Daydreamer

The teachers were concerned, leaving notes for Mom and Dad regarding my “staring out the window” during class. Daydreaming they called it, the politically correct term for something more sinister, such as bad parenting or inferior character, their “go-to” conclusions in those days. Social anxiety, depression, the autism spectrum, and other so called mental health conditions were not yet common terminology. This was the seventies.

“He should visit with the school shrink,” they suggested.

“Let’s find out what he daydreams about while staring out the window, so we can address the situation.”

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Please don’t shoot me dad!

Dad, please don’t shoot me in the back, I thought to myself. I’d been retrieving pellets from the wooden board used for our target practice, when the vision of him shooting me from behind appeared. Several times, I turned my head for a sideways glance, making sure the gun was not pointed at me. Dad just looked at me and said nothing, but the Larkin boys laughed heartily at my paranoia. I thought of my ancestors lined up at the edge of mass graves, waiting to be shot in the back, one by one, like a factory line of executions; the soon to be executioners finding humor and a perverse justice in their victims’ predicament.

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Desert heat

If you believe in Satan, then imagine him as a trickster, silently positioning the potholes of life where you are most likely to trip and fall into them. Watch your step! – David M. Rubin

My love, have you noticed those seemingly perfect specimens of men living at our desert complex? Oh yes, I know that you’ve noticed them, as I’ve noticed you noticing them, with their enormous muscles, cryptic tats, and whatever else that fascinates you about them. They sit around the pool – 24/7 – with cold drinks, smiles, laughs, and the pretense of texting someone; all the while watching you…always watching you…keeping one eye on you, sometimes sneaking snapshots of you wearing THAT BIKINI purchased in 110 degrees of desert heat. Required pool attire, we now call it.

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Her Smile

Hey Anne,

Found this poem in one of Isaac’s boxes. Do you know anything about this woman? Did she really exist? Doubtful huh? 10,000 miles? Not sure anyone would travel 5 miles to visit a loon, except for social workers. Just being real, not mean. I’ve always loved our little brother, but his issues pushed everyone away.

Our ghost, Mr. Shrink, is back again. Poor Isaac!

Be careful, the paper is dried out. Looks like something chewed on it. Wash your hands afterwards!

Lizzy

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Sleepwalking

I felt “watched” whenever the moonlight streamed into my bedroom window at night, paranoid that God used the moon as his lookout – probing me from there with his powerful flashlight. I didn’t want “him” to see what I daydreamed about in my bedroom. Not that it was anything bad or abnormal for a 12 year old, but I didn’t want my parents finding out and meddling in my private stuff.

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