Change

Be quiet. Be still. Don’t move a muscle. You think you will not cause change? Not true. 

Just by being, you are causing changes. Every breath you take, changes something, moves something, colors something. 

What if you stop breathing? 

You can’t escape this, Even in death, you continue to change–your body changes and you cause changes. Your decomposition will give off odor and you will become nutrients in the soil. The bacteria will consume you, change you and become other things. Your energy passes into other forms. 

Embalmed and placed in an airtight vault where you will not succumb to deterioration? You will take up space my friend–your presence will continue. 

You are forever.

© Glenda Kotchish

June 2021

The View From Here

A pebble in the flowerbed, buried under a weed, flew up from the weed wacker and hit the sliding glass door. A tiny pebble–moving at just the right speed, striking at just the right spot, shattered the glass. I watched the glass ripple and break into tiny pieces. The crackling sounds were eerie. Every few minutes the cracks would ping as the break spread to the furthest edges of the door. 

I put up a sign. Don’t open this door. Danger, broken glass–a reminder for myself. 

This happened at home–my safe place–a place where I go and collapse on the couch, flick on the T.V. and tune out of the world and all the things that happen out there. Nothing happens here. From the couch, I look out the sliding glass door at the birds and the deer who come nibble on my plants and drink from the bird bath. They share the seeds I put out, the birds and the deer. But now that view is cracked and fuzzy, too. 

© Glenda Kotchish

June 2021 

I am listening

“Hello?” 

“Oh, it’s you.” 

“I’m okay. I’d ask you how you are if I cared, but I don’t.” 

“Sure, I have some time. Why not? Go ahead, I’m listening.”

“What’s this leading up to? Do you need some cash?” 

“No? Really? What then?”

“Don’t whine. I hate whining, you know that. Just get on with it. It’s almost time for the bus and I don’t want to talk while I’m on the bus.”

“Where am I going? Where I always go at 7:30 in the morning–to work. You know, that thing I do to earn money to live.”

“Yeah, same place.”

“It’s okay, pays the bills. So tell me, what’s the point of this call?”

“Yes, yes I’m listening. Yes, I can have an open mind, until it slams shut.” 

“That was a joke. I AM listening. Stop crying.”

“Would a job help? They are hiring at the bakery.”

“What’s wrong with you? Why can’t you work?”

“That’s no excuse. And for your information I don’t think you have a sleep disorder. I’ve seen you asleep, dead to the world on my couch.”

“Yes, I did say I’d have an open mind. But if you’re going to BS me at least make up a viable story.”

“What?” 

“We’ve been through this before. It doesn’t work for me. It didn’t work last time. It’s a small apartment.”

“You DO take up a lot of room. You are a slob and you and your things spread like a virus.”

“The dog?”

“When did you get a dog? And why did you get a dog? You can’t even take care of yourself and now you have a DOG?”

“Sorry, I guess I was judging you. I’m sorry you’re lonely.”

“The dog has no place to go?”

“Do NOT put the dog out on the street. And do not drive out to the country and drop that dog and leave it to fend for itself.”

“What?”

“Yes you do have a choice.” 

“Ok, listen. Are you listening?”

“I said, ARE YOU LISTENING?”

“I’ll take the dog,” 

“No, you can’t tag along. Where are you?”

“Why do I need to know? Because I’m coming to get the dog, that’s why.”

“Wait, let me get out a pen to write this down.”

“Ok, go ahead, I’m listening.”

(c) Glenda Kotchish

June 2021

2021 A True Story

It was May. School was almost over for the year, even now it was only half-days. After class, what to do with the rest of the day–go home? Boring. Not just boring but the noise of his sisters and mother, the T.V. blaring reality shows was too much to take. After the chaos and roar of school, all he wanted was a quiet place to–to what? Think? Rest? Just be. 

The sun was hot for May, 90 degrees. He put on his baseball hat and sunglasses, swung his backpack over his shoulder and instead of riding the school bus home, he strode off the school grounds and headed to the river–through the suburban neighborhood of manicured lawns. The streets were shaded by huge magnolia trees, chestnuts and oaks. An occasional car speed by him as he walked–facing traffic.

Finally, he came upon a path to the river, a path through the woods–a deer path.  He followed it, past the creek, behind the houses, down to the river bank. The river was wide and fast–nothing but water and ripples marking where the current flowed. He sat down on a fallen tree trunk, tossed his backpack on the ground and rested with only the river noises for company. 

It only took two days before the neighborhood social media, “Nextdoor” buzzed with comments–a suspicious person in a baseball hat, The police came–trespassing was the charge. 

© Glenda Kotchish

May 2021

Easter

Easter is on my mind. The earth has been in preparation for weeks, first with dandelions, then daffodils, pink buds on the red bud trees and now the dogwoods blooming. The deer are losing their grey winter coats and turning a warm tan color. The birds are building nests.

I want to celebrate, too. I want to put on a new spring dress, a hat, shoes and stockings and go somewhere where people gather. I want to hear singing–maybe Handel’s Hallelujah Chorus and Beethoven’s Ode to Joy.

A real event, not virtually real.

Words

By 10 o’clock I was in the car and on my way to the studio, glad that it had stopped raining, the sun was out and the sky clear and blue again. It was cold, but on the first day of spring you can’t have everything. I turned on the CD player. I was almost at the end of a murder mystery audio book. 

I know. CDs are old fashioned and Amazon Audible is all the go but Audible costs $25 a month and that’s $25 that I could spend on art supplies. Besides the audiobooks are free at the library although I hear they are phasing them out with digital streaming. If and when I get a new car, then it will have bluetooth and I’ll be up to date, for a minute. 

That’s what the millennials say, anyway. A minute is,  I think, more than 60 seconds and can be a short while or a long while–a very inclusive word.

Inclusive, another favorite word these days, although only in word. Word is another one, and I have no idea what that means. Maybe, hello? Or perhaps just another inclusive word.

Groovie. 

© Glenda M. Kotchish

March 22, 2021