Friday, October 4, 2024: Beverly M. Collins's "Cost of Knowing" (with accompanying art)

 

“You can’t take on everyone’s confusion and wear it. Don’t ask so many questions. The answers may surprise you in a bad way,” Sylvia’s grandfather barked down at her, as he held her hand on a walk home from school when she was six years old.

“They may indeed,” She whispered softly to herself, at age 43.

On this New Jersey cool early-autumn day, she remembered that childhood moment while seated, like a cat ready to pounce, on the edge of the bed in her bra and panties, with a tan- colored bed sheet loosely tangled around her. The sound of water assured that her husband

Aaron was still in the shower. Finally, a moment to spy at the call history in his phone. To look was to question. She wished she had not looked and didn’t know he was, once again, calling “that woman” almost every day. Sylvia ached so bad that her hands trembled and let go of the phone. It slipped down the side of the covers and into the floor.

She didn’t know which part was worst, the bitter taste or the texture of betrayal. This was her second attempt at happily-ever-after. Her first marriage of 4 years had ended over, (you guessed it) infidelity.

Does anyone marry and not cheat? After all of the talks and promises. She once hoped their couple’s therapy had worked wonders and ended his tryst. But, knew what this information meant for their 14-year union.

Gripped by fear at the idea of another divorce, her heart pounded as she suddenly jumped up, raced to put on her oversized sweater, sneakers, and blue jeans. She wanted to run, stomp, kick, and scream. but for now, would settle for a run. A chance to pull herself together, flee the anguish momentarily and dash through nature; old trees, life that had planted itself, pushed down

deep roots and was happy in their spot.

Many times, she had leisurely strolled this path. This time, along with the quick pounding sound of her steps, Sylvia noticed the sharp movement of birds from one spot to another, dust and seeds that sailed in need of a new place to take hold, they were like her. Everything in her felt jittery and uprooted. The “knowing” was already doing a number on her chronic twitch in her cheek.

The Broken-hearted-first-things-first. Sob hard where no one can listen. Everything else; the confrontation, the heated arguments, the packing, uncertainty, loneliness, the expressed concern from relatives, the lawyers, the reshuffle of who-gets-to-keep-who of their longtime friends, hurtful division of assets, the giving-back-of-each-other’s-family members, rumors of what happened, and the long road to healing, would begin later. Just for now, she ran as hard as she could and let a rivers-flow-of-tears dry from open wind.

© 2024 Beverly M. Collins

Bio: Beverly M. Collins, author of the books, Quiet Observations: Diary thought, Whimsy and Rhyme, and Mud in Magic. Her poems and short stories have appeared in publications based in USA, England, Ireland, Australia, India, Berlin, Mauritius, and Canada both in print and online.

Winner of a Naji Naaman Literary Prize in Creativity (Lebanon). Collins, three times nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and a prize winner for the California State Poetry Society; One of three winners of the June 2021 Wilda Morris Poetry Challenge (Chicago). Her photography can be found on the cover of Peeking Cat 40 (UK), California Quarterly, on Fine Art America products, iStock/Getty images, and more at beverlym-collins.pixels.com. 

Sunday, March 8, 2020: National Women's Month: Judy Barrat's memoir "Me and Eleanor"

Me and Eleanor 

Some memories of events in childhood last forever, even those that didn’t seem

to have special significance at the time. Such an event occurred in the spring that I

was six years old, on a Sunday, two days after my 6th birthday. Early that morning,

we, my dad, mom and my sister, piled into my dad’s pride and joy, a two tone grey

Nash 600 sedan, and started on the road to Hyde Park, New York to see the estate

of former President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Of course at 6 years old, this didn’t

mean a thing to me; I was happy riding in the car and feeling the wind on my face. 

Finally, after what was probably two hours, we arrived at this beautiful estate –

I’d never seen a house so big; it had rolling green lawns and huge trees and

magnificent colorful flowers everywhere. This was the Springwood estate, the home

of the former President and home to first official US Presidential Library, which all h

ad been donated to the State of New York in 1943 by FDR, making it a historical site;

it was opened for public tours after his death in 1945 and Eleanor’s move, at the

insistence of her mother-in-law, to the Val Kill cottage a couple of miles away. 

This is, in my six-year-old memory, how I remember the rest of that day.

Dad parked the car and we got out and walked over to a large group of people;

a man was talking to them and he waved to us and said, “Come up front so the kids

can see,” which of course we did. I, being extremely bashful, was hanging onto

my dad’s pant leg and sort of hiding behind him. As we walked along, the man

was talking about the gardens and the trees and about the big house but I wasn’t

really paying close attention to what he said as much as the stuff he was pointing

to – it was all so pretty and colorful and big. 

After we’d been walking for a while, we stopped and were listening to what the man

was saying and all of a sudden, everyone started clapping as a very tall old woman (at l

east she looked old to me) walked toward us. She stood next to the man, who smiled

and kept on talking and she surveyed the crowd.

She said “Hello,” to my mom and dad and my sister and then noticed me hiding

behind my dad’s legs holding onto his pants. She got down on one knee in the grass

so her big face was at the same level as mine – she had a mop of curly gray hair, and

big yellowish teeth and a kind face with lots of wrinkles like a prune but she had these

really soft blue eyes that were all smiley and twinkly; she smiled at me with

her big teeth and whispered “What’s your name?”

“Judy,” I whispered back, moving further behind my dad.

“My name is Eleanor. Would you like to walk with me, Judy?” she said,

holding out her hand.

Still hanging on to dad’s pants I looked up at my dad and then at my mom to see if

they heard and they both nodded as the lady stood up, patiently waiting for my

answer. I looked up at her – she was taller than my dad and the other man too – she

was still smiling and she nodded to me and held her hand out again and I reached

up for it and stepped out from behind my dad. She took my hand and we started

walking and she began telling the people about the big house as we headed toward it.

She never let go of my hand and she kept looking down at me to let me know she

didn’t forget I was there and we walked all through the house like that with the people

following us - me and the big tall pruney faced lady with the soft eyes. At the end of

the tour, everyone said, “Thank you,” and then left. 

She and my mom and dad and my sister too, talked for a few minutes and when

she said goodbye, my mom and dad said “Mrs. Roosevelt, it was really a pleasure

to meet you,” (with a reverence I’d never before or since heard in their voices).

That confused me because I didn’t know who Mrs. Roosevelt was – this was

“Eleanor.” The lady gave my sister a hug and I was just standing there, bashful a

nd confused; my mom said: “Judy, say goodbye to Mrs. Roosevelt.”

I looked up at the tall lady, almost in tears in my confusion and started to say,

“Goodbye Mrs. --” She smiled and shook her head, and I broke into a grin and

said “Goodbye, Eleanor,” and then ran into her outstretched arms for a big hug. 

The epilogue to this story is that for months I begged my folks to take me back

to see Eleanor. They never did and it was many years before I realized who my

friend Eleanor was.

© 2020 Judy Barrat

Bio: Judy Barrat is a writer of poetry and prose and has presented her work at many
poetry venues around Los Angeles, sometimes as the featured poet, as well as at music
venues, occasionally with a vocalist weaving a song around one of her poems. She
has performed three sold out shows of her stories and poems with musical
accompaniment at The Gardenia Club in Hollywood. Judy’s writing has been
published by the Pelham Parkway Times, the San Gabriel Valley Quarterly,
Spectrum (several issues), World Enough Writers, Quill & Parchment, and in

the Wild Women of Words Anthology.