The Upstairs Neighbor

The Upstairs Neighbor

There are neighbors who pass through our lives, better forgotten—like the Russian lady who screamed at her husband all the time—and then there are neighbors like you, who become part of our foundation for life.

When I think back, the Trio Condos are almost synonymous with the name Peg Madland. We lived one floor apart, but we essentially shared a home. We heard each other's laughter and tears. We checked in after the hard nights. We celebrated the funny ones. We worried about our boys. We worried about each other. We both worried far too much, really—and we understood that about one another.

I'll never forget watching you fearlessly salsa dancing in that little hidden cantina while I stood flat against the wall, convinced we were in over our heads in a seriously dangerous place. I'll never forget how much you loved Hunter when we first moved in, or how you loved Harley, even when loving him meant letting him go. Thank goodness Boo came along. He's been a keeper, always sitting quietly beside you—even in a restaurant. Somewhere along the way, we finally learned that Hunter, Tank, and Boo were the men who truly deserved us.

Without either of us really noticing, making art became one more way we took care of each other. You dreamed up rocks for me to paint, and I loved bringing your ideas to life. I still have my favorite—the one I painted from that ridiculous picture of you with your face covered in cleanser. Every time I see it, it makes me laugh.

Of course it wasn’t all fun.

I'll never forget sitting alone in my empty condo after one of my own spectacularly bad decisions, knowing you were just upstairs. I texted you, "This hurts so bad." You wrote back, "I know." Somehow, that was all I needed.

But life changed, as it does, and it carried us to opposite sides of the state. Our boys became wonderful men, their ups and downs dutifully reported out, and our visits have become occasional instead of spontaneous.

One thing, though, has never changed.

I still treasure the beautiful sketch you made of Hunter and Tank. Every time I see it, I'm reminded that you've always seen beauty the rest of us might have missed.

When I look back on that chapter of my life, you are woven into it. Thank you for being one of the people who made those years richer, funnier, safer, kinder, and more creative than they would have been without you.

Happy Birthday, my friend. Thank you for being my upstairs neighbor. I can't imagine those years without you.

With love,

Cheryl

True Love

Every once in a while, In my mind, I roll over and touch a good memory of you just to make sure it’s still there. I gently probe around our tragedy, just to make sure of its honesty. And satisfied, I roll back over to now and feel grateful for the experiments in this life, which is all any of us can claim to be.

Processing

I give rock offerings to the gods

as I dance away from the Prehistoric Predators, happy that

these prison guards have no power over my scratchings on rocks.

No data, no goals, no mission and vision statement.

I bless the patrons with my smooth rocks and hope they will be my Pardoners.

And as I tiptoe through alleys and quiet streets, I drop offerings to show I do not hate.

People of my town, won't you please pardon me for being myself?

Cray 2022

These are rocks that Heidi Otis and I decorated for Dachshund on Parade, June 18th in Ellensburg.

On Being a Woman

Just a thought—Sanitary napkins aren’t very sanitary, are they? They are super gross. A big, thick bunch of paper product wadded up between the sweaty thighs of a menstruater. Ew. Blood gushing out. She can feel it as it leaves her vagina! Right there in front of everyone. It kind of goes…PloP…but she reminds herself there is no need to panic. She has no tampons in, so it’s not a leak, it’s just an earth shattering ‘PloP’. The thick lining of her uterus, devoid of its purpose, removes itself—PloP right into the awaiting sanitary napkin— in front of everyone.

She suspects there’s a smell, too, from the extra attention she’s catching from the boys. "No Big Deal", says the tampon commercial as the bikini clad teen frolics about joyfully.

To accept the bloody wad, she sometimes imagines she’s riding bareback or with a saddle-pad put there expressly to catch the rotted lining of her uterus. But no. She’s just walking down the hall, thinking that it’s time to use a tampon.

A tampon.

Someday she will stick a wad of dry white cloth up there instead. Or use a pretty pink plastic tool meant to shoot it up there painlessly…bearing teeth that will bite if her aim and touch is off.

Then, she has learned that if she feels that PloP, she will know for sure there is blood running down her leg, reminding her for better or worse that she has not made a baby this month.

These two rocks depict her cycle and her visitor.

Aunt Flo visited every 28 days which she either hated or appreciated deeply. It was never ‘no big deal’ like she said. It was an emotional and physical event that happened in broad daylight, her power and her handicap. Like a magic fairy, taking a shit in public.