Stone from the Grave of the Father… and Feeling the Love and Smiling

Last year, while I was very sick and my back and left hip were being a bastard(ish) duet, I spent a lot of time in physical therapy, occupational therapy, and other special therapies schools. I was the youngest person in almost every class… and the most talkative… and most cackly, too. When the pain was at its nastiest, making bad jokes and laughing truly helped. But nothing was as effective (at the art of dealing with pain) as finding ways to help other people ignore their own agony for a bit.

I haven’t seen any of the people I went to therapy with since last spring. So I was more than surprised when I received a box from Robin, a stroke survivor. She was in therapy in order to relearn how to use her extremities. Her case was particularly difficult because she was a metal worker, something that involved precise use of her hands. One day, we were exercising side by side—she worked her fingers by sculpting a dragonfly out of something that looked like playdough and I wrote on a standing desk (to see if my shoulder, back and hip alignment could handle the stress). After a short while, my bad shoulder and arm began to shake. I kept on writing…

“If your body is complaining that much,” Robin said, “you should stop.”

“Not yet,” I told her. “I’m going to beat my old time record of 47 seconds, become a crippled handwriting champion, and make this bastard shoulder my bitch.”

Robin laughed. Her mirth echoed through the physical therapy room. The wonderful sound gave me a boost, and I wrote for nearly a minute without stopping.

We continued exercising together, moving through the different machines and stretching stations as a pair. Robin told me about her stroke, how she felt useless at first, how the process of getting better made her “feel like she was dying…” But after some time, she started to feed on what she had left—her love for her work, her expertise, her obstinacy—and was now working on giving birth to herself.

“I might have to steal your words and your healing approach,” I said. And I did. If a 62-year-old woman could reclaim her Self, from the claws of pain, then so could I.

A few days after that, I wrote “Wet Dragonfly Wings” and gave it to Robin.

More than a year has gone by… But earlier today, I got home from the hospital to a package from Robin. It contained a silver picture frame—decorated with dragonfly wings and flowers—a golden pencil holder, and four pairs of fantastic socks.

I was rather happy when I got home, since my doctors told me that my gut and bones are getting better… but Robin’s gifts multiplied my joy. And because the Universe felt that my witchy self should be even happier, I also received a chest and two jars I purchased from Eliora, plus a tote and sweet little witch I won from a giveaway hosted by Tales of a Needle and Thread.

Are you wondering about the first bit of my title, my Wicked Luvs? Well, that part was inspired by a gift that makes me grin every time I look at it. Some weeks ago, my friend Esther went to Edinburgh to present a paper. Because she loves the Harry Potter books as much as I do, she brought me a stone from the grave of Thomas Riddell, the real person “believed to have inspired” the name of the character in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter Series. So there you have it, I have a stone, “from the [grave of the] father, unwillingly given”. Bwahahaha! *cough, cough, cough* Ha!

1* picture frame, refurbished by Robin
* the darkest of the two stones is from Esther

2* pencil holder, also refurbished by Robin

3* yummy socks, from Robin (I asked her if I could share one of the “Wicked” pairs with a wonderful lady who loves purple. She say “Of course!” They are on their way to said lady)

4* chest and jars by Eliora (can’t wait to tell you what I’m doing with the wee jars)

5* my tote, witch and chocolates from Tales of a Needle and Thread (thank you, Kerry!)

6* say hello to my little witch 😀

Magaly Guerrero- Nov 13* now say “Hey, sexy!” to the Wickedest Witchy Writer of Them All

In a world that seems completely rotten with meanness, ridiculous bickering and all sorts of pain-causing nonsense, there will always be a person (or 13) who takes the time to give (love, things, time, an ear…) to others. And that, my Wicked Luvs, is the reason why I always try to blog about what I’m given and the things people do for me (when they don’t have to): we need to remind each other that there are people who don’t suck.

Weirdest

Old Mother cooled
at moonrise.

I licked her paws
and her snout, but
her bark didn’t rumble,
she didn’t bare teeth.

I howled in her ear
and whined like a kit,
but she never warmed.

.
Vixen arrived
with the ice.

I let her sniff and lie—
the home was big.
But when Vixen neared
Old Mother, I barked
from a low crouch and
got ready to pounce.

“Weird,” she said,
backing away from us,
“every skulk has its Weird.”

.
Old Mother’s kin crept in
with the warm rains.

“Weird,” Vixen barked,
“there’s man by the water.
With loud firestick
and help of fur traitor.
We’ve to run!”

“Home,” I said to Vixen,
glancing at the dead leaves
covering Old Mother’s bones.
“Home, I defend. We fight?”

“For cold bones and dirt?”
Vixen shook her head
and ran off.

.
After barks and growls
pounded into the home,
I pressed one eye
to a big gap in the door.
A black and white dog
lay unmoving
in Old Mother’s
oaks and weeds;
Vixen—bloodied
from muzzled to belly—
whined and trembled
under man’s firestick.

I didn’t think,
just rushed through the gap
and leapt for man’s throat.

While in midair,
fire exploded in
one of my hind paws,
right before I sank teeth
into man’s flesh.

.
Now, bleeding from a leg stump,
all mangled flesh and broken bone,
I chewed on killer-weeds
and invited Gaia’s last dark.

.
Light and warmth
awakened my eyes,
shock and mirth
made my body rise,
for a leg of Old Mother’s oak
had been added to my might—

Old Gaia blessed her
weirdest.

.
linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, Tuesday Platform

Inspired by “Weirdest”, the winner of Expanding Wee Bits of Dark Fiction and Poetry, 5; the original poem was inspired by a drawing in Jeremy A. Bastian’s Discordia (yes, my Luvs, inspiration seems to be running wild around this parts *cough, cough, cough*).

Fox Drawing (detail), by Jeremy A. Bastian
– detail from a fox drawing in Jeremy A. Bastian’s Discordia (see full image HERE)