“CONNOTATIONS OF PERCEPTIONS”

“CONNOTATIONS OF PERCEPTIONS”

“OLD OR YOUNG OR HUMAN”

I look back over my shoulders,

Throw a grain of salt,

Over my boulders of shoulders

People have connotations,

OF PERCEPTIONS,

Of life,

Of youth,

Of middle life,

Of old life,

As an older woman of seventy-five

I strive,

To color my hair,

Either pink, purple, green, or bright streaks

Of blue and red

Atop the hair on my head.

I am an artist,

Slightly eccentric and unique

As I speak

I love music.

I love writing.

I love movies.

I love art.

And to that I fart

A big smelly one

Under the sun

I never was conventional,

Nor conservative per say.

So here I am today,

Defending who I am as a human,

Consuming

Microwave food

That is exceptionally good.

I do not knit,

Because I never did

I am not a good cook,

Because it is not my forte.

For sure

I type,

I write,

I smile at the flowers of the earth.

There are certain people in my life,

Who out of their strife

Wish I was more subtle,

More old acting in dress

And stress

I need to cut my hair short,

Dress in older conservative style

While all the while

They do not do that.

They want me to bake cookies,

And cakes and shakes.

I can cook a meal.

It is a deal.

They can stop by

I will wear a short grey wig,

Buy a dress like my grandma wore in 1950.

Buy a pair of shoes to tie the laces like 1920.

So, I will bake your cookies,

And a cake

For Christ’s sake.

Come in and sit a spell.

All is well.

They turned the TV on FOX

Talking about guys cocks

Of lies,

I sigh.

I tell them, “Turn it off now or goodbye!”

I turn on music from 1922,

Just for you

My king and queen of totalitarian oblivion

As you stare at me

I yank off my grey wig,

With my pink hair flowing down my back

I open a sack of pan dulce.

I place two conchos on two plates.

I hand them to you to eat,

As I see your necks pulsate

You yell at me,

“See this is why we ignore you. You will never be who we want you to be.”

I offer you both a cup of mushroom coffee,

Add vanilla creamer to savor the flavor.

You sat there staring,

Your face turning red from anger.

I look at you both,

“I know you think I cannot love my kids or grands because I have long curly pink hair and wear BOHO dress and such.

I can hug.

I can love.

I can write.

I can draw.

I can sing.

I can be me.

Because you see

I accept you both.

I love you both with unconditional love

From above

I can paint,

But I am not a saint.

However, I cannot change who I am as an artist per say,

Not today

The look on your faces of such relief when I opened the door

To say hello

You looked at me,

Complimenting me

Telling me how you loved my new looks

Of short grey hair.

You love the looks of me knitting,

Baking cookies and cakes.

Now I will ask you to leave my house,

Being as quiet as a mouse.”

Then I closed the door, sighed.

Omg finally I told them off after 8 years of their narcissistic whims

Of their connotations,

Expectations,

And their beliefs of perceptions

Of how they could accept me

If only I gave into their whims,

And became another human scheme of a being.

I did not cry.

I do not know why.

I felt relief not grief.

I walked into the kitchen to get a pan dulce concho.

Slapped a teaspoon of butter on it,

Heated it in the microwave,

To behave

Normally sane.

As I sat on my sofa

With a fork cutting into my pan dulce concho,

Tasting the soft warm icing and the soft concho with melted butter oozing out onto the plate.

This is my fate.

I turned on YouTube,

To my favorite news show

Medias Touch.

I told Alexa to play thunderstorm music,

Then I lay down on the sofa,

Lit a doobie and told myself,

To get a grip

An hour later

My cell rang loudly.

I answered, “Hello!”

The voice on the other end

Around the bend

Said, “We are so sorry Mom. We love your pink hair, your boho clothes, and it's okay to light up your doobie.”

The doorbell rang.

I answered it sanely.

It was the two people who just called me to say they were sorry for how they treated me.

I was, “Hey guys, come on in

Sit a spell.

I will play you a tune.

All will be well.”

They hugged.

They lived happily ever after

And beyond

Into hugs, kisses, conchos and

Coffee and cream

Schemes

Of love and hugs and love

Not hate.

Peace out!

Written by

Vicki Lawana Trusselli

AUGUST 10, 2024

This a partly truth

Partly fiction content

of the scenario

of characters aloof

to end with hugs

and unconditional love!