File #991: "Mosaic_Spring2008_11.jpg"
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completion in sight for day's end. As I gave direction, they worked for a few minutes, and then talked more. My frustration built as steam in a kettle. Finally, I told all three to take a break. I would finish it. As I worked, my frustration grew to tearful disappointment knowing my lack of leadership would disappoint Rhudy.
"WILSON! WHAT THE HELL IS GOIN' ON?" he screamed. Faded, half-naked hula girls danced on his massive forearms as he ges- tured. "WHERE ARE THE MEN?" As I stammered an answer, he stopped me cold. "GIT YOUR ASS DOWN TO MY OFFICE!" He turned and stomped off with me in tow. My head drooping to the ground, I was barely able to contain the pooling lakes forming behind my eyes knowing I had let this man down.
"Sit down there," he said kicking his boot at the chair beside his desk.
"Boats, I'm just not cut out for this," I choked back tears.
"Son, look at me," his voice calming the heat behind my cheeks and in my temples.
I raised my eyes to gaze into his. The chasmed lines cornering his eyes turned to caverns as his cheeks grew broad into the smile of a knowing father. I studied his face for a moment. I noticed for the first time the pockmarks from the deformation of teenage acne, and his an- gled, hooked nose looked out of place in the roundness of his deep, red face.
“Son, do you have any idea why you came to my division?"
"I thought you were short one third class petty officer," I stam- mered as my tension eased.
"Well, that's kinda true, but really, I wanted ya over here. You're a good petty officer. I saw the makin's in ya as we became friends. Don't ever let anyone tell ya different. I seen it from the first. Ya just need developin' to believe in yourself." I couldn't believe what I heard. I thought my ass was going to be five sizes smaller after that trip to his office.
“Go and clean up your area and knock off the rest of the day; we've got drinkin' to do. Ya work hard; ya play hard," he said with a gleam.
Rhudy and I spent many evenings in deep conversation about his childhood, my childhood, and many other things no longer tipping my memory. I lost touch with him a year or so after I left that command for civilian life. I don't know who stopped writing first. Though we no longer have our nightly conversations, his words chiseled themselves forever in my reflections.
Ode to a Zipper
Megan M. Shaw
Up, down, connecting two worlds
I sink my teeth into myself
Feel the coolness
Taste the sharpness
The whiff of the outdoors is in my nostrils
The sheep's wool is my blanket
Wrapping around me on a cold winter night
Frustrated, I climb my metal ladder
To the place where I can find my rest
Lying there, content in my success
I look down to where I began my journey
Then suddenly I fall, no wait, am pulled, torn C
lenching my teeth, I try to hold on
But the drawing is too great
The sharp, bitter taste stings my tongue
To my release I fall, broken apart
Grasping for my other half
I have lost myself, my purpose
Crumbled in a shadowed corner, I lie forgotten
So I simply wait until the air blows cold again
"WILSON! WHAT THE HELL IS GOIN' ON?" he screamed. Faded, half-naked hula girls danced on his massive forearms as he ges- tured. "WHERE ARE THE MEN?" As I stammered an answer, he stopped me cold. "GIT YOUR ASS DOWN TO MY OFFICE!" He turned and stomped off with me in tow. My head drooping to the ground, I was barely able to contain the pooling lakes forming behind my eyes knowing I had let this man down.
"Sit down there," he said kicking his boot at the chair beside his desk.
"Boats, I'm just not cut out for this," I choked back tears.
"Son, look at me," his voice calming the heat behind my cheeks and in my temples.
I raised my eyes to gaze into his. The chasmed lines cornering his eyes turned to caverns as his cheeks grew broad into the smile of a knowing father. I studied his face for a moment. I noticed for the first time the pockmarks from the deformation of teenage acne, and his an- gled, hooked nose looked out of place in the roundness of his deep, red face.
“Son, do you have any idea why you came to my division?"
"I thought you were short one third class petty officer," I stam- mered as my tension eased.
"Well, that's kinda true, but really, I wanted ya over here. You're a good petty officer. I saw the makin's in ya as we became friends. Don't ever let anyone tell ya different. I seen it from the first. Ya just need developin' to believe in yourself." I couldn't believe what I heard. I thought my ass was going to be five sizes smaller after that trip to his office.
“Go and clean up your area and knock off the rest of the day; we've got drinkin' to do. Ya work hard; ya play hard," he said with a gleam.
Rhudy and I spent many evenings in deep conversation about his childhood, my childhood, and many other things no longer tipping my memory. I lost touch with him a year or so after I left that command for civilian life. I don't know who stopped writing first. Though we no longer have our nightly conversations, his words chiseled themselves forever in my reflections.
Ode to a Zipper
Megan M. Shaw
Up, down, connecting two worlds
I sink my teeth into myself
Feel the coolness
Taste the sharpness
The whiff of the outdoors is in my nostrils
The sheep's wool is my blanket
Wrapping around me on a cold winter night
Frustrated, I climb my metal ladder
To the place where I can find my rest
Lying there, content in my success
I look down to where I began my journey
Then suddenly I fall, no wait, am pulled, torn C
lenching my teeth, I try to hold on
But the drawing is too great
The sharp, bitter taste stings my tongue
To my release I fall, broken apart
Grasping for my other half
I have lost myself, my purpose
Crumbled in a shadowed corner, I lie forgotten
So I simply wait until the air blows cold again