I used to collect weird newspaper headlines and stories. One of them inspired the poem below.

"Escaped Patients Killed by Train"

was the headline

that would have everyone believe

in irony as flesh:

hot-blooded and glamorous,

gorgeous and deadly;

always poised perfectly

to strike.

On the other hand,

may I point out

that the story itself

tells a different tale:

how the two women

"had walked out of the mental health unit

unnoticed

even though the two-story facility was locked,

and lay down

in front of a freight train

that struck and killed them."

Irony,

in this case,

not hot-blooded at all,

but actually a bit clammy

and somewhat annoyed

at having to crouch patiently

under bridges

and wait for victims.

The Train,

in this particular case,

entirely free

from any real guilt,

just in the wrong place at the wrong time—

yet, to the women,

wholeheartedly right

on schedule.

by Samantha Prust

I panicked because I thought I my midlife crisis was beginning, but then I really examined the situation. What the heck is a midlife crisis anyway? I mean, how can you have a midlife crisis in a country where you can go to one department store and get everything you need to make your life better; full of appeal and free of all pain and inconvenience, all in all, more wonderful?

You start out in cosmetics: rows of coal black eye pencils, luminescent lipsticks, tubes of gritty mud masks, tubes of rub-in cellulite remover, tiny clear jars of sticky age-defying gels, pink bottles of hair-strengthener, and dandruff remover.

Then on to the pharmacy: headache-aides, stomach-aides, pills that make you alert, pills that put you to sleep, pills that dissipate uncomfortable and embarrassing gas, pills that make you think better, powders that make you thinner, powders that make you stronger.

In aisles of kitchen wares: shiny silver garlic presses, stout wooden pepper grinders, white plastic-handled carrot peelers, handy egg slicers, electric can openers, electric breadmakers, electric knife sharpeners, electric woks, electric waffle irons, electric sandwich makers, even electric salsa makers.

Make your way to bath items: faux-marble toothbrush holders, in green, black and grey, little matching rinse cups, little wicker baskets for soaps and bubblebath or shells, if you prefer, plush toilet seat covers in sheepskin, or a new toilet seat altogether in wood or sponge-filled plastic.

In bedding, bigger, softer pillows, double-cushioned mattress pads, fuzzy flannel sheets, smooth satin sheets, flouncy dust ruffles that hide unsightly junk lurking under beds, satin eye masks you wear to keep out all light while you’re sleeping so that even your dreams are better.

So what is a midlife crisis? It must be discovering that it's not much longer before you're halfway to death and there’s no mud mask or gel, no pill or powder, no electric anything, not the plushest toilet seat cover in the world, not the softest pillow, that can stop that. But that's okay. I don't want to live forever—unless there's a pill for that.

by Samantha Prust

This is the first year that my hubs and I have grown a full-scale garden. We turned our backyard from a place where we watered and mowed grass into a place where we grow our own food. We planted just about everything: beans, corn, squash, melons, broccoli, radishes, onions, scallions, snap peas, zucchini, Swiss chard, garlic, basil, dill, four lettuce varieties, four tomato varieties, four carrot varieties, two beet varieties, two cucumber varieties, two potato varieties, two pumpkin varieties and two watermelon varieties. I also planted marigolds, sweet alyssum and two kinds of sunflowers in and around the garden based on the organic gardening method called companion planting, which recommends planting certain flowers next to certain vegetables to attract beneficial insects or repel or divert harmful pests.

I love the idea of the potager garden: a mixture of vegetables and flowers, utility and beauty. But vegetable plants are also beautiful and flowers are also utilitarian; in the garden, there's no distinction between the two. I'm amazed at how the plants and flowers we stuck in the ground as seed have transformed to full grown plants that will eventually bear luscious gems that you can eat right off the vine or add to your recipes. Being in awe of how plants grow must be something that all beginning gardeners experience, something that you take for granted if you've never tried to grow your own food. Gardening also gives me a chance to be creative, to learn and challenge myself in unfamiliar territory and to get gratification from hard work. Being in the garden clears my mind, gets me out of my head and makes me focus on the here and now. It also has the ability to be meditative and reflective; you never know what you'll find among the foliage—spiders, ladybugs, bees, and epiphanies. This year is only the beginning; I plan to continue my "garden therapy" for years to come.

Here's one of my favorite poems, by Li-Young Lee, that says what I feel about gardening much better than I could.

From Blossoms

From blossoms comes

this brown paper bag of peaches

we bought from the joy

at the bend in the road where we turned

toward signs painted peaches.

From laden boughs, from hands,

from sweet fellowship in the bins,

comes nectar at the roadside, succulent

peaches we devour, dusty skin and all,

comes the familiar dust of summer,

dust we eat.

O, to take what we love inside,

to carry within us an orchard, to eat

not only the skin, but the shade,

not only the sugar, but the days, to hold

the fruit in our hands, adore it, then bite into

the round jubilance of peach.

There are days we live

as if death were nowhere

in the background; from joy

to joy to joy, from wing to wing,

from blossom to blossom to

impossible blossom,

to sweet impossible blossom.

The Breeze

            In the supermarket next to the checker’s cash register sat a miniature fan.

            It wasn’t the type of miniature you might place in a curio cabinet or set up on a shelf, just to look at.

            This was a working heavy duty machine, that provided a welcome breeze to a woman  plaqued  by the villains of the menopausal flash.

            I questioned her about it, because of its size, which looked to be about seven inches tall and about four inches wide and was incased in a slick plastic black tower, which made it look like an air purifier. Then  I wondered why she would need one in this perfectly clean market I had frequented for years.

            She told me that two years ago she had the same thought, and she was desperate for a solution, until the salesman in the electronic store turned it on and melted her perspiration away.

“Wow,” she said. “What a powerhouse this is in such a tiny body.”

He told her; by using the casement of one of their little air purifiers they could add enough power fore a strong flow of air and still keep a small foot print, which would allow it to fit almost anywhere.           

 She said she’d take it and never looked back.

            “When the flashes started they came every fifteen minutes and didn’t care if I was sleeping or at work. No matter what time of day, the sweat would pour off my face and drip onto my clothes. I must have registered eighty degrees. This fan was then and still is a lifesaver.”

            I smiled and was glad she found a solution.

           Just before I was about to pay for my groceries, she asked me if the breeze bothered me.

            With both thumbs pointed up, I answered in solidarity,  “No, I get it.”

The pressure dropped. The thunderheads rolled in and buckled against the city’s height, then cushioned there, they threatened. Nothing less than dangerous.

“I can’t wait to get outta the city,” you said.

It seemed everything was rusting.

“Give me a haircut,” you said.

The scissors were dull. Lightning flashed at the windows.

The ivy crept near. That red chair, scraping, scraping, until you could see just right in the china cabinet’s mirror (I didn’t want you to see what I was doing).  Thunder. The humidity and the roughly cut hairs made my nose itch. So much damn DAX in your hair, my fingers were shining. Smoothed the hair between my forefinger and middle finger, snip, snip. Here, there. No plan.

You complained: “Too long here.”

I always admitted I didn’t know what I was doing.

You liked it, after all. You preened. The storm had already ended.

After you had driven across the bridge toward the city, I realized you were gone. I dug a wad of your hair from the bathroom garbage. Rubbed it between my fingers. It produced no effect. I smelled it. Nothing. For a second I thought about stuffing it in my pocket. Instead, I stared at it until it was only hair, then I buried it in the trash can among the tissues and cardboard rolls, deep down, underneath everything.