Rainy home

A few nice faith shoes images I found:

Wonderful faith shoes:

Baha’i Temple India

Image by Paul Ancheta
Members of the Bahá’í Faith volunteer their time to act as guides for temple visitors. Here, a young Iranian Bahá’í hands out small jute sacks for visitors to keep their shoes in (footwear is not allowed inside the Prayer Hall).

Baharpur Hills, New Delhi, Delhi, India. 14 July 2007.

Beautiful:

New Family Portrait

Image by susan402
This goes into the Work in Progress set because seriously. Still need to upholster the couch, for one thing. The other things the kids will tell you about…
Left to right:

Erin: Hi! I gots a new wig called Penny. It’s s’posed to be the same golden strawberry as my sister’s but it’s lighter. That’s ok, ’cause I’ll know if she takes it. I’m wearing a pretty Kelly dress and Kelly MJs that are too big for me. And I’m sitting on Dillon’s lap but Jenna’s not.

Dillon: Think I could get a wig that’s not so girly? I think I might have liked the Danny Partridge look better. This is Faith by Monique Gold in Brown with blond streaks. I don’t know how anyone’s supposed to see where they’re going under these bangs. Woulda gotten Jojo, but the colors are even worse. And now this crazy chick I live with is telling me we might try something called "Pretty Girl". WTF? If I didn’t like the girls so much (when’s Ciara going to start talking to me anyway?), I would be so outta here. The only thing she’s tried to make for me is a sneaker so I’ve got this one muslin upper on my foot, but she doesn’t even have any pants for me so I’m wearing yellow satin bloomers from a Madame Alexander Sleeping Beauty! Can you believe that sh–

Jenna: [interrupts] Hey, how come Erin gets to sit on Dillon’s lap? I’m pretty in my Penny wig, huh? I got a pretty Kelly dress on, but my feet are stuffed into these MJs that are too small and you can’t even see ‘em in the picture.

Sydney: I got a new Lexy wig in Golden Strawberry, but the bangs are too long. Hope I get a trim soon. I’m wearing the new prototype the sewing lady just made for me. She could have finished it. There’s a pin in my butt. I’m the only one here who doesn’t have shoes. Well, except for Dillon, but at least he’s got one sort of shoe.

Dana: I’ve got this Lexy wig that was waiting for me when I got here. I really like it, even if two of my little sisters are copying me. I found a stretchy Barbie Tshirt and stretchy Ken pants in a bag of old clothes, which is cool because I heard it takes a long time to get clothes around here. I got shoes, though. They’re size 46 "Splendid Ankle Strap" MJs by Monique. They’re a little bit big, but I think they’ll be good with socks. I hope I get my face painted soon. Dillon and Jenna need painting too. Erin’s got some kind of smudge on her face. I think Ciara’s sealer chipped, but I didn’t tell her… I think she’s nervous around Dillon.

Brigit: I got the Lexy wig that Syd and I have been sharing. Now it’s all mine. I’m wearing my prototype that the sewing lady made and then lost the pattern for. She’s messy. She said she learned a valuable lesson, but I don’t think that means she’s not going to be messy anymore. I’ve got white MJs from JR Toys House on eBay. They’re for Blythe when she has socks and they’re too small for me. When I try to take them off my magnetic feet come off too and it’s hard to get them out of the shoes. I’m ‘fraid the sewing lady’s gonna break my toes off or something.

Ciara: I got a pretty new Ginger wig today. It’s blonde with brown streaks I could do without. I wish it was the same golden blonde my sisters have, but it’s ok. Actually, when I first put it on, I thought it was kinda Buffy. You know, like Season 6 Buffy before she cuts it short. I love Season 6. Maybe we’re just watching too much Buffy lately. The sewing lady likes to watch it while she does handwork. Oh, I got new MJ’s too. They’re like Dana’s ‘cept size 54. I don’t know which one is made wrong, but one of them is a little short and hurts my big toe a little. Maybe they’ll stretch. I’m still wearing Bronte’s pink teddy. Which is kind of embarrassing with Dillon around, but at least I have something to wear which is more than I can say for him. Poor Dillon. He’s not very happy. As fluffy as this wig is, I sort of think maybe they should try Paris for him instead of Pretty Girl. But I don’t know. I think they should definitely do his face first because I think having eyebrows makes a really big difference in how things look.

A few nice faith shoes images I found:

Hi,I did the following:,This is about Cotton Dress and Girls Formal Dresses.OK!
Refinement :

untitled

Image by procsilas
…You’ll stumble in my footsteps
Keep the same appointments I kept
If you try walking in my shoes…

Walking in my shoes
Depeche Mode
Songs of Faith and Devotion, 1993

This following not about faith shoes,But funny：A bad beginning makes a bad ending.A friend without faults will never be found.”Hard work never killed anybody.” But why take the risk? ” Choose an author as you choose a friend..Save water. Shower with your girlfriend. 。OK！good!！Beautiful:

Image by wakingphotolife:
Chapter 2.

—

The nursing home where my mom lives is on the edge of Oakland’s Chinatown. And every month, I make the two hour drive to see her. She’s grown childish there, endearing in the way that only the old can be.

It’s become her habit to tease me when I’m around. “Look at him now,” she says to her friends and the nurses “I remember your face when it was like this.”

She moves her hands apart and arches her arthritic fingers to form an invisible ball. She likes to tell me about her friend’s daughters, the ones who are not married, since I am the only favor left that you she can arrange. I take the suggestions and naturally, I laugh them off.
“You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Oh, but I do have to,” she’d say.

She’s in her bed when I come into her room today. It’s Sunday. The light from the window blinds is slanted across her bed and the windows are open. A slight breeze knocks the blinds gently against the window frame. She’s focused on her book, “The Joy Luck Club”, and doesn’t notice me walking in.

“Do you actually like that?” I say.

She looks up and peers at me from over the rim of her reading glasses. Her eyes widen for a second, as though she had been expecting someone else, but they shrink when she realizes it’s me.

“Matter of fact, I do. Should I not?” she says, pushing them back up.
“No, I’m just asking. How are you mom?”
“Don’t be a book snob. I’m the same as always.”
“That’s good then. I’ve brought you something."

I put the photo album and a fresh bouquet of lilies next to the vase and lean into her for a hug. Her skin is cold and her hair smells medicinal. Bony fingers dig around my shoulders and release. She has hugged me in the same way since I was a boy; it’s the only way she knows how.

“Have you been losing weight?”
“I don’t know. Do you think I have?”
“You feel skinnier than the last time you visited.”
“I guess I’ve just been busy. I’ve almost finished moving. Ray and Doris offered me a room in their place.”
“Ray and Doris?”
“The neighbors remember? The detective with the pregnant wife. Anyway, I’ve brought you flowers.”
“I don’t know why you spend money on them,” she says.
“I bring them because I know you like them. You always kept them around the house.”
“Did I?”
“You did.”
“Which house?”
“The one in Sacramento.”

Her memory is deteriorating; I have to remind her of her former habits more often now. It comes and goes. On some days, she is able to recall events and details with a startling sharpness that surprises me. On other days, she is blank and I help her fill things in.

“What do you have this time?” she says.
I take the bouquet off and set it on her lap.
“They’re lilies,” I say, “I got them at Kiyo’s.”
“Kiyo’s a good place for flowers.”
“How do you know that?”
“Your father use to go there when he was living in Oakland.”
“You mean before I was born.”
“You’d never know but he was a very thoughtful man,” she says.
“I’m sure he was. Put them next to your nose. They’re fresh, you’ll like how they smell.”

She dog-ears the corner of the page she’s on and slides the book underneath her pillow. The cover is torn and the pages are water damaged. I remind myself to find her a newer copy at Moe’s later.

There’s an entire shelf here with books that use to belong to me.

I empty the flower vase into the bathroom sink and throw the dry and withered violets into the trash can. They are dry and withered. Violets—I am not sure who brought them but they are my mom’s least favorite flowers. Looking at their poor condition, I am surprised that none of the nurses have changed them out.

I take my glasses off and put them next to the sink. The water feels cool on my face. I fill my cupped hands and lean forward, resting my eyes in the pond until the water warms. When I put my glasses back on, I can see my pale skin and dark circles. Last night, I wrote to Anne.

On and off routines: when I am feeling good, I write to her. When I’m not and full of resentment, she doesn’t exist. Neither of these things accomplishes what I want them to. It is what it is. When one person puts in constant energy without anything in return, even the most devoted lose faith.

But routines are routines. Ray likes to tell me, “If you don’t have a routine, then you don’t have a life.”

After writing her, I spent the rest of the night awake in bed, unable to sleep until the sky was a light gray and Lhasa had come in to settle on the carpet at the foot of the bed.

“I’ve brought you something else too.” I open the photo album. The sheen from the leather’s patina of the brown leather shines like a well oiled pair of shoes. “Do you remember these? I found them in my house”

My mom puts her glasses back on.

“Where?”
“In my attic, just laying in a box.”
“Your dad and I have been looking for them.”
“I don’t know why I had it but there it was while I was moving,” I say.

She turns the pages in the album slowly, in the same way that I did when I found it.

“I know. I almost forgot what you use to look like too."
“I was beautiful,” she says.
“Sure. Do you remember this one?”

I show her the photo of the two of us standing in front of the merry-go-round at Great America. I take the photo out and place it in her hands. “This was on my fifth birthday.”

She studies it, rubbing her right thumb, searching for something recognizable, over the corner..

“You smile a lot more now,” I say.
“Do I?”
“You do.”
“That’s probably because I’ve got so much fee time. Your father took so many photos of you back then. When he visited last week, he said you were his best work.”
“Oh did he? What else did he say?”

Sometimes she talks about about my dad as if he was still here. I hear a lot of things: business trips in Taiwan, the newly opened hotel, a wig factory, a restaurant and cafe in Taipei, versions of him that I never knew because they don’t exist—I don’t have the heart to tell what’s real and what’s not.

“The two of you should talk more. I don’t like it when you guys are like this.”
“I’ll try and see if he’s around,” I say, “How is he now?”
“He’s doing good. He was so tanned the last time he was here. You should have seen him. He told me that it was because he spent a few days in Kenting but forgot to bring his hat.”
“That’s amazing. He never gets tanned.”
“Oh but he does now. I don’t mind it, he looks so much younger now. It makes the two you look much more alike. He’ll be back next month. Why don’t the both of you come together?”
“I’d like to” I say.
There’s not much else that I can say.
“Look at this one,” she says.

She’s pointing to a photo of me standing next to a girl with long brown hair and a sheepish smile. We are standing next to each other in front of the gate to the elementary school I went to after we moved. She was my first crush and my first girlfriend. We lasted two weeks before her mom found out.

“You use to paint all these pictures of her and hang them in your room. Whatever happened ?”
“We graduated and got older.”
“What was her name?”
“I don’t really remember,” I say, “I think it was Sarah.”
“May’s daughter is named Sarah too.”
“May?”
“My new friend down the hall,” she says.
“I see.”

The nursing assistant smiles as she peers into the room. It’s a new nurse; many of them rotate in and out at this center. This one has short hair that tilts forward when she looks into her clipboard.

“I don’t mean to disturb you guys but we’re going to be having lunch soon,” she says. “You must be John, you should join us.”
I look at my mom.
“Sure,” I say.

I hold her walker steady as she leans into it. One hand is placed against the small of her back while the other is on her shoulder. Together, we walk past all the other rooms on her side of the ward. Everything smells of clean laundry and I can hear our footsteps like walking in a hospital at night.

Most of the doors are closed. For the ones that are open, my mom stops and waves hello at the people inside. She introduces me to each of them. “This is my son, John,” she says, unaware that I have met most of them already. They all go along with it and I say hello.

Some of them watch TV. Some read or knit. In one room, a woman, wearing a grey beanie, stares out her window. She’s not aware of us.
“That’s Alice. She hasn’t been doing to well recently,” my mom says.
“Is she a friend of yours?”

I remember Alice from the last few visits. She always sat in the corner of the living room, by herself, while the other women congregated, playing chess, knitting, and gossiping about how their former husbands and families, former lives.

“She was very sweet,” my mom says.
“What happened?”
“Stroke.”
“I see.”

I never know how to respond to these kinds of things. My mom talks about it in the same way she’d talk about a practically cold day.

**

There are a few people in the dining room when we arrive. We sit down by the window and the same nursing assistant comes by to greet us. Now that it’s lunch, she is even more bubbly.

“Do you guys need help with anythiiiing?” she asks.
She stretches out the last syllable of every word. It annoys me.

“We’re okay,” I say.
“Are you guys sure?”
Her smile is very wide.

“We’re okay. I appreciate it though.”
“Well let me know if need anything okaaay?”
“Sure.”

The nursing assistant goes back to stacking plates and arranging utensils by the food trays.

“You can be a little nicer John,” my mom says.
“What did I do wrong?”
“Just accept it when people want to help. This is why I worry about you.”
I laugh.
“It’s nothing. Come on. Anyway, I’ll get your plate for you,” I say.
“What’s there today?”
“I’ll take a look.”

Food trays are lined up at one end of the dining room. Oven-roasted chicken breast, rice, Caesar salad, a pot of tomato and egg soup, and mashed potatoes. I come back with a plate of mashed potatoes, chicken, and soup.

Small drops of the orange liquid dribble off the edges of my mom’s spoon. I notice the tremors in her hand when she raises it towards her mouth. I take her knife and fork and start to cut the chicken breast into smaller pieces.
"I’m fine John."
"Don’t worry about it."

A woman with a thick gray perm arrives beside our table.

“Susan! I see you’re eating outside today. Do you mind if we join you?” the woman says. She’s standing without a walker. Next to her is a younger woman in a white blouse and dark blue skirt, someone around my age, I assume it’s her daughter. She has a black clutch pinned between her arm and side. Before we can answer, they are siting down across from us.

“How are you Susan?”
“Same as usual,” my mom says.
“Is this your son?”
“I’m John,” I say, "It’s nice to meet you."

The tone of her voice reminds me of past their prime real estate agents.

“It’s nice to finally see you, she’s talked a lot about you.”
“Has she?”
“All the time. Don’t ask me what she says though. Girl talk. I’m May.This is my daughter Sarah.”
“Hi,” Sarah says.

I reach over to the table and shake their hands softly.

My mother has grown quiet and is staring out the window. I put my hand on her knee underneath the table and she returns to us.

“May! How are you?”
“Getting better. Still trying to get use to things here. Sarah finally came to visit. Can you believe that?”
“You’ve only been here for a week and a half,” Sarah says.
“Oh I know! But soon, once a week becomes once a month to hardly at all,” May says.
“You don’t have to worry about that,” my mom says, “There’s always people around.”

Sarah and May do not look alike. Her face is the opposite of her mother’s sharp and bony features. And her voice is soft and low. As the dining room fills up, I find myself having to actively pay attention or her sentences would drop in and out of hearing.

After lunch, our mothers lead us to the activities room. A nursing attendant gives us a sheet of paper with their names written across the top with a diagram showing where their pieces were from their unfinished game. Sarah and I lay arrange our mother’s kings, queens, bishops, knights, rooks, and pawns.

“We started this last night but couldn’t finish before bedtime,” my mom says.
“If you didn’t spend so much time thinking, we would be done already,” May says.
“What’s the rush. We’ve got plenty of time.”
Both of the women laugh.

Sarah and I sit across from each other at the table. She watches the game as it unfolds in its languid pace, with her chin on her hand.

“Are you from here?” I ask Sarah while pointing to a stray rook diagonal of my mom’s bishop.
“Hey. No helping,” Sue says.
“Sorry,” I say.
My mom pats my knee underneath the table.

“Kind of. We’re from San Jose,” Sarah says without looking up, “You?”
“I grew up in San Jose but living in Sacramento now.”
“That’s far from here isn’t it.”
“It’s not that far; it’s about a two drive,” I say.
“If the two of you want to talk, take it outside,” May says. Her eyes do not leave the chess board. Without either of us noticing, the competitiveness has escalated.

Sarah looks as bored as I do.

“Do you want to get some coffee?” I ask her.

**

“How long has your mom been here?” Sarah says as we make our way back to the dining room.

Residents and nurses move through the halls. We pass by a room with Chow Yun Fat’s melancholic face looking back at us from a projection screen. It’s my first time here during the afternoon. I’ve always visited early in the morning or at night.

“Close to a year already,” I say.
“What’s that like?”
“It’s been good actually. The staff here do a great job.”
“I don’t mean about the nursing home,” she says.

The dining room is empty again and the nursing assistants are busy wiping table tops down and sweeping the floor. A few seniors sit by themselves, alternating between staring into their plates and taking small mouthfuls.

“It was difficult at first. But I realized that she would be better here than living with me.”

I wondered how true that was. Maybe it was me who lived better without having to take care of her.

“How long was that?”
“Two years. I guess it was the same for you?”
“Kind of. I was working in Seattle for a time when I was with my husband, My parents stayed in California. When my dad passed away, she was suddenly on her own,” Sarah says.
“It was the same for us too. Did you try to convince her to move to Seattle?”
“She didn’t want to. A little after that, we separated and I thought it’d be good for me to come back to California to be with her. I would’ve never worked out. She’s not a rainy day person as you can tell. I guess you can understand the rest after that."

The alarm on the coffee machine goes off. I find mugs for the both of us and pour.

“You know what. It’s because we’re Asian,” I say.
Sarah laughs. “Why’s that?”
“If we were white, they’d would’ve been here a long time ago. And we wouldn’t feel bad.”
“True.”

The bitter aroma of coffee and Sarah’s faint perfume stirs something potent. Scents are the strongest triggers for our memories. They’re also the least tangible. When they’re not around, you hard remember them at all. Have you ever tried to remember how something smelled? In your imagination only?

I think about the bedroom that I still have to pack.

“We should take bets,” I say, “Your mom or mine. I’ll collect on it the next time if I see you the next time we’re here.”
“And when would that be?” she says.
“Same time every month. Routines are nice once in a while. They like consistency.”

—

Chapter 1.

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