Tongue in Cheek

Guest Blogger: My brother Mathew Amaro

The secluded path on campus, near the creek, was dark that February afternoon. The recent storm was on its way North.

I caught a glimpse of her eyes among the Sycamores. Moving closer I wanted to know what had happened to her body. Where were her clothes?

Kneeling I extracted the remains that revealed a portrait of a woman with coal black hair the shape of fire.

Those eyes told the truth. Mystery is intriguing...

Photo: My brother Mathew found this painting on campus at Chico State- a mysterious subject by a mysterious artist. He told me, "When I saw it I knew it had to go on your blog." When I asked him why, he replied, "Because it tells part of a story and goes with the theme of this month...buried past uncovered."

What colors have painted your portrait?

Text by Mathew Amaro.

The Heart

                

The voice of compassion speaks from a wounded heart. The heart that knows the price of love. The one that understands that love does not need to be perfect to be good.

The art of healing love....

photo: A wooden heart stapled back together. The red faded coat has weathered time since being mended.

Out of the Mouth of Babes

                     

My brother's four year old daughter was playing by his side while he was tinkering in his shop. At one point he accidentally dropped something on his finger. He bite his tongue trying not to spill out the familiar swear words in front of his daughter. Instead he moaned and groaned, blabbering nonsense. His daughter trying to be helpful tugged at his sleeve and offered, "Daddy I think the word you are looking for is Damn-it. Say Damn-it, Daddy and you'll feel better." My brother really groaned after that.

Photo: My niece covering her mouth.

The Back Door

                      

The back door is the front door in my childhood home. Everyone uses it except people who are selling something, or those coming to talk about religion.

The back door is a screen door. Painted red with a gold colored handle, that is worn down to silver and shines like a beckon.

The back door is a simple door where you enter without knocking, and walk straight to the kitchen.

The back door is a key leading me to a rush of memories. It opens wide, lets me dive in, and swim in a pool of goodness.

There is no place like home.

Hen and Chickens

                                     

Do certain things remind you of someone? Hen and Chickens remind me of my Mom.

Hen and Chickens, with its feathers reaching out, and its heart wide open.

It is good to be home.

photo taken in my Mother's garden.

Family Affair

                     

Yesterday I called home to confirm to my parents our flight information. My little nieces and nephew where there. I had already bought gifts for them, but I thought I'd ask anyway what they might like me to bring.

Chelsea said, "Mommy, why did you ask them what they wanted? When are you going to find the time to buy these things. What if you don't find what they want? Mommy, you do remember we leave tomorrow?"

My daughter thinks before she acts. I've said she should have been the Mom.

                             

My niece Gina (8) simply asked for a fancy doll to put on her shelf. "As in breakable?" I asked. I love carry-ons. Especially fragile, odd shape ones.

                      

Gina told me that Marie (8) wasn't there to say what she'd like. I asked her if she had any ideas. Gina said, "Sure I do, Clothes! Something sweet and pink. But not fou fou Aunt Corey."

                            

Next came May-May (6), she told me she wanted a horse. "A HORSE! How am I going to stuff a real horse in my suitcase?" She reassured me, "Silly Aunt Corey. It doesn't have to be real. Just soft and blue."

"Blue?"

"Soft and blue."

                            

George (4) my Godchild, asked for Spider Man. "Hum. That is going to be a challenge. Tell me if I can't find Spider Man, will Superman, or Snoopy, or Mickey Mouse do the job?"

"No not really." He replied. "I like Spider Man."

Hum, Chelsea was right.

                           

Molly (4) thought the longest. After awhile she said, "I cannot make up my mind. I'm going to tell you two things and you can surprise me. I'd like a seashell and Jesus."

Oh God help me. We leave today.

Photos from last summer.

Le Train Bleu. A Tale of Romance.

The table was set. Crystal clear and inviting.

He had ordered her favorite flowers. Pink and delicate like her lips.

His coat...her hat, the details fell into place.

Her bare leg teased him. "Only red shoes worn underneath my dress."

The napkin unfolded, he held his dessert.

The waiter was not part of his plan.

Every picture tells a story. How does this one end?

Photo: A watercolor for sale at the local French antique shop down the road.

Le Train Bleu

Above the train tracks of Gare de Lyon sits one of my favorite places in Paris. Le Train Bleu. It is a tradition of ours to have a drink there when arriving from the south of France.

Le Train Blue has an amazing history. But I like to dream-- That the only train going from Paris to the mediterrianne's blue coastline, is called "The Blue Train" and not PML or TGV.

Both the train and the restaurant take you to an enchanting place to dream.

Once inside you are struck with its fascinating display of art. The entire ceiling is sculpted and romantically painted. Entering Le Train Bleu is like stepping back into the belle epoque.

With its captivating history surrounding you, it is easy to miss your train while waiting inside.

Imagine April in Paris...do you want to meet me for tea?

Photos: Le Train Bleu, Paris.

Life's Dance

               

After John's death life seem to spin in a different circle. Questioning the the meaning of life became my new past time, along with spewing angry words at God. I felt lost in a very dark cave called depression.

As time went by my friends and family tried to set me up with dates. They had good intentions trying to find me love and happiness. But I wasn't in the mood for falling in love. It was a risky business that love thing. Death seemed to lurk behind the eyes of those I met. Maybe I was bad luck, maybe they would die on me too? Fear became my new best friend, and it sat by my side unbecomingly.

In response to those who encouraged me to date again I would tell them, "When the time is right someone will walk up to me unexpectedly and tell me his name is John. That will be my sign."

I honestly believed my chances were next to none and it suited me fine.

So imagine how shocked I was when dancing at the I-BEAM that a young, handsome man danced by my side. I-Beam was a place a woman could dance unnoticed for eternity, it was a gay club. What was this guy doing dancing by me? Gee, couldn't he tell I was a woman? His flirtation was blatant causing me to blush. Nervous and caught off guard by my feelings of attraction I decide to leave the dance floor. He tapped my shoulder. A rush of warmth went through me causing my friend Fear to melt. He said in broken English, "My...name...Yann." I repeated, "Yawn?" His next words changed my world. He said,

"Yann...is John in French."

Photo: Part of a 17th century hutch door, carved in walnut, at Chateau de Chenonceau.

In Loving Memory of John.

                  

I was downstairs,

when I heard a heavy thump,

from upstairs.

A dull silence filled the space in between.

I called your name,

silence spoke hauntingly.

Walking upstairs,

I was afraid that you would jump out from behind a door,

and scare me.

Whispering cautiously, "John don't... "

Through the doorway I saw you,

laying on the floor,

with a look that screamed agony.

Louder than the pounding of my heart,

the double edge sword pierced,

I had to go find help,

but in going you might die alone.

Time stood still.

Eternity raced forward,

my feet carried me,

my heart stayed by your side.

Later I would remember feeling your hand letting go of mine,

putting my head to your chest hoping to hear that familiar song,

receiving a silent answer.

Finding prayers that I knew by heart,

not coming to my lips.

On my face,

feeling tears from heaven,

knowing that God cried,

with me,

gave comfort as,

I witnessed your death.

Nothing in my life,

taught me more,

then on this day many years ago.

John was 24 when he died of a massive asthmatic attack.

Photo: Stone stairway in Chateau de Chenonceau.