Show 'Em What You Got

 Show 'Em What You Got

Anthony had a job lined up before they had even left New York. Two years after they moved in together, a four-day trip to Hawaii allowed him to make it happen. While Gina toured Pearl Harbor, Anthony was busy building his future. He started by calling the local head of Sears' Home Improvement Division in Honolulu. Then he walked into the man's office and waited. 

And waited.

For hours.

His persistence finally paid off. Impressed by the young man's determination, the boss handed Anthony the number of another ambitious Italian on the other side of the island.

Anthony called immediately.

The following evening, he and Gina met Sal P. and his Japanese wife, Kiki, for dinner. Sal owned the local siding company, whose 

slogan proudly proclaimed, "Steel Is for Real."

Over dinner, Anthony's confidence filled the room. He had already proven he could communicate, but Sal still had one question.

"Can you run a company?"

Anthony never hesitated.

"I can."

Sal wasn't completely convinced, but he admired the conviction.

"Come back in a few months," he said. "I'll give you a job. Then we'll see."

It wasn't a promise easily made. Sal had heard plenty of confident talk from would-be employees over the years, but few ever lived 

up to their own words.

Anthony intended to.

The truth was that he knew nothing about installing steel siding. He was a roofer by trade. But he learned quickly, worked relentlessly, and before long had impressed the hell out of Sal.

In return, Sal became more than an employer.

He taught Anthony how to sell. He patiently corrected his terrible spelling. In another life, Sal had been an English teacher, but wanderlust had carried him far beyond the classroom. Business had become his new adventure.

The partnership flourished.

Within a few years, Anthony was running the company while Sal focused on sales. Their strengths complemented one another, and the business prospered.

Eventually, Anthony felt the pull to build something of his own.

Sal wished him well, knowing that independent spirits are rarely meant to stay in one place forever.

Soon afterward, Sal moved to Saipan to launch several new businesses. Kiki had lost her battle with an aggressive cancer, and Hawaii no longer felt like home without her. Rather than dwell on grief, Sal chose another beginning.

Anthony hired a trusted local employee and continued building his own success. Business was good, and he never let anyone forget who he believed was carrying the financial load.

As his confidence grew, so did his need to remind Gina who was responsible for their lifestyle.

He often told her he was the earner in the family, as though his paycheck gave him the final word. Eleven years older than Gina, he believed age and income entitled him to authority. What had once looked like confidence was slowly revealing itself as control.

Anthony had built his career through persistence and determination. He had earned Sal's respect by proving himself, one opportunity at a time.

At home, however, he expected respect without question.

There was a difference, though Anthony rarely saw it.

 

I'll Show You the World

 I'll Show You the World

He said, I'll show you the world,
and Gina—still soft with the faith
that good hearts recognize good hearts
mistook a wolf
for a man carrying flowers.

Anthony knew every beautiful sentence
that sickness could wear.
He stitched himself from borrowed sorrows,
made every old lover a villain,
every scar a medal,
every lie sound like survival.

She believed him.

She believed tears meant truth,
that broken men only needed love,
that promises were maps,

not traps.

So they married
before the echo of warning
could catch its own breath.

He gave her rings,
stories,
and ghosts with different names.

Lola became the monster.
Laundry became betrayal.
Cold takeout became proof.

Children became witnesses
in a courtroom built from his delusions,
where Anthony was always innocent
and someone else carried the blame.

Then came the Chevy Blazer
iron crashing through the fragile theater,
truth arriving without knocking,
headlights cutting straight through
his careful performance.

Still he called.

Still his voice wrapped itself
around her hope
like ivy around a gravestone.

Still she believed
the next apology
would be the honest one.

So they crossed an ocean together,
newly married,
chasing the paradise
he'd painted in impossible colors.

Hawaii waited,
green and breathtaking,
while beneath every postcard sunset
his darkness unpacked itself
one lie,
one wound,
one cruelty at a time.

He had promised her the world.

He never mentioned
he meant
the one he had already
set on fire.

 

Purpose Driven

 Purpose Driven

In the bicentennial year,
when flags bloomed like bright weeds
from porches, windows, courthouse lawns,
Katya moved through the city
like a small question with whiskers,
listening.

She met a man whose thirty years on Wall Street
had folded shut like a ledger at dusk;
his good shoes still shone,
but accusation followed him
like rainwater in the seams.

She met a young woman carrying degrees
as carefully as glass bowls,
only to find the cupboards bare,
the jobs gone thin as soup,
the food-stamp office lit with tired fluorescent mercy.

She met a mother of five
with three jobs knotted to her back,
her children turning keys in empty kitchens,
learning too young
how silence can sound like supper.

Rich or poor, guilty or only tired,
they carried trouble in different pockets.
Some hid it under laughter,
some under lies,
some under the hard bread of habit.

And then there was Gina—
wealthy Gina,
who lived behind gates polished bright as silver,
where roses climbed the walls
and silence learned to keep secrets.

She wore pearls at dinner
like small moons at her throat,
smiled when the room expected smiling,
and lifted crystal glasses
with hands that had learned to steady themselves.
Her house held marble floors,
fresh flowers,
locked doors,
and words sharp enough
to leave bruises no mirror could prove.
But somewhere inside her,
a window had not closed.

It was Gina who made Katya stop,
who taught her that suffering could wear perfume,
ride in black cars,
and sit beneath chandeliers without being seen.
Pity became purpose,
not like thunder,
but like a match struck in a dark room
small at first,
then certain enough
to show the way out.
No one would think to ask a cat for help;
cats belonged on windowsills,
in alleys,
in stories told to children.

What could a cat do
against fear dressed as marriage,
against a voice that closed doors,
against a mansion that felt smaller than a cage?
Perhaps not break the lock.
Perhaps not silence the voice.
But perhaps she could sit at Gina’s feet
until Gina remembered
she was not alone.

And perhaps, one morning,
Gina would open the smallest door first
a phone call,
a packed bag,
a name trusted enough to say aloud
and the house that had kept her
would become only a house,
while the road beyond it
opened like sunrise.

But Katya was brilliant
in the quiet way moonlight is brilliant
on a kitchen floor at midnight.
And Tiki, tall enough for foot pedals,
drove the Time Machine
while she planned beside him,
her paws folded like prayers.

He gave her more than motion,
more than miles bending backward.
He gave her friendship,
that small, steady lantern
money cannot buy,
and loneliness cannot blow out.

Blank

 Blank

Face it, Gina
you are clueless,
the perfect rube
for his brutality.
And not much has changed.

You tried to leave,
but he kept pulling you
back into the maze,
where every exit
looked like forgiveness
and every promise
turned into another wall.

You stayed mired in the bog
for years,
calling survival

something nobler than fear.

Now you're old.
The Rose of Rosendale
has wilted,
yet somehow
you're still wet behind the ears,
still believing
the next apology
might bloom into spring.

It's 101 degrees, baby.
Maybe you could cool off
in the Dunk Tank,
let the shock
wake you from yourself.

Forget the past.
It has already taken

more than its share.

Hypnotize yourself.
Plan a future.
Hop on a new freight train
one that doesn't circle back
to the same forgotten station.

Wreck what's left
in cat years,
shed every borrowed skin,
and walk away.

You do remember
how to walk away,
don't you?

Because the door
was never locked

Only your hope was.

Crepuscular

 Crepuscular

Katya was naturally hardwired to be most active during the twilight hours of dawn and dusk. Tiki was not. Their different rhythms caused more than a few hiccups.

Tiki was diurnal. He rose early each morning to fish in the pond, where he loved catching tilapia and catfish. By dusk, however, he was exhausted, snoring like a buzz saw before Katya's night had even begun.

Although he had been born in Indonesia, Tiki rarely spoke of his past. Katya simply called him "Cousin," and that became their truth, especially during difficult times.

One of those times came during the U.S. Bicentennial. Katya had just celebrated her own two-hundredth birthday. Returning from a 

nighttime hunt, she proudly left a plump, juicy mouse where Tiki would find it, believing it was a thoughtful gift.

Tiki's response puzzled her. Fastidious to a fault, he calmly picked up the mouse, tossed it over the fence into the farmer's field, dusted off his hands, and returned to fishing as though nothing had happened.

Katya preferred fish herself, but she couldn't understand Tiki's complete distaste for the mouse. Rather than confront him, she filed the mystery away. Perhaps the answer lay somewhere in the past.

So they climbed into the Time Machine.

Their destination was New York Harbor during the Bicentennial celebration, where the Tall Ships filled the harbor with towering masts and billowing sails. It was there they first met Gina.

Gina was young, beautiful, and painfully naïve. Having lived a sheltered life, she was unprepared for someone like Anthony.

Anthony was older, confident, and controlling from the very beginning. He believed Gina needed to be shaped into someone more like himself. She resisted in small ways, but he remained convinced she was trainable.

Katya found humans endlessly fascinating. Their mistakes, misunderstandings, and emotional entanglements were often more entertaining than anything she encountered on her nightly prowls. But there was one thing she could not tolerate: cruelty 

masquerading as love.

She watched Anthony begin a familiar routine. He blamed Gina, pointed accusing fingers, and raised his voice.

"What are you talking about, Anthony?" Gina asked, genuinely confused.

"It isn't what you did," he replied. "It's what you didn't do."

The accusation made no sense because there was nothing Gina could have done. Anthony wasn't reacting to reality; he was creating a problem she could never solve.

Katya had seen enough to recognize the pattern. When Anthony behaved this way, the safest response was to avoid eye contact, say little, and wait for the storm to pass.

But Gina didn't know that. Like a mouse caught in a trap, she searched desperately for the mistake she believed she must have made.

Why is he so angry? she wondered.  I need to understand what went wrong so I can fix it.

There was no riddle to solve. The problem was Anthony himself—a controlling man, exactly the kind her father had once warned her about.

Watching Gina struggle awakened something in Katya. What had begun as a search for answers about Tiki's mysterious past became something much larger. She became determined to save Gina from a life she could not yet recognize as dangerous.

Tiki, whether he fully understood Katya's mission or not, came along for the ride.

Their misadventures would last a very long time.

 

Wild Thing...You Make Katya's Heart sing

 Wild Thing…You Make Katya’s Heart Sing

This morning I was greeted by a rabbit.

He looked me up and down,
didn't bother with a hello,
judged me completely,
then hopped off
into the green jungle—

the jungle that will
soon disappear,

the jungle that provides
shade from the blistering sun,

the jungle that is also
a luxury condominium
for snakes
and other mysterious creatures
of the wild ilk.

Don't get me wrong.

Katya likes wild.

She likes birdsong,
time travel,
and trees that mind their own business.

She does not like
sharing her quiet,
her porch,
or her abode
with freeloading wildlife.

A heroine needs personal space.

How else is she supposed to create
fantastical stories—
stories of hope,
of inspiration,
stories where the heroine
or her cat
wins?

The rabbit, however,
is a terrible villain.

Sure,
he'll nibble your prize-winning flowers,
stare at you like you owe him rent,
and disappear into the shrubbery
before the HOA can identify him.

But that's where the criminal enterprise ends.

Rabbits are pets,
for crying out loud.

Mice—
now those are villains.

They eat plastic.

They poop in your kitchen drawers.

They carry viruses.

They hollow out your couch,
move into the stuffing,
and leave tiny deposits

to commemorate the occasion.

Mice are the politicians
of the animal kingdom.

They ruin your day,
promise they're gone,
then show up again
for a return engagement.

Get a cat.

Let Katya write.

Kill the mice.

Have some peace.

Remembrance in a Garden

 Remembrance in a Garden

Groundhogs
eat the daylilies,
and usually leave the dahlias.
It is a small lesson,
but important
when you're trying to grow something beautiful.

So I plant dill.
I plant basil.
I plant mint
around the edges,
a fragrant promise.

Why dill?
Why not?

We're German.
We love pickles,
the sharp comfort of memory,
the taste of summer preserved.

The heat settles in,
a heavy quilt of July,
thick with humidity—

the kind of afternoon
when they say you could fry an egg
on a country road.

Maybe bacon, too.

Happy Birthday, America.

Two hundred fifty years,
still learning,
still forgetting,
still beginning again.

I remember another anniversary—
the Bicentennial.

I was almost twenty,
certain I understood the world.
I wore my red, white, and blue dress,
danced beneath fireworks,

believing tomorrow
would keep its promises.

It was just after Watergate.
The country was bruised,
but still breathing.

Gerald Ford stood quietly
where history had left him
and offered no victory,
only healing.

"Our long national nightmare is over."

Not a boast.
A hope.

He served,
then stepped aside,
accepting both office and defeat

with uncommon grace.

His farewell was not about himself.

It was a prayer:

May God guide this wonderful country,
its people,
and those who choose to serve them.

Amen.

Now, fifty years later,
the groundhog returns,
testing the garden once again.

Still, I plant.

I tuck hope beneath the soil,
ring the borders with herbs,
believe that what survives

can bloom.

Because remembrance
is not longing for a perfect past.

It is choosing,
season after season,
to tend what is worth saving,
to gather what is good,
and to leave behind
a garden of faith
for those who come after us.