Death Throws

Deep breaths.  I draw in air through my nose and then let it seep out past my lips.  As it goes I hear a moan that hurts to realize is my own.

Is it even possible to simply consider the death of a parent in any way other than painfully?  If we are lucky we won't have to observe it with our own eyes.  We'd count ourselves fortunate to receive a call in the middle of the night notifying us that they were just simply...gone.  That'd be easy, albeit still fraught with pain.  But then wouldn't the guilt of missing such an event still overwhelm us to the point of misery? Who should bare witness to such a thing if not the child whose life is owed to the dying?  Hell, I don't know.  Better men than me have certainly pondered and debated these subjects for years to no better avail than the one I sit here writing about now. This was a man who I can't remember in my life for blocks at a time.  Not moments...blocks.  Yet his passing was no less difficult for it.  He may have felt like a stranger to me at times, but he was still the only father I was ever going to have and I had no idea...read, NO IDEA how hard it would be to watch him pass from this life to the next.

I'm not sure if I wanted the time to fly by or not. But the eight or so hours the doctors estimated dad would survive once home came and went with him still clinging to his life, leaving us all to wallow in ours as we watched his struggle.  The hours stalled. They hung there before my eyes in midair offering absolutely no reprieve. Maybe it's my recollection of it today that seems frozen, but then I just knew that somewhere out there in time's vast expanse was an end that I needed to arrive at but couldn't get to.  Each event of his passing morbidly unfolded like a giant piece of dirty canvas cloth.  It was heavy and wrinkled and smelled of death, and I couldn't find its corners to save my life. These were the end times, the last gasps, his death throws.  I believe now, after seeing such things with my own eyes, that every living being fights to avoid its end. A cut tree will sap and try to regrow before finally falling to chord.  A marriage will flounder and reel and put its occupants through hell before finally dying on some courtroom floor.  And the human spirit kicks and claws for life before succumbing to death and arriving at the entrance from which it came.  This is the natural order of things, and the way of the world I was now living in as I watched my father die. Maybe it's something I had to see as his son, as if somehow the birthright he left for me wasn't made of the gold I always hoped for.  Instead, it was made of burning images searing their way through salty tears onto the fabric of my mind.  If he wanted to leave me with something permanent then he succeeded masterfully, because after baring witness to his passing I would never be the same again.

I guess morphine makes the pain go away.  I imagined him ingesting the black liquid and then just peacefully slipping away to the place that would lead him home. But it wasn't like that.  He fought his end and even in a comatose state I saw desperation in his eyes.  He laid writhing and grunting animal sounds that would scare the bravest man, which I certainly was not one.  They were like the fits of a caged animal.  They came and went, sometimes violently, as the long hours passed.  He was there in his living room on display like some dying king for all his subjects to see and pay tribute too.  I guess I kind of felt like I was there worshiping him that way.  As I watched him my mind relived moments from my life that he was a part of.  I could see him there as a young man, my daddy, baring rough features and a sometimes gentle demeanor.  I could hear his voice telling me some story I'd ask him about.  I so loved talking with him about anything or nothing at all.  Then I could see his aging, drunken face as I tried to plead with it to stay or just say a kind word.  Then I saw the apologetic man who would show up trying with one hand to keep a hold of the hat his prideful other was trying to throw across the room.  How he must have struggled with himself about the shame of it all.  And then I saw an old man with gray hair and a wrinkled, weathered face that still looked like my father but somehow like me too.  That old man tried to love me, especially at the end.  I recalled some of our last conversations, where he told me of the cancer's toll and that he wasn't yet sure if we needed to have a difficult face to face.  Seeing him there on his death bed I knew he'd lied to me about that.  It hurt me to know he didn't have the courage to tell me it was time to think about saying our goodbyes to each other. Today I feel differently about it though.  My father was an optimist so how could he have known that he'd lose this fight?  I have to believe he didn't because the dying man in front of me wouldn't have wanted those images to be my last of him.  I believe he had courage to fight for his final breaths, even if not for my final goodbye.  But that was always his way. That was my father too, selfish to the end.

I sat with him several times watching him fight.  The sound of his breathing beat the air like a war drum, and then it faded to almost nothing.  He would take shallow, quick breaths and then deep gulps of life, followed by long moments of silence.  His chest wouldn't move for what seemed like minutes and minutes.  And then he'd breathe again letting us know he wasn't ready to go yet.  Even though he was laboring I hoped that what I was seeing was his metaphysical struggle and that there wasn't much actual pain.  I administered morphine several times trying my best to see to that.  I bet he liked that blissful state.  I imagined he was seeing golden colored skies and high Texas plains of green grass and mossy oaks.  Or maybe he was adrift on the dark blue sea he seemed to love so.  Or perhaps he was visiting with his God and getting instructions for the salvation I know he received.  That's a conversation I think he would have enjoyed and have taken his sweet time concluding.

It took about twenty four hours, and the span of my lifetime, for him to go.  No more fighting, no more life to summon strength for.  No more oceans to drift or desert expanses to wander.  He let out one last long breath and then never inhaled again.  My hero, my tormentor, and the greatest mystery of my life was gone.  My father was finally dead.

-Jim Franks    

The Throne Verse

Faith?  What do any of us know about faith anyway?

When I went to Iraq the first time I took the only piece of religion I'd ever owned with me.  It was a simple gold cross on a chain.  But I didn't wear it; I carried it with me in my bag.  (Those who know me understand why I carried it instead of wore it.)  My best friend and spiritual brother, Randy, gave it to me when we were 18.  He'd always been a believer but I never had the faith he seemed to posses in quantities ample enough for the both of us.  So when I went to the land of Allah I figured it may serve me well to take the only symbol of Christianity I had ever owned.  It wasn't genuine faith; it was simply a perceived defense I imagined would protect me from the coming Muslim threat.

My interpreter and friend, Fadhil, was a devout Muslim.  I learned more about his faith during my time with him than from any other source before or since.  He was very insightful, and much wiser than his youth portrayed.  I spent almost a year working side by side with him and a genuine friendship grew from the experience.  Probably the most lasting impression I took away from that relationship was a new found belief that the same God exists in every man's heart,  regardless of the manner in which we choose to worship Him.

When I was finally transferred to northern Iraq for work I had to say goodbye to my friend.  On our second to last day together he presented me with a gift.  It was a simple silver charm on a chain. Inscribed on the charm was a common Muslim verse from The Quran called "The Throne Verse."  That's what it's called in English, but the words written on the charm were Arabic.  They read:

"Allah, there is no God but He, the Living and Self Sustaining.  Neither slumber nor sleep overtakes Him.  Unto Him belongs all that is in the heavens and on the earth.  Who is there that can intercede with Him save by His leave?  He knows what is in front of them and what is behind them, while they encompass nothing of His knowledge except what He wills.  His throne extends over the heavens and the earth, and He is never weary of preserving them.  He is The Most High, The Magnificent."

Fadhil knew this verse by heart and recited it to me as I looked at the Arabic words on the little charm.  I was very touched, to say the least.  His gesture was so significant that it's hard for me to explain it today, so I won't even try.  Being so moved by my friend's kindness I felt naturally a need to return the gesture in kind.  So the next day, which was our last together, I wore my cross.  When we were alone together I briefly explained its story, where it came from, who had given it to me, etc. and then I took it off and gave it to him.  He was stunned and tried to refuse it.  But as is the Muslim way, he could not refuse my gift because to do so would be offensive.  (He had done this when presenting me with gifts so many times over the previous year that I relished the chance now to throw his own custom right back at him!)  He accepted my cross and placed it on around his neck and told me that he would "cherish it forever."  In America that sentiment is thrown around loosely, but when Fadhil said it to me I believed him completely.  That man took his life into his own hands every day that he came to work for us.  He had to do so in secret.  So to now not only be in possession of such a thing...a blasphemous infidel symbol of western faith, but then to also be wearing it around his neck.  Wow...think of the consequences.  (About a year later, because of death threats, Fadhil would have to take his wife and children and flee Iraq for Syria.  He returned to Iraq after a year or so and last I heard was OK and working for the Iraqi Correctional Service.)

So there we were; me a "Christian" pretending to know my western God and now wearing an eastern symbol of Him.  And Fadhil, a true man of a universal God, wearing what I today believe to be a western symbol of hypocrisy.  I'm not saying here that the symbol of Jesus is false, that's not for me to say.  My knowledge and faith was nonexistent at that time.  I simply mean that my understanding of faith, of spirituality, of life and death...was make-believe.  I was the hypocrite.  But I always believed that my understanding of God began in earnest after I received that charm.  I wore it faithfully for several years until one fateful day it broke from around my neck and sank to the bottom of a lake in Idaho.  I was heartbroken at its loss and have considered many times going onto the Internet to try and replace it.  But somehow the thought always peacefully melts away.  I feel like my time with The Throne Verse was well served but that it ran its course.  Someday a thousand years from now that lake will dry up and someone in need of faith will find that charm. They'll translate the words and instantly know, like I did, that God meant it just for them.

When I was preparing to go back to Baghdad the second time I went in search of another charm.  I shopped and shopped until I found just the right one.  I thought it was important that I return to the Land of Allah as a believer, not a hypocrite.  I didn't feel the need for protection this time.  There was nothing there to fear.  My God and their God always were, and always will be, one in the same.  That's what I believe.  The silver and black cross I bought and wore proudly back into the desert, and every day since, signifies that for me always.

-Jim Franks

Quaking Aspens

An aspen tree sways west.  On its way east the quaking leafs ripple and glint just for me.  They wave and sparkle in a big hard sun as if to say, "Here I am...can't you see me?"

I see you there and you are beautiful.  Let me tell it to you.

-Jim Franks

Bleed It Out

In Texas homes have to be designed to keep their occupants cool.  That's not a statement about social status; it's a fact of practicality.  It gets really hot there.  Having grown up in Southern California I was accustomed to stucco and forced, swamp cooler air keeping the heat at bay.   But in Texas they use lots of brick and sunken floor plans that are void of sunlight to help keep cool.  It is a design that lends an almost subterranean existence to the way people live in order to escape the heat.  It was in a Texas house like this where we brought Dad to die.  It was made of brick and the living room was sunken and dark.  The carpet was thick and smelled of every cigarette Dad ever smoked over it.  The sofas were comfortable and inviting and the view from them was of family photos, shelves of books, and a TV that was too small by current standards.  It was a good room to die in, at least I thought so.  It was an appropriate place for the end.  Death could come and wait for his charge in the cool comfort of Dad's living room.  It would be OK because this was home.


The amount of anguish I feel when writing these events amazes me.  It explains why there are months between them.  It takes me that long to build courage, recover, and then build again.  And they frighten me.  I wish I understood why.  I am trying to understand now.

Hospice delivered a big hospital type bed to Dad's house.  We moved the furniture around and the living room became a rest home, an ICU, a chapel, and a bit of a nut house.  The bed was on wheels and could be raised or lowered so we could move him around easily.  I honestly don't remember the time between leaving the hospital and arriving at the house and laying him on that bed.  I must have blocked it out.  It's odd to me how some things are so vivid about the whole affair and then others are so vague.  I believe Sharon and Joe rode with Dad in the ambulance.  Or maybe it was just Sharon.  I honestly don't remember.  It wasn't me though.  That I'm sure I'd recall.  It must be the gray hairs on my head causing the loss of memory.  More likely though it's the trauma of the event that's wiped moments from my mind and added more grays than my years warrant.  Regardless, I can still see that big bed in my mind.  It was empty, and then it wasn't.  He was all of a sudden there swimming in those white sheets that would soon become his death shawl.


When he left the hospital the catheter that had been helping keep him alive was left in his neck.  I'm only understanding now that the reason they left it in place was because they knew there was no reason to take it out.  He'd be dead soon so why bother.  I didn't like it and wanted to wipe away any remnant of the ICU Death House that I could.  So I decided that I'd take it out myself...because I was qualified to do that, totally.  I guess I thought it would make him look less sickly, or maybe more dignified.  Hell, maybe I was just morbidly curious.  I don't know what I was thinking.  Then I was stunned...by the length of the plastic tube, as I pulled it kept coming, and coming, and coming out of his neck.  Then by the amount of blood that began to pour out of the hole I had created.  There was so much blood; dark, rich blood.  It was coming out of him like a faucet had been opened up. And it wasn't the bright red fluid of my conscience thought either.  No, it was an iridescent black color that shimmered as it fell through my fingers like some strand of wet dark pearls.  It spilled onto his sheets and painted an ugly tapestry that reminded me of Death's terrifying presence.  The difference between a little blood and a lot of it can be choking to the senses.  I had seen blood before.  I once saw a man that had his throat viciously slashed open.  There was a lot of blood then but I felt none of the fear or panic that I felt at this moment.  I thought I had just killed my father.  I was certain that he was going to bleed to death because of my ignorance.  The perverseness of that moment is oddly humorous now.  I am not laughing as I write this, but I sure I wish I could.  Then the panic and dread I felt was quickly eased by my grandmother.  She came to my side and calmly instructed me to just place pressure on the wound. It was so simple.  After a few minutes the bleeding stopped.  Oh, my grandmother, the saint that she always seems to be, helped me overcome a fear I hope to never experience again.  But it's unjust, almost offensive, that she had to be there at all.  No parent should have to watch their child die.  But in a moment, one of her own certain grief, she had the presence of mind to be calm and think clearly and help me. I am such a selfish man.


Along with the bed, the hospice nurse that came with it brought morphine.  She sat down with everyone present and instructed us on how to best care for Dad during his final hours.  Before we left the hospital his doctor explained that once removed from life support he may only live a few hours in our home care.  I don't remember the exact time given, but I think 8 hours or so was expected.  The hospice nurse wasn't exact either but generally concurred with the assessment.  So for the time being she explained how we should simply keep him comfortable and administer morphine orally to him as we best saw fit.  She left a small bottle of it with a dropper cap and when we thought there was pain we could give him the liquid ease in metered doses.  She also explained that we'd have to change his bedding as his body expelled its contents and soiled them.  Then finally she advised that we, the living, should take care to comfort each other during what she described would be a traumatic and emotional time.  


So our vigil began.  There was family there; Dad's wife, his mother, his sister, and one of his brothers.  To the best of my recollection there were extended family and spouses there too but I honestly can't recall.  And then, of course, there were "The Boys."  I had never before been as acutely aware of my role as one of "Jim's boys" as I was during this time.  My brothers and I were always "The Boys" to our Texas family.  Maybe it was a southern thing.  Or maybe the label grew out of some kind of disassociation they had with us because we grew up apart from them.  I don't know.   I had never felt like it was a burden to be his son before and Lord knows I was trying my best to fulfill my destiny and responsibility during those final days of his life.  But today I feel a little resentment for having been labeled that way then.  I felt branded and who were they to coral me into that pen?  I feel like I'm coming to terms with the weight of it now, but at the time I didn't know how heavy the burden was.  I didn't want it.  And today the honest truth is that he didn't deserve it.  Who were they to tell me of responsibility?  Did they ever make him feel the weight of his lack of accountability?  Did they remind him about all the missed birthdays and holidays?  Did they label him with some other name as he sped passed our lives in his Cadillac or Corvette but couldn't be bothered to send our mother a check?  How did they brand him for being the King of Broken Promises?  I dare say they never did.  They never called him father because they didn't have to.  They were enablers one and all.  No...he was always just "Jim" to them.  And so not only did I have no choice but to be his son, I also had no choice now but to bare witness to a living nightmare and then also help ease its passing.  I felt marked and helpless and forced to watch my father die, when all I ever wanted...ALL I EVER WANTED was to see him live.  It wasn't fair, but then when is it ever?  I'm glad today that I have finally purged some of the resentment.  It feels good, and I have no regret.  I said it, and like the bloodletting image burned into my mind of those last days, I can't ever take it back.


I think I've digressed a bit.  I will forgive myself considering the circumstances.  But let me get back to it.  Now comes the really hard part, the images and moments that I've buried away for almost ten years...The Death Throws.


-Jim Franks

Release

It sits inside me a hot stone burning my chest and belly.  There's not any warmth, and it does not sooth me.  My insides wrap around it and keep the thick, dark, ugly truth safe from harm.  Waiting, it is always waiting for me to come.  Patiently it stays deep inside me, wanting nothing more than to be set free.  My life passes by and buried in the melody is the poison that would kill me.

I will get to you.  I will come and tear away that leaking bloody shroud, and when it's gone you'll be exposed and unable to hide within the void that's kept you safe for all this time.  My fingers will get between my own bones and then my hands will tear at the flesh you spent years burning black.  Once I am steady and my grip is firm I will finally tear it all apart.  I will be exposed then, opened up.  Release me.

-Jim Franks

Heat of the Summer

A new summer arrives to find me and it wonders where I have been keeping myself since last year.  Its heat comes in slow waves and for now is nice enough to keep me in the conversation.  But I know soon it will start to burn, and then I'll resent the intrusion.

I don't seem to have many answers for my old friend, or at least any of the ones we are both looking for. And there's not much certainty these days, accept for the unmistakable feeling that hoping for any is a mistake.

-Jim Franks

Paradise Lane

We lived alone then, together, on Paradise Lane.  But I don't hear the sound the warm rain makes anymore.  And I can't see the soft hairs falling over your face either.  They are only black and coarse now, and they grow longer as if to mark all the years since we were both young enough to care.  I don't see the stars like we once did either, laying on our backs in the grass looking to heaven and wondering if dying there would feel better than living.  And I can't feel your window pane on my hand anymore. A thousand soft raps wrote the melody of our beating hearts.  And I don't taste your salty tears, or the bile spitting through the teeth you gnashed at me time and time again.  Vaguely a kiss on stubborn, pursed lips, turned hard by resolve...then suddenly softened by love.  Ahh yes, there it is now, the love I do recall.  It was young and breathtaking, and I can feel its heat now as if it was just yesterday that the image of your little wing was seared into my soul forever.  And it was there, in the light of a hard sun, that I wanted to die with you on paradise lane.  We will always live alone there, together.

-Jim Franks

The Spreading Stain

A spiraling metal burrow packed with the bits and pieces that hurt the most...guilt, shame, loneliness, and desire.  After all this time it's hard to know which would feel worse; the sting of regret, or the pressure and pain of all that poison exploding into my head. More likely, there'd be no feeling at all, just moments and memories flashing in my mind's eye.  It doesn't feel like much now, but that'll change when the bell finally tolls.  In the instant it takes to decide all the trivial moments of a life spent wandering will be gone, left once and for all to spill out in a coppery red wash of silent relief.  I often wonder which is darker...honesty or its spreading stain?  Come for me if you can, cry for me if it so pleases, or just sit there and let the air and sound seep from your gaping jaw.  Just don't be taken aback.  I'm still wandering and writing in unknown lands, after all.

-Jim Franks 

A Long Last Ride

It took a few days for a decision to be made about what to do with, or about, my dying father.  The doctor was no help, as doctors often aren't.  He gave us options but nothing really to hold on to, which was the only thing those of us involved really sought.  Dad was too far gone and I think we all knew it.  I could see hope fading on the family faces gathered in the theater.  I think we were all seeking different paths to the end, and things like hope and expectations were manifesting in many different forms in that hospital room.  There's no harder moment to face in life I think.  The one where you know your loved one is going to die and that you have to decide whether to fall apart or pull back the curtain and expose the wizard.

Sadly, our grandmother was there to see her second child of five die.  We were glad she was there to be the pillar we needed.  But it was sad that she had to witness another of her dearly beloved struggling for life.  She had buried her husband 2 short years earlier, and her youngest son had died long before that.  That is, it seemed long ago to me, I think I was about 8 or 9 years old.  But I'm sure that for a mother something like that freezes time and the agony of burying a child lives in your bones until you pass-on yourself.  And my grandmother now had to do it for the second time.  (She would do it a 3rd time just a few years later.)  My grandmother Franks is an absolute rock of a woman, a Matriarch in every sense of the word.  I will always regret not knowing her better.  The distance between us caused by my parent's divorce was an unfortunate obstacle to that end. But now, bless her heart, when faced with her son's impending death she stayed in the background and let the natural order of things take its course.  She could have stepped in at anytime and made her will as "The Mother" known, but to her credit, she did not.  She helped when she could, consoled when needed, and found how best to grieve in such a way that never once showed that I could tell. And so that meant my step-mother, my brothers, and I needed to take the lead and make decisions.  My step-mother, Sharon, despite her best qualities and love for my father, wasn't much help.  She was still waiting for Dad to sit up and say hello. So that left "The Boys", which was fine I suppose.  If it weren't for my inability to cope with Dad's life, much less his death, I'd have felt much better about this responsibility.  But as it stood, I just wasn't ready.

There is shame here that I haven't been able to reconcile, and it isn't in my deathbed shortcomings.  I think when the end comes for parents it is only natural for children to flounder and meander through the tough decisions.  So on that point I am willing to give myself a rare break.  No, for me there was shame in having felt relief that my dad was going to soon be gone once and for all.  There was no longing for his life to stay behind "just a little bit longer" so that I could spend another precious moment in his company.  I actually wanted it to be over, which I realize now means, (in hindsight), that I anticipated his passing as some form of respite.  Maybe a final liberation from a lifetime of free-flowing pain was finally going to be shut off at the source.  Maybe I just wanted instant gratification from the lingering sorrow that had been haunting me since I first stood at his deathbed and looked into his dying dolls eyes.  I can't be sure today because this is the first time I've ever forced the thoughts from my mind onto something that I could actually see.  But since I'm being honest now, and won't have the benefit of afterthought until tomorrow, I must say that it was probably all of the above.  Shame has a way of emptying out the drawers and forcing all your dirty laundry onto the washboard.  It gets clean or stays stained, but either way it all gets done.

My brothers and I decided after a few days of tears and anguish in the ICU that we were going to exercise some control over our father's final moments.  It seemed ridiculous that he should breath his last breathe in that horribly sick fishbowl.  I can't express how vile I felt there, (I believe we all did.)  There was never any peace in that place and I, for one, wanted Dad to have a chance to die with some dignity.  Or, I suppose it's more likely that I wanted to escape from those confines and find a safer place to grieve and process what was inevitably about to happen.  Again, I can't be sure. So we decided to take him home to die in his living room.  The doctor, of course, had nothing but dire warnings for this idea and took every opportunity to remind us that an ambulance ride at that point could have proven deadly.  His stance here only served to anger me.  For days we had been asking him what was going to happen and all he would ever state were "options" or "scenarios."  He covered his ass by making sure to state in legal-speak that what he had to say was just opinion and could no way be expressed as fact due to the advanced nature of Dad's condition.  In other words, the chickenshit son-of-a-bitch knew Dad was going to die but wouldn't say it out loud to us.  I know he had a responsibility to the hospital, but just once I wanted him to acknowledge his responsibility to his patient's family.  Needless to say, I was not pleasant to the man after a while and had to leave the talking to Joe and Sharon.  As Dad's wife she had the final say anyway, and so it was through her that my brother's and I made the final call to take Dad home.  She was scared at first because in some faraway place she was holding out hope that he was going to pull through.  She didn't want to take a chance and have the ambulance ride result in a cardiac arrest and kill him, which is what the doctor warned could happen.  But I give Joe more credit here for being able to calmly talk to her about our real options and then what was best for Dad and the entire family.  He has a real gift that way, my brother.  I was glad to let him take and keep the lead here because his words were soothing to me as well.

And so it went.  The family prepared for what would be Dad's long last ride home.  We talked to the Hospice people and signed all the papers.  We cleared the living room of furniture and prepared other rooms for those living loved ones that would stay with us until the end.  My brothers and I did a lot of talking at that time about plans, people, and pain.  I think it was good for everyone involved to have a purpose and to feel like we were all part of something bigger and more important than just waiting for death to dictate to us.  It's been hard after all these years to find a good part in this story.  But walking out of that ICU for the last time and taking Dad to die in his home was certainly one.  There's something to be said for the power that lies within gaining control over that which would normally overwhelm you.  That's not to say my brothers and I thought we could cheat death on our father's behalf.  But it was damn important that we did our best not to let the sorrow of it sweep over our lives, or the last bit of Dad's, completely.

-Jim Franks

Theater of Death

Death, swathed in white cotton, occupies every room.  No costumes of shimmering gold satin are worn here.  No stars adorn the doors, and no placards announcing vanity can be seen.  Top billing is never fought for because each player here headlines their very own marquee.  The whole place flickers in a muted, florescent haze.  The ugly glow echoes up and down the halls, making sure to find and shed a pale light into every nook.  Past each curtain and through every pane I am treated to fine performances carried out by lingering souls struggling for life.  Human beings dance here with their Maker.  And somewhere lost in their swells and throws are the answers they seek but will not receive until they pass through this life's transom to the next.  It is here, in this Theater Of Death, that I have come to see my father's last performance.  He is once again the star of a production I never wanted to watch, but am once again forced to be a part of.  As I take my rightful place backstage it has begun there, inside the glass.  He is writhing and painfully agonizing over the masterpiece that is his life's closing ballet.  In the Grand Hall it is standing room only, accept for the Reaper who waits patiently in his front row seat for my father's final curtain.

-Jim Franks

This First

Broken hearts only exist because they loved first, and then lost.

-Jim Franks

Reinventing the Prism

Reinvention is my birthright.  It's a social trait that is distinctly mine.  The freedom to choose who I am, who I want to be and will be, is an exclusive gift that I was born with.  It's not a family quality, but a national characteristic.  My American heritage empowers me to push the chair back and walk away from the table anytime I see fit.  Moreover, it's not just something that my liberty affords me.  No, it's a genetic attribute that lives in every free born American.  Its' realization is purely a result of whether we choose to exercise that which makes us unique.

I didn't come to this conclusion until recently.  I would have assumed that something so obvious would have reached out and slapped me in the face as soon as it became necessary to seek it out.  I stood on that doorstep long ago but rapping on the timber never occurred to me as the obvious action.  No, like all that I do, this has been more of a slow, rolling boil...a revolution that's been years in the making and will take decades to conclude.  My life changed so drastically in 2007 that I didn't pause to examine the peculiarity of my reasons.  At the time I just knew that it had to be.  It wasn't until after I was set adrift that I sought meaning, but by then it could only be seen by looking back into the wake.  This is my way...I "do" then apologize later, or "don't" and obsess over what I always believe is a missed opportunity.  This has been a pattern onto which I've sewn my buttons for as far back as I can recall.  But the desire, no...the necessity to reinvent is new I believe.  Or wait, is it?

When I was a little boy I was "Jimmy" because that's just what I was always called.  But at some point I wanted to be "James".  I asked people in my life to refer to me by my "new" name and thus think of me as some "new" person.  And then when I was in my late teens I wanted to be "Jim."  And so over time, as is somewhat commonly done by people, I actually changed my name.  But in doing so I desired more than vanity...I wanted to change who I was.  Then I moved away from my home and started a new life.  I got into the most contradictory career field I could find because again, I wanted to be someone else.  Then, like a plotted story, the middle act of my life began.  I got divorced and I found a new woman who would have given me exactly the same seemingly happy life I carried on for years.  But I wasn't satisfied with that and walked away, even though I loved her.  My soul's need to reinvent trumped my heart's need for familiar solace.  And so finally, the revolution began and I put down the history book and went in search of my place in it.  And for a time I believed I didn't ever want to come back.  But after all these years I think I finally understand.  I never left.

Like a prisoner emerging from the black confusion of solitary and squinting into the suns certain clarity...there is a harsh realization that these four walls haven't vanished, they've merely expanded.  I finally recognize myself there in the shimmering, refracting luminescence of my life.  I see in the reflection that I won't ever actually be someone else.  I always have been, and will forever remain, a prism...simply gathering the light of my life and scattering the colors to suit.

I accept this creature of change as long as I can always reinvent how I am a slave to it.

-Jim Franks

Filling The Margins

When I was a boy one of the best things I can remember doing was walking to the 7-11 to buy candy.  I have this distinct memory of the freedom I felt knowing that I was on my own to walk the few blocks without my mother there to make sure everything was OK.  This is the earliest recollection I have of the ever expanding world in which I live.

I would think every human has moments like this that define their lives.  We all start as infants exploring the world as we know it and then grow into the creatures whose behaviors define the rest of our days....lambs of habit, or lions of change.  Either way we are all works in progress.  We set our stakes and stay put, or we spread our wings and roam.  There may be something in between, but as I search in and around my mind I cannot find it.

I feel a vast world around me now.  I see a final destination but haven't always recognized the journey;  A long fall from the crib to the floor...My view of the living room from on top of a chair...Feeling the wind in my hair as my bicycle wheels its way to the end of the street and back...Walking to the 7-11 and exploring strange driveways and hedges along the way...Driving on the freeway for the very first time...Realizing at a tender young age that faraway places are within my reach...Falling in love, and making love, for the first time...Witnessing the miracle of life in the eyes of my newborn child...Feeling the pain of human loss...The view from an airplane window...Crossing America's borders...Seeing history with my own eyes......Sharing the boundaries of my heart and soul with someone I adore...Then the unknown; death, one day to be my final frontier.

I imagine his adult life was much like mine is today. I have an instinctual sense of parity with my father in this way.  I search for the truth about who I am.  In retrospect I can see that he journeyed similarly too.  He could have been possibly looking for something, or more likely hiding from it.  But he seemed to devote time to keeping answers from me.  I try to forgive him this point and these ramblings help that effort.  My 40's so far have been spent exploring the waterways of my mind in search of fords and safe places to cross.  On the other side I hope to find peace of mind.  I imagine he will be there when I arrive.  Maybe then I'll be able to tell him that his life, especially the one he never lived, has been...for all these years, the air that's expanded and then filled the margins of my own existence.

-Jim Franks

Drifting

Time goes by and I tread in the shallows and listen....waiting.  I'm here hoping to feel your soft touch or warm embrace. I need you to give me a knowing glance or just a reassuring nod.  Or reach out and take me into your hands, breath into my ear, and kiss my face once more.  Then set me free.  I'll drift out with the tides, through the marsh and reed, and then back to stormy seas.  I'll be here waiting...always waiting.

-Jim Franks 

Quote

"Old man look at my life, I'm a lot like you
 I need someone to love me the whole day through
Awe, one look in my eyes and you can tell that's true

Old man look at my life...I'm a lot like you
Live alone in a paradise that makes me think of two
Love lost, such a cost. Give me things that don't get lost
Like a coin that won't get tossed...rolling home to you

Doesn't mean that much to me to mean that much to you."

-Jim Franks

Answers in a Rose Garden

It's about disappointment. I live with these facts as he presented them to me; I don't know when I'll see you again, or if I will ever see you again. I don't know why you left or if it was my fault. I don't know who you are and who I am supposed to be without you in my life. Why won't you stay? Why do you hurt me? Why are you my father?

-Jim Franks

A Free Man's Faith

I do as I am compelled.  I feel it, like I haven't felt in some time.  During Iraq 1.0 I felt a belonging.  It was like a new born breathing fresh air for the very first time and knowing that life isn't a choice, but a right.  It often stifled me though...the uncertainty of reason.  It's a strange sensation to feel liberated by, and yet still a slave to, something that can't be seen.  I believe it was then that I felt faith for the first time.

But now, years later, the faith that set me free has blended into a life that's often been difficult to comprehend.  I know I am not meant to understand that which confounds us all.  So it's not the mystery but the purpose that I struggle with.  I meander and fumble for direction and every now and then I can track the light that leads me to a focal point worth cementing.  Most days I am satisfied with that guide. But on other days I stand on the banks and watch, wide eyed, as the flood rushes by.  I inch close and I long to feel the rumbling torrent's tremor reverberate deep in my soul.  One of these times I will fall in, I'm sure of it.  On that day, for all its goodness, the liberty I've found won't keep my head above water.  Only faith will keep air in my lungs then.  But if I drown I'll do so drenched in my right to live free.

-Jim Franks

Red Sands

You don't fool me.  I hear your thoughts and see through every step you take.  There, left behind in the red sands of ever distancing shores, are your foot prints.  They walk away heavy, with purpose and strength.  I am proud of you so it's OK.  Go there and know I will always be here in your corner.  I love you still, forever I believe.  We are connected and it feels right.  To what end though I no longer know.

-Jim Franks

Hero

The hardest man to find sometimes is the man you are meant to be.

-JGF

I have known paralyzing fear only once as a grown up. Years and years of dangerous situations behind the fence or inside the walls have never frightened me. Gunfire and thunderous car bombs that rattle your rib cage never shook me. I'm not a fool who is oblivious to danger or a junkie looking for an adrenaline rush. I have just never thought of my life, or the circle I function in, as something worth getting riled about. It came to me once though, fear, but wasn't anything that I could see. It wasn't in the sights and sounds of war, or the bloody slashing of convict living. It waited for me in the sterile white embrace of my father’s deathbed and it gripped and shook me like I've never known.

On the day I walked into his ICU hospital room I knew true fear for the first time as a grown man. I was ushered into the room by my step-mother. My grandma and aunt were there too, (his mother and sister.) It's been 10 years and I can still feel death's embrace on that room. As soon as I walked in I felt my bones begin to compact. I felt as if I was being crushed not just from the outside in, but from the inside in too...as if my imploding skeleton would be pulverized, leaving my hollow skin to fall and drape across his bed. My eyes were seared by his image and the ghostly reflection burnt onto the walls of my mind has never faded. He is living death. A zombie who's olive skin is brushed in a dull yellow hue. The body of a man that once existed in my child's memory, strong and handsome, now wanes. He is grotesquely swollen from the poison filling his abdomen. And yet his stature is frail and lithe, reminding me of a vulnerable, dying child. And his eyes are a glossy jet-black reminder of the septic coma in which he now resides. His once piercing, aqua blue lenses are now lifeless and void of color. My view into his consciousness is guarded by two black shiny marbles, the site of which I have never seen before. Their very existence has haunted me every day since.

"Speak to him," she said to me. My step-mother then spoke to him as if he would sit up and speak back. "Jimmy is here," she pleaded to him. And then to me she implored, "Talk to him, say something." But I could not. The more silent I was the more she insisted I speak. I have this memory of me looking back and forth between them with some words, any words, jammed in my throat but refusing to break free. It was so odd, so surreal, so unlike me to not have words to say. But for once in my life I couldn't speak. I was paralyzed with fear. My every thought a reflection of some far away child trying to be the man he was expected to be. But the only real man in the room was lying in front of me inert and disappearing from my reality. I was not only mute, but nonexistent as far as he was concerned. At that moment I was just the little boy of his dreams, forgotten and unimportant. I have never felt as inadequate and ashamed as I did on that day.

Twenty four hours later my brothers arrived and joined me. I tried to warn them before going into the hospital room that what waited was grim. (I have always wondered if my description then would match the way my memory recalls it now.) I think I expected them to be as choked up as I was upon seeing our dying father. My brothers; John, the lost one...left behind as the youngest son. And Joe, estranged and saddled with the weight of being the eldest. My universal assumptions have never served me well, and that day was no different…they were not afraid. It was me who needed the warning.  My grim reality was a reminder that I don’t always know what’s best. When the door opened Joe instantly separated himself from the son I always thought he was; angry at our father and defiant, forever the contradiction to expectations. Right before my eyes he morphed into the strong first born son of my dreams. Our father was dying and in need of comfort and my brother was all at once there to give it to him. A lifetime of conflict and pain was instantly washed away and my brother was simply his father’s son again. Joe confidently, and without hesitation, went to the bed side and took a dying man’s face into his hands with a love and compassion that I couldn’t remember ever seeing him posses before. And then he spoke to our father. Where my voice was frozen inside my chest, Joe's flowed out in a calm, tender, quiet stream of soothing and encouraging words. Joe took our father’s face into his hands and placed his mouth close to dad’s ear to ensure comprehension. Whether death could hear and understand I will never know. But at least Joe tried. He did what I could not muster the courage to even approach. As long as I live I won't ever forget that moment. The mix of joy, shame, pride, agony, and love that I felt ensures this moment lives forever in my heart and mind as a poignant and reoccurring nightmare.

But a hero arose from the ashes of that lurid dream. As a child I idolized my big brother. I admired and wanted to be him. I imagine now that he somehow had replaced our absent father when my immature mind was searching for role models. But as we grew older my esteem slowly turned to loathing. I could never reconcile the differences in our choices to be the men we grew into. I am so judgmental, and sometimes I believe I am as ignorant as a spoiled child. So, on this day my hero was reborn. A Phoenix championing our cause; three lost sons, scattered to the winds but coming together at their father’s deathbed. I was all at once proud of Joe again, and ashamed of myself for ever letting that adoration falter. I so admired his strength, and I wasn't afraid to be in the room anymore. His actions gave me courage. And although they weren't meant for me, I found solace in his whispered words to our dying father. I don't know if Joe realizes what he did for me that day. I have never spoken to him about it or told him how I felt. I guess I have a responsibility to him that I have shunned for all these years. He certainly deserves more from the brother he saved.

Years later I was in Iraq and feeling as alone and unsure as anytime I'd ever known. Joe sent me a letter, the words of which I have carried as a part of me every day since. As I read these words I felt his mouth close to my ear, his soothing voice comforting me from a world away...

"The hardest man to find sometimes is the man you are meant to be."

-Joseph Glenn Franks

-Jim Franks

My Emotional Bouquet

I had a chance to hang out with my brother Joe recently. We haven't really talked much in the last year or so.  It’s mostly because I haven't been around, duh. But he's been living in a vacuum for some time and hasn't been able to punch his way out of that dirt filled bag. Not that the air flowing over my life is all clean breathing. No, I'm not going to point a finger like that. But I'd say when it comes to gauging filth his meter has been pegging for quite some time. So we talked.

As always, his unique perspective caught me off guard. I don't know why it always surprises me when the words that spill from his mouth make absolute sense. It certainly must be because we are brothers. That basic fact makes up 100% of my confusion for his motives, and equally for my astonishment at his insight. For years I have made my bones believing we were totally different men, jabbing and dancing at our lives from different corners. But finally, after all this time, and quite like an Ali hay-maker, I was knocked-out by the simplicity of our similarities. We Are Blood; it not only courses though us, it derives at the same spring. How could I have missed that simple reality for all these years? Of course we think alike, love alike, and hurt alike. It's so obvious now...that I am a complete idiot.

Part of our conversation revolved around relationships. He's finally trying to break free of the one that's been killing him for years. And I, of course, am mired in the ones that torment me. He was very curious about how I maneuver about the complexities of bachelorhood and I could see him searching my face for answers and hope. After I described the loves of my life and how they confound me he made an amazing comment. He likened my love life to a bouquet of emotions and compared it starkly to his own singularly dead flower. He was actually in awe of the fact that I've been able to let so many emotions "blossom" over the past several years. He simply saw my feelings, good and bad, as blessings. The envy is his tone astonished me because I haven't perceived myself that way at all. What seemed like opportunities to him have only burned as trials to me. 

And he cried, for the first time in front of me, about something relating to our father. Dad's been dead almost 10 years now and Joe has never cried about it in front of me. I have never thought to wonder if he ever grieved in private because...well, I don't know why. Because I am a selfish son-of-a-bitch who can't ever see past the end of my own nose. Joe was so strong at the time of Dad's death. He came and was the rock every big brother/oldest son should be. (That's a story for another time.) And on this day, as I watched his face contort into a painful portrait of a son who lost his father, I realized that for all this time I had mistaken his strength as indifference. I was wrong and I felt shame for it, and relief, and most of all admiration.

I am exasperated. There's something here I have to resolve and I don't know what it is. Of course it's something to do with this family of mine and how it's all coming together at this particular time in my life. My father is present and I can hear his voice from the hereafter. I hear his tone echoed in my brothers words. His actions reverberate down the halls of that old house and my soul absorbs them when I walk there. I am confused by it but know I have to face him once and for all in order to find some peace. His sons deserve some peace.

-Jim Franks

Wuthering Heights

She stands before me a looming red stanchion. Her tether to my heart towers at heights I've not been able to reach. Though, if I might, I think about touching her and wonder if it will burn my hand. And will kissing her lips again turn mine to stone? I desperately need to know if when we make love for the first time will the pinpoint of light that's been my obsession explode into a million sparkling stars...falling in arcs and streaks of brilliant white. Or will I die up there in the wind, withering on the line that's tied us together for all this time.

-Jim Franks

Lonely Hearts

I killed myself last night. The part of me that has existed for others to see and admire, or loath and judge, or accept and love, or to know and then forget...is now dead. My digital self is no longer a distraction I want to manipulate, so I deactivated my Facebook account. I know, that's so not as impressive as I built it up to be!

I have been thinking about it for some time now and have been looking for a way to muster courage and rally around a decision to finally act. It shouldn't have been a decision that required any more effort than a mouse click. But it was surprisingly difficult to end that life. I remember when I joined Facebook and it doesn't seem like that long ago. I was in Iraq and I did it as a way to keep in touch with friends and family back home. But it's funny how that part of me spiraled into a whole new persona. It's a part of me that I've grown to hate. A face I feel like I put on for other people's enjoyment, even though I know deep down that it's because I wish I was as interesting in real life as I am in cyberspace. Sadly, I admit that I cannot be.

Do you know what it feels like to fall as a leaf does from a tree? Drifting with the wind, lazily flying to earth in a slipstream of time and circumstance? That's how I feel most days. It's a frightening thing...gravity. How does one rely on nothing but the ebb and flow of their own existence and be satisfied with the patch of ground they've randomly come to rest on? I don't know. But for some time now I've felt the pull and have known that I'm supposed to be doing something more than languishing in the fruits of my sometimes not-so-fervent labors. So I rise and fall in these buffeting winds. There are no coherent rhythms other than the soft beating of a lonely heart.

-Jim Franks

This Must Be The Place

Home, is where I want to be. I don't know where that is these days. I've been reduced to living a nomadic life, wandering and searching for the place I belong. Could it be a place in the heart, mine or yours, that will comfort me? I wish I knew.

The home of my youth is a temporary shelter from the crashing and clanging debris that's falling from the sky. I lay now under the same barefoot sun that once warmed my heart as a boy and chased away the cold reality of loneliness. It's a familiar envelopment that reminds me of my mothers embrace...warm yet unsure.

-Jim Franks

Red Ribbons

This prison has now become my home. Time binds me. But when it comes to you, I travel to and from effortlessly. These walls breath and whisper your name. Set me free...my one and only love.

-Jim Franks

An Unfamiliar Rythm

I can't keep my mouth off of your skin. And my hands, like secrets, are the hardest thing to keep from you. Fumbling for rhythm when we kiss, your tongue dances with mine trying hard to keep the soft, wet time. We are not new lovers even if it feels like old pleasures are suddenly gone.  I feel you fading, and soon your star turns to black, even if the love we share runs red until the end of time.  That needle and chain are one, and they plunge down, then wrap around, injecting ecstasy along the way.  In the end it wrings all the blood from a love I could never maintain.


-Jim Franks

31 Flavors

The most important relationship in my life is the one I never had with my father.

Every day I realize a little more that I am the man I have tried hard not to be. Our lives mirror each other in too many ways to ignore. Even though I know it's with him that I have to make my peace I can't ever seem to find the right avenues. I've wanted a direct line to the answer but know one will never come.

As I return now to California and the birthplace of all my sins I've had an epiphany. This landscape is so beautiful, why would anyone ever want to live anywhere else? The shimmering blue Pacific has always tugged at my heart. It's been a place of happiness in a south land memory littered with shards of agony. I ran away from the California of my youth. I went as far away as my mind would take me. I've stayed away for almost 20 years now and on this day I can't honestly call one place on earth "home."

Dad ran away from his home too. He spent years on the run from something that I believe haunted him until he was finally able to return and eventually die in the place he was born. He told me once that, "A man always returns home." At the time I could only think about how I would be an exception to his rule because I could never see myself living in California again. But now, all these years later, I realize what I should have been pondering was his reasons for running, and then what made it OK for him to finally return.

Maybe in those questions I will my find my own answers. His gems of wisdom have mostly proven to be true over the years, try as I might to deny them. For instance; he told me when I was 16 years old that a man can't love one woman until he's had a chance to, "Taste them all." He made some silly reference to 31 flavors of ice cream as he told me that. I remember thinking that even though it sounded a bit too childish he may have actually been right. (He had a great way of tailoring an explanation to any specific mindset so as to make it sound perfectly logical. I can do this too. Problem is that my logic isn't universally agreed with. I see now that his wasn't either.) But I was in love at the time so couldn't see clearly through that fog. Today though, at 43 years old, I laughingly see that I have spent a lot of years eating sugar cones and yet I am still alone. My asshole father thought he was helping me. But what he couldn't have known was that he was actually setting me up for a very long line of discarded little pink spoons as I search in a vain for my favorite flavor.

-Jim Franks

Quote

We tussle and fight, and delight in the tears. Then we cry until dawn...

-JF