Mona Mehas

The Move

I moved from a 2-bedroom apartment to a 1-bedroom in the same complex. It's only about a block or so away. That was Friday. My mail was supposed to be transferred that day; however, on Friday and Saturday, I got mail at my old address.

Friday evening and Saturday were spent messing around with trying to set up the internet and starting to unpack. Sunday, I got a little more done, but it showed me how much more there is to do.

Monday:

I'm partially unpacked and thoroughly exhausted. The first day, I went to bed at 8 pm, which is totally unheard of for me. I'm trying to get more done every day, but my body is slowing down, and I can do nothing about it. And this heat is so oppressive! When I go out to the dumpster or even my car, it feels like a million degrees out there!

The internet is working, but it took them two tries to get it hooked up correctly. Initially, I agreed to pay for a tech to come out on Friday, but when it died and a second tech had to return on Saturday - well, now I want that refunded. Waiting for a call-back from them, and now to the boxes…

Saturday:

It's been eight days since my move. My body is exhausted. Most boxes are unpacked, but I can't find certain things, and frankly, I'm too tired to care. I'll find them eventually.

Still missing:

Some of my windchimes

The lights I bought for my patio

Hummingbird feeder

My make-up

The $100 fee for internet. (They won't refund it)

I wrote a poem today. That's the first thing I've written in over two weeks, maybe 3.

I'm still not getting mail here except for things I ordered with this address.

I've listed five folding card tables for sale on NextDoor, but no bites yet.

I could ramble on about my move all day, but that's just a way to put off the inevitable, so back to work!

The Indiana Poetry Society had an opportunity to wrote for a few pieces of art in Kokomo Indiana. My piece stirred me immediately to write this prose poem. 

 

Grandmother's Arms

 

They put my grandmother in a bottle because her hugs were too fierce. Her hugs sometimes spanned days and nights. I'd try to escape her grasp to catch the bus for school, but she held me closer, not wanting to let go. When she fell asleep, her grip loosened. Any child in her arms slithered away, but when her arms were empty, she jerked awake crying. Her cries were so loud she woke the neighbors for miles around. The town folk voted against Grandmother's hugs and sentenced her to the bottle. The constable escorted her there himself, barely escaping a hug when he squeezed her in through the long, slender neck. Though it was decorative and well-furnished, she was lonely. She wailed all hours, calling children to her bottle. I led the way to the constable's office. We'd come up with a plan. If Grandmother were allowed to visit with us, she wouldn't cry and disturb the community. We promised not to break her out. The constable had one condition. That is how my grandmother lost her loving arms. She closed her eyes and allowed the town doctor to remove them, the arms that had held me not so long before. With her arms gone, the loose sleeves wrapped around her chest, her hair grew extensions. Grandmother slipped through the bottle's neck, and I leaned against her, the straw-like hair brushing my shoulders, lulling me to sleep.

 

Mona Mehas (image copied with permission of the artist)

On display August 2023 at Kokomo Artworks, Kokomo Indiana with art by Lisa Freeland (Royal Emerald of the Royal Bitches) Bottle Art. LmFreeland Creations. www.mybaublesjar.com