That feeling of walking alone into the cafeteria,

that pit in your stomach as you assess the scene,

the icy dread that no seat will open up for you.

You mold the putty of your self as best you can,

trying to fit in, not realizing that fitting in

is the opposite of belonging, that the cool you so

desperately strive for is just another wall

keeping you from truly connecting. You grip your tray,

carefully align your mask so you can see out,

but no-one can see in. You will learn.

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From when I was little, crowds have made me anxious. The press of people, the noise. I was a shy kid, and an introvert.

The one time we went to the circus — I must have been 6 — a pretty girl offered me a plastic hat and a chance to ride an elephant, but I shook my head, even after many attempts to convince me. Not a risk-taker, this one, so I missed my opportunity. When all the braver kids came dancing out at the end of the show, I regretted my caution.

I didn’t get a plastic hat, either.

[scs_alt]

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You’d think an 80-pound German Shepherd pup would lord it over a 10-pound cat, but the first time Hausen encountered that ginger tabby, he was so startled he did a backwards somersault trying to back away.

Later, in the yard, an orange streak terrorized the big, black dog in a dash across the lawn.

Once it was established who was boss, though, the two got on famously. Hausen would groom his little head, his back, with those tiny front teeth, and the cat would curl up for a doze between his big paws.

[scs_alt]

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That week on the houseboat,

my Grandma’s last trip with us

before her neural connections

completely surrendered to Alzheimer’s.

We picked blackberries

from a flotilla of rafts,

strung together with ropes,

and Grandma baked a pie.

The consummate baker and cook,

I remember her embarrassed laugh

when we tasted it

and our mouths puckered up —

she’d forgotten the sugar.

Mom sprinkled sugar on top of our

oozing slices,

still steaming from the oven.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said.

But we knew it was.

[scs_alt]

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You know that feeling

when you just

click with someone?

You meet at a party

and can’t stop talking,

feel as if you must have

known this person

in a past life?

You start counting time as

Before So-and-So,

or After So-and-So,

because life changes somehow,

now that they are in it.

I felt that way

when I met my first husband,

and when we divorced

I kept looking

for the next man who’d elicit

that feeling.

Surely that was the gauge!

But no.

That instant connection

turns out to be seductive,

but deceptive.

Who knew?

[scs_alt]

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