Common Face

by

Kelli J Gavin

I have often said that I have what is called a common face. But, as I grow older, this "common face"
thing has grown into something more, something different. People think that I am familiar to them,
they know me, yet can not place me. This happens often, turns into interesting or uncomfortable
situations, and people often disclose memories of days gone by, hurts that have never healed
and joys that they wish to pass on. I have been able to turn many of these awkward conversations
around into something utterly fantastic.

If I feel comfortable enough, I will now ask if there is something they would like to share with me.
Whether it is the woman in the checkout lane at Target who swears I am young version of her
mother whom she so deeply misses, or the man at the hardware store who admits it was a little
weird that he was staring so long, but he just couldn't place me. I have heard stories of lost
loves, auto accidents, vacations ingrained forever on the hearts and mind of the memory
keeper, lost yet found objects, and lonely souls who just wish to connect with someone,
anyone. I am often questioned about my faith, and where my smile, joy, and hope come from.

Once, a woman in her older 60s or early 70s stated the most profound thing to me when I asked
if there was something she would like to share. "It is hard for me to sell all of my grandchildren's
things. Their clothes and shoes, their toys and books, and their baby things. They aren't young
anymore. They don't need me anymore. They don't appreciate our time together reading or in
the kitchen. They don't like spending time with me like they once did. I guess it hurts. I have
been sitting here all day fighting off tears. Wallowing in this. Thank you for letting me share.
And not being scared off by my tears."

Sometimes, like that day, I just let people talk. I let people cry and hug them and thank them.
I didn't offer any words of wisdom (I don't have any in a case like this) and I only offered a hug,
my first name and statement of faith and comfort during this time that she is actually
experiencing a loss. She then said, "I am glad you came along. And look, you aren't buying
anything. Thank you. I just want to thank you."

If only she knew that I benefited more from our conversation more than she did.

Kelli J Gavin lives in Carver, Minnesota with Josh, her husband of 22 years and two crazy kids. She is a Writer, a Professional Organizer and owns two companies. She enjoys writing, reading, swimming, and spending time with family and friends. She abhors walks on the beach (sand in places no one wishes sand to be), candle lit dinners, (can’t see) and the idea of cooking two nights in a row (no thank you).Check out Kelli J Gavin on Facebook and on Twitter and Instagram: @KelliJGavin and her blog: http://kellijgavin.blogspot.com/

Judith's Last Song

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“My Ma’s dead.”

He waits to hear more.

“She’s a vet. And, they gave me her–”
And, all of a sudden I am there. I am sitting in the folding chair borrowed from the V.A. in my borrowed, ill-fitting suit smelling of trash bags. Every time someone squeezed me in a hug a waft of Hefty would make me want to itch and throw up.

The chaplain kneels, tells me the flag is on behalf of a grateful nation, and holds up the red and white triangle for me to take.

I just want to punch the flag out of his hand and run away.

Just run till I get to a place where my Ma is alive frying Spam and eggs with too much soy sauce.

Just run till the pain moves from my heart to my lungs.

Instead, I just sit there, and he places her on my lap.

First Featured at http://blognostics.net/blognostics-an-innovative-experience-in-literature-poetry-and-art/2014/05/24/judiths-last-song-by-veronica-haunani-fitzhugh/

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.

Points Of Origin

by

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

“Where the hell did you come from?” he demanded holding my documents with just his fingertips fearing contamination.

“From your blind spot.”

“From your complacency.”

“From your Other.”

“I have been here all the time waking, warbling, waiting for you to see all of me.”

“I burst forth swaddled in my Daddy’s disappointments and dry humor.”

“A small tobacco plantation in Spotsylvania County, Virginia where the Fitz and the Hugh slaves became Fitzhugh slaves.”

“My Momma and her Momma and her Momma.”

“Africa, Germany, Philippines, Hawaii, New Jersey, Virginia, Florida, then Virginia again.”

“The Navy, the Army, the National Guard, the US Federal Government, Walmart, and Kmart.”

“Soul gardens where the sweetest fruits are still bitter skinned.”

“Mouths of rivers still running muddy and dangerous.”

“From the time when I slammed on the brake instead of the gas choosing to no longer kill myself.”

“From a November naked dance around a park bonfire, cameras, lovers, strangers, and police.”

“From that startling moment when you realize the dream is about to be a nightmare.”

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.

On Dying Slowly

by
Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh

The desolate room misses babe and me.
Her gloved palm of flower and fruit held mine.
His masked face frowned as my womb then empty
grew garnet and crimson, not a safe sign.
Alone, I sadly come to her unplanned.
Her kind brown eyes try to smile confidently,
calmly. I see truth behind the ocean’s sand.
I remove my hand and cry silently.
The salty sadness of numbness not pain.
At eighteen, my choice convenience blushing.
Vacuumed out clean, I try to remain sane,
hearing nothing but the cool air rushing.
Once swollen with rose and morning glory.
Hurt too fresh for touching allegory.

Veronica Haunani Fitzhugh earned her BA in English Literature from the University of Virginia but is more proud of the friendships she earned through her social justice work in Charlottesville, Virginia.  She has been in several anthologies online and in print.  Her main blog is Charlottesville Winter at cvillewinter.wordpress.org.