Monday, October 25, 2010

Week 7

When the Birds Stop Singing

Two little zebra finches perched in their pen atop of my piano; they chittered and chattered and sung to their little hearts content. I’d relax into the silence of the night and allow them to invade my thoughts - bringing natural music into my world.

***

At Mary’s party, Lisa and I tied our ankles together and walked around the house like Siamese twins joined at the hip; we danced, chatted and sung our hearts out. She sang mostly country; Shania Twain, Reba, and Susie Bogus. I believe she would have enjoyed the Dixie Chicks - especially, “Goodbye Earl”.

***

Lisa Jean Lounder, born and raised in Hancock, Maine. November 1976.

***

Thirteen going on twenty-one, playing happily in her little pen, we stayed up late making prank calls and playing “Rock ‘Em Sock ‘Em” till her mother barged into her bedroom, groggy and rubbing her eyes saying, “Cut that racket out!”. We apologized until her mom closed the door, burst into laughter and after three more prank calls to our Freshman gym teacher we drifted off into dream land (with visions of Sophomore boys dancing in our heads).

***

An overdose of pills in fifth grade, slashed wrists in seventh grade, alcohol poisoning her Freshman year, raped her Sophomore year, overdose of prescription meds Junior year and a head on collision with a telephone pole her Senior year; Lisa was lucky to be alive. I sat with her on the floor of the trailer her and Jeff were renting - their very first place on their own after moving out of their parent’s houses. Positioned in my lap, I wrapped my legs over hers around her waste and my arms around her shoulders holding her the best I could; trying like crazy to soothe her as she spazzed out. She thrashed, kicked, dug, head butted, and attempted ever possible maneuver she could to escape my grasp - the loaded gun I knocked from her when I walked through the door was only a few feet in front of us. We started to sing together…like the little birds who sing sweet lullabies and she calmed.

***

Standing 5’4, weight fluctuating from 98 to 140, hair color and style changing as often as the seasons, she stood looking in the steamed mirror. A quick swipe of her hand revealed her reflection; wearing a baby blue polka dotted bra and her Pizza hut workpants she burst into tears and smashed her palm against the mirror, screaming, “I’ll never look right! Never!” Reacting like a little Finch caged, thrashing her wings against the little bars; she freaked out. Running late for work, less then 10 minutes to get there, she tore off her clothes and jumped in the shower again; I stood frozen in the doorway. Fifteen minutes and a loud thud later; I turned off the scorching shower, picked her up out of the tub and carried her to her bedroom and made the familiar call into her workplace.

***

She had every Cabbage Patch doll there was; her father made sure of it. They were lined all around her bedroom, still in their boxes. Her closet was full of clothes that still had tags on them, that she would donate to kids at school that did not have much. When her father walked into the room, she would say, “daddy” and he would just smile at her and ask us how we were doing. If she could have flown to his shoulder and perched there she would have accepted any cracker he offered - tweeting till twilight.

***

A little spitfire, she once attacked a man a foot and a half taller then her to defend her friend; knocked him backwards right into a wood stove! People learned not to poke their fingers in her cage, she wasn’t afraid to peck. She jumped out of a moving car to step between her best bud and a baseball bat, and she sat swinging on a swing for countless hours with her little brother who was not yet cancer free.

***

Lisa Jean Lounder. Survived by her two parents, her two brothers, her boyfriend, and a friend who will never forget her; drove into the sea at Lamoine Beach on a cold evening in October, 1998. Her car was fifteen feet off the shore - her body floated from Lamoine to Hulls Cove where it was found the following day…the day the birds stopped singing.

2 comments:

  1. Whew, bingo! That's the real deal. It's all working here, the woven in metaphor, the cage, the birds, the music, the vignettes, the bio information, the friend, the use of first and third person, all of it.

    Writing this good makes me happy to be here.

    Writing like this also reminds me that writers always will feel survivors' guilt--here we are walking around, telling tales of those who are not here. But the guilt is assuaged when we know that our writing does them honor--as does this piece.

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  2. Ever notice, I did as I thought about who I wanted to write about for this one, that it is almost harder to write about the people who are still alive who mean the world to you.

    I originally thought of writing about a family member who is still alive, born normal, abused, and now suffers as an adult with perm. brain damage due to the abuse as a baby...but I did not have enough details to make it work the way I wanted.

    Then I thought, I wanted to honor mum and write about her. She still alive and is like the most important person ever to me...but each time I started it just didn't feel good enough...

    How odd.

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