangers as they take shelter in subway tunnels and know that without a doubt they can do absolutely nothing but hope that someone, somehow, will end this peacefully. Updates remind us we are all pawns in the hands of our individual governments and despite the protests and mayhem we keep our doors open for resolution.

#ChildhoodTrauma · #MeToo · Uncategorized · Women's Rights/ Women's Stories

I AM not his Daughter anymore

I am insignificant yet wise, I am wise but not all knowing. How others perceive me is no longer what defines me. I have done wrong things in this life and I too, have been wronged. Sometimes I wish I could be Catholic for a day and go into a secret boxed booth with an unknown priest and embellish him with my stories and be given some penalty or sacrifice part of my desires. My desires. What are they; where do they live and thrive? I desire beauty, the Atlas mountains, the frothy, rocky shores of Norway’s deathly frigid waters; the lifetime dream of seeing old friends one more time, and to see the world just a bit more. I desire my youth and body untainted, my eyes to see clearly, able to detect the slightest change of colour. My tarnished desire is to erase the monster who stole my heart over and then more. To know my father was the one whom I worshiped more than God, a God of any form, hailing from any religion or mystical being is heinous. I was banished because of my honesty and it was if I had been bound, gagged and left at an unknown place, dumped with my crippled body and no guide to help me find my way home. It was through him I learned to love, to trust men and when his lies and words were used to only protect his image to his new family, his connections to money and investors for his rusty worn out dreams I stepped back and saw he would never stand up for anyone who he loved. He doesn’t love like me or you. He only sees a need for others. I blew the whistle and he blew me away. It wasn’t about fairness, but loyalty. I no longer play with a poker face. He made me feel like I was the most important person in the world for 80% of my life. He needed my reassurance and I delivered directly to his ego. I was the dime bag, the next fix when everyone walked away. Now I am working with Rock to set things straight, line it all up and then learn to shut down my anger, my sense of being abandoned and spring back up to rejoin life as it is. Life without BaDDaD’s stories, nor his intrusion into my dreams at night. I pray to whatever God is to help me stay strong, protect my inner child and leave the idea of “righting” things in the darkest corner of my mind. If God exists then BaDDaD’s deeds will be summonsed and he will face his fears one on one with the light of the Divine Good blinding him. Do I wish him harm? I wish him to come to know the suffering he inflicted upon other women. I want him to be burned and abandoned. But, as I said, I only have desire, no power or influence over anything. I am not broken yet I am far from being healed. How do I stop thinking about why he is the narcissistic greedy person he is? I simply must stop thinking. A God would have stepped in by now and from where I sit, I am certain I am all alone with my pain. The rain splatters against my window panes at one a.m. and I am so tired of my own mind rolling round and round with BaDDaD memories. So very, very tired. I do hope there is a penance for the cruel and cold hearted. I should not wish this. But I really do and no priest will I be meeting anytime soon. It’s just me, the black sky and lingering anguish that has no known potion to extinguish my suffering.

#ChildhoodTrauma · #MeToo · #Survivors #CPTSD · #Women'sStories #Love · Uncategorized

Door Number 26 with Rock on Duty (is he ever off?)

There was a game she played as a child, it was a night time scary, silly, giggling tradition with Lm and her cousins. With a flashlight on and one kid holding it upward under his or her chin, the bedroom or basement doors darkened and it would start.Ā Announcing in the scariest voice one could muster up, one would call “I’m on the first step”, giggles in the dark, then the imagined curmudgeon would say in an even creepier tone, “I’m on the second step”, then more squeals. On each step this creature would say something to the likes of “I’m going to eat you all up” or “I hate little children” and maybe let out a growl. Blankets were pulled over each head and huddled together everyone felt safer. Once on the top step, the door would swing wide open and the tickling began. How do we get ourselves worked up into a frenzy over someone we know, playing a spooky game yet when real life frightens us we clam up? Lm opened door 26 without thought. Who would help her through this real life game of truth and fiction? Inside the door the sun is so bright that sunglasses are needed. This memory is from the Bahamas where the evening breeze was welcomed. The shutters to her and her father’s room stayed wide open, screenless and at street level she could see crowds of white pale tourists clashing with the beautiful brown and deep chocolate skin of the Bahamians. The ocean burst upon the shore and the heat made Lm doze in and out while her father went out on the streets, crowded with laughter and accents she’d never heard. He bought her a stack of postcards with a pen. He said they were going to a fancy dinner show. The man’s name was Milton Berle that was to make them laugh and drinks and such were served at the table near an aisle. Lm had been to a lot of interesting places but this sounded much more exciting than a trip to the drive in movies or a ride on the ferris wheel at the county fair. When they arrived they were seated close to the stage with Lm near the aisle where the busboy’s catered to tables and BaDDaD although laughing a lot, also drank a lot. She knew by now this was the good side of BaDDaD, as long as he was kept happy and the drinks kept coming he’d get them back to the bungalows lining the beach. None of what Milton Berle said was funny to her but she was certainly the youngest person in the crowd. He had a sweet face and big white teeth, a tuxedo and shiny dark hair that was combed back with what she would guess to be “Dippity Do”. She consumed several Shirley Temples and watched the young men rush up and down the plush carpeted rows, from table to table they bowed and filled their trays and took away all the dirty dishes and uneaten food. Suddenly, a bus boy tripped on a step and his tray went flying toward Lm and landed by her feet. She scrambled to help him and picked up cracked plates, rolling grapes and chunks of melon. All at once a bright white light shone on her and all the people stared. Milton Berle asked the audience to have a good look at the sweet and helpful young lady helping out with all the clamour made from the shattered mess. She looked at Milton Berle and he blew her a kiss. The audience was cheering and BaDDaD was beaming. Afterwards, he would take her to a place where machines were rolling with cherries, lemons and people were using up coins to spin them around. She was weary. BaDDaD told everyone about her being spotted by Milton Berle that night. Someone who worked at this noisy place full of adults came up and said Lm couldn’t be in the room. Lm saw his face turn red like the cherries šŸ’ rolling round and he called a taxi to send her back to the bungalow. He gave her a key and said for her to go to sleep. She climbed into the cab and he sent her off, through streets unfamiliar, a country unknown to her and she tried the key. It didn’t work. Luckily the shutters had been left open and she climbed up and over into the now cooler room. She felt scared and closed the shutters and latched them from inside. The fan hanging above the bed was whisking around and she watched it spin until she fell asleep. In the early morning when light was creeping in through the shutters she opened one to look for BaDDaD. Soon he appeared and gave her a smelly kiss and too tight hug and fell onto the bed to sleep. She was quite hungry and fished through his pockets for some change. She found a little bit and went out and straight to the street where dogs ran about barking, people were stirring and saw the cart where a happy faced dark man with a straw hat sold things and called out to tourists to come see him. In his rich Bahamian accent he asked what he could get the “little miss” staring up at him. Lm asked for breakfast and he laughed. “Oh, I don’t have breakfast miss, but I do have some cola!” She put the coins up and he said he needed more. Lm explained her father was asleep and told him all about Milton Berle, the busboy, the new word, “casino”, the spinning cherries and the taxi all by herself. The man softened and then handed her a cola and a small cup of lemon ice. “This will cool you off.” She took the lemon ice and her cola and went back to the bungalow. She sat on a stool and got out her postcards and pen and wondered how she could write all of this down and to whom she should send the cards. She finally laid down next to BaDDaD who was sleeping with pillows over his head. He always did that no matter where they were. Lm knew it would be a long day waiting for him to wake and resolved herself to watching the people stream by and finally her eyes closed as the sun and sky slowly changed to yellow, orange and pink.