Squeeze Frame definition: Mentally and/or physically altering an image, smell, or sound so that it becomes a conduit for reminiscence.
A FRIEND -
At an evening church concert we sit behind a guy with big ears.
While my wife hums and previews the performance’s program, I count the hairs sprouting from his lobes.
His bald head is shaped like a giant meat ball without the sauce.
I stare intently at the stranger’s head because there’s a familiar uniqueness about it.
As I slowly close my eyes, my dead friend gradually morphs into focus in front of me.
Using filtered eyesight, I watch his head sway in rhythm to the choir music.
Echoes from nasal breathing and wispy swallows rekindle forgotten memories of Jim.
I imagine I can even smell his familiar musky odor.
Squeezing my eyes tight, I leap aboard the memory train - little league teammates , double dating teens, college beer buddies, weddings, promotions, family vacations, and death.
Being with Jim again comforts me.
As the choir sings the closing hallelujah chorus, I gradually open my eyes , wipe tears from my cheek and grin from within.
DAD -
The old guy, candle-wick thin and pipe puffing, is pulled back and forth by the mower across his weed free lawn.
I glance, turn away, and glance again at my neighbor, each time intentionally blurring reality to create visions of my dead father.
Daddy too always had a pipe in his mouth, was paper skinny, and wore a similar straw hat when working in his yard.
Tightening my eyes, I flip through father and son memory pages, stopping at dog-eared moments and mind videos from yesterday.
He migrated from the Arkansas Ozark Mountains to the great Central Valley of California.
Dad drove a tractor, smoked Camel cigarettes, ingested herbicide poisons, and raised a family for forty years.
I recall his hacking cough, calloused hands, and conversations we both thought but never said.
My remembrances are sprinkled with a son’s pride and guilt, but no matter how many times I replay memory movies of dad and me, they are mute.
FOREVER YOUNG -
Teenagers cluster outside Del's Hamburger Haven.
Noon time, greasy burger smells, and hormone rituals
beckon the adolescents to gather here each school day
(teasing, flirting, cussing, touching, smoking).
Most of the adult customers notice their presence but ignore their existence.
While eating and gossiping, a few AARP retirees discretely sneak peeks at the teen tribe. Nostalgia memories tug at their hearts - high school pals, first loves, jet fuel energy.
For us old voyeurs, the fuse of burger and fries, the sound of uncontrollable laughter, and a nearness to this aura of the young, ignites a reminder that life is most joyful when one doesn't know any better.
COMMENTS: The gift of memory haunts most of us. When younger, I might shy away from moments of recollection. With age, I have learned to appreciate and embrace these magical times.
MACARONI and ROSES
I hand the clerk a crumbled ten for a dozen roses Dad places refund bottle coins on the counter for macaroni We’re silent as the roses and macaroni move along the conveyor belt Using the remaining change we share a single cup of coffee scan discarded newspapers then leave the store with flowers and dinner We walk past the history museum idle factories shuttered houses abandoned schools At the cemetery entrance crows and jays herald our weekly arrival to the military section of the dead We search for wordless markers and sunken dirt ignoring headstones bearing names dates scripture Shedding no tears saying no prayers we take turns placing a single rose on the forgotten soldiers Shadows lengthen toward the setting sun as we head for our tent city home Along the way we collect bottles and cans.
COMMENTS: In my hometown, we have a wonderful historical cemetery on a hill that overlooks the village. It's always a very sobering experience to walk among the graves, stop on occasion to read headstones, and try to imagine what life had been like for the person. One day while waiting in line at the local market, I noticed a father and son buying a small bouquet and a box of macaroni. They drove off in a rusty old station wagon in the general direction of the cemetery and thus this poem began to take seed.
STARBUCK SANTA
I saw Santa Claus at Starbucks.
He was rotund,
wore dirty layered clothes,
reeked of sweaty vomit.
Between rasping breaths
he wiped drool and snot onto his red shirt sleeve.
Santa sat near the door,
extending his shivering hand to exiting latte customers -
he begged.
Coffee connoisseurs were deaf and blind in his presence.
Wearing voyeur sunglasses and sipping eggnog coffee,
I just sat and watched Santa plead for food.
Others were doing the same.
I lingered on the fringes of indecision.
A departing green haired, pants-below-the-waist, tattooed, pierced teenager left Starbucks while balancing three cups of java.
Five minutes later he returned, went directly to the counter, and came back to Santa with gifts of coffee and croissants.
I watched as he gently touched the old man and heard him whisper,
“Merry Christmas and thanks for all the toys when I was a kid.”
A collective silence was inhaled among us remaining customers.