In the Dark, Words Matter

Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this month is to write about the darkness this time of year. This time, it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn.

Cathy’s writings have been published in over 200 print and online publications. Check out her website (www.writingwicket.wordpress.com) for further information on her works. Also, check out her latest book, 300 pages of crass, crazy, crude, funny, sarcastic, and weird stories about the Grimes’ Christmases, called (what else?): THE GRIMES’ CRAZY CHRISTMASES. Available on Amazon or (cheaper) through the author. https://www.amazon.ca/dp/1990589448

Today, she is continuing with new Grimes tales...

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In the Dark, Words Matter

by Cathy MacKenzie

“Bob, there’s something about this time of year...”

“Elise, what now?”

“The dark, Bob. It’s so much darker now. Yesterday it rained, and it made it seem as though it was ten o’clock at night when it was only in the afternoon. Didn’t you see the dark clouds above us as we were driving? Well, as I was driving, since you can’t drive.”

“I can drive just fine, Elise. Not my fault I might have early-stage cataracts and can’t get an appointment at the eye doctor for another month.”

“Gee, Bob, you’ve been acting as if you have four-stage cancer or something. Or early dementia—well, you do have dementia, that’s for sure.”

“Give it up, Elise. Give it up.”

“Okay, I will. But back to darkness. The darkness in life. The darkness of life...” She paused. “I’m not sure which it is Bob. ‘In’ or ‘on’?”

“In or of what, woman?”

“The darkness. Is it ‘in life’ or ‘of life’?”

Bob looked puzzled at first, trying to comprehend her meaning, and finally giving up. “Does it really matter?”

“Of course, it matters. Words matter, Bob! Don’t you know that fact yet? We’re now in a politically correct world—not the world of our parents where people could say what they wanted and not be shot. Or killed in some way. Words do matter. Oh yes, indeed, words matter...”

Bob, instead of tossing the remote in disgust as was usually his way, carefully put down the high—and contemplate life. Even better, why don’t you write a poem?”

Elise glanced at the clock. “Bob, it’s not even seven. I know it’s dark, but it’s a bit early to go to bed. I’d never be able to sleep this early.”

“Write a poem, I said. Put your dratted tablet to good use.”

“Hmm, I suppose...”

It was all Bob could do to suppress his laughter. What a duffus she was. Then again, he had married her...

Hmm, he thought. “I think you’re right, Bob. I’ve always wanted to be a writer and—”

“I’ve heard that a million times in the last few years, Elise. Put your pen where your mouth is.” Hmm, is that the correct phrase? No matter; his dear, lovely, sweet wife was clueless.

He watched her scamper off down the hall like an excited puppy about to search every room for a bone. She wouldn’t do that, of course; she knew where her—their—bedroom was located.

He pondered again. Would she really write a poem? Really and truly? He didn’t know what to think, but he was tired of her continually saying she wanted to be a writer and never produce. Not that he had high hopes for anything she’d write.

Elise plopped to the bed. Yes, it was time. Time to write a poem. But what? She pondered for a long while, while enjoying the heat of the electric blanket. She’d never enjoyed such warmth before she’d bought the blanket. Bob liked to say it was him who purchased it; nope, it was her.

She was tired of being cold at nights. Cold was an ambiguous word. Cold could mean feeling neglected or shunned. Cold didn’t just refer to temperature, but she supposed the word temperature could be ambiguous, as well. She shook her head. Words! Who knew there were so many meanings to words, contrived or not. Or was it just her?

She picked up her tablet, stared at the blank screen on the pre-installed writing app, and then her fingers began typing as if they had ten little minds:

 

It’s the dark, Bob,

When I sob,

The dark in the night

When it’s not light

And I remember dreams

And schemes,

Think of you and our son—

We have only one—

Don’t forget that fact,

How I felt smacked

In the head when another

Appeared, Jimmy’s brother—

No, can’t say that—

You said you’d eat your hat

If that were true,

Your unknown son out of the blue.

I have no secrets, Bob,

No dark things to rob

My soul

Or toss me into a deep hole.

No, I have none.

You have your son,

That dratted lie from your past,

An image that forever will last.

Oh, I know you said it’s not true,

That I shouldn’t be blue.

Thankfully, that kid hasn’t appeared again

To give us more pain,

So perhaps I should believe your words

And wait for spring to hear the birds

When they return from down south,

Then perhaps I won’t be so down-in-the-mouth

And life can proceed

Even though my heart doth bleed

And always will—

Unless my body lays still

In death

Without a breath

And then the world will be dark...

 

Gah, she thought. Can’t find anything suitable that rhymes with dark. She could use “lark,” but she’d already written of birds. After consideration, she decided it was a poem of blackness, the black of night, and nothing rhymed at night, did it?

She continued with the rest of the poem, albeit non-rhyming...

 

And I’ll live forever in the black

If I’m dead...

But this is the time of year

When the clock turns back,

Making it a tad lighter

And, of course, brighter

What with Christmas coming up

And more filled cups.

But then I think back

To another Christmas

And that knock on the door

Interrupting our meal.

The year Jimmy found his wayward brother,

And I, not this kid’s mother,

And Bob said he wasn’t the father.

Eventually the kid said not to bother,

And though Bob didn’t tell me

The kid (James) did flee,

Never (I hope) to bother us again,

Never again to lay a stain

Upon our happy home.

 

There, she thought. It’s done. But it’s not a poem I could ever share with Bob. Or Jimmy. More like a mind-cleanser.

But she hoped the kid was truly gone.

Then—why, oh, why had she thought of James? She thought she’d thrust that kid to the bowels of her mind.

She threw the tablet to the floor.

“I’m not cut out to be a writer,” she screeched. “My poem is crap and—”

“Elise, what’s wrong? Elise! Elise, are you okay?”

“Bob, what are you doing here?”

“I heard you scream. Is everything okay?”

“You heard me scream? And came to comfort me?”

“Of course, Elise. I’m your husband, aren’t I?”

“Yes, I think so, Bob.” She sobbed.

“Elise, what’s wrong?”

In between her sobs, she spoke. “I just don’t think I’m cut out to be a writer, Bob. I can’t rhyme, and I—I...”

“Elise, you don’t need to be a writer. You can just be a housewife, as you’ve done ever since we married.”

She quit sobbing and looked up at him. “Really, Bob? I don’t have to wrack my brain for rhyming words?”

“You do not. All you need to do is take care of me. Well, and Jimmy, of course.”

And then it hit her: all her husband cared about was himself. He just wanted his needs met. He didn’t really care if she was a perfect poetess or not.

But he did come into the bedroom to check on me, she thought. And it wasn’t for sex. No, he truly was concerned about her. He’d never been one to choose his words carefully.

She thought about her poem. Even though she’d tried to find the perfect words, it wasn’t perfect. It would never win any awards; even she knew that. But unlike Bob, she’d tried to choose carefully. Despite all that, it still needed a title. Everything in the world needs a name, she thought. It was her baby, after all. The only baby left in her life; there’d be no more. Well, except for Angel, who lived on in infamy. Angel, the baby who never breathed more than two breaths, the baby who lived in darkness and would never ever see the light of day—or the dark of night.

Poem of Darkness, she thought. Yep, a perfect title. And someday, she thought, I’ll go back to it. I’ll make it more perfect.

“Elise, you okay?”

“What? Oh, Bob. Yes, I’m here.”

“Well, I’m going to send Jimmy to bed, and then I’m comin’ back to join you.”

Hooray, she thought. Just dandy.

She leaned over and switched on the nightstand lamp. That’s about all the light and brightness she’d have tonight. She was delusional if she thought otherwise.

 

 

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The Spot Writers:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/