Lori Cassels

Lori Cassels has been published in Ireland of the Welcomes, Irish America Magazine, Alameda Sun Weekly, and Tiny Horizons. She has participated in numerous writer’s workshops, including the UL/Frank McCourt Summer School in Creative Writing, Writers Grotto, and Writing Salon, and was accepted as a Travis Bogard Fellow at the Eugene O’Neill Tao House (2020, 2021). Lori coordinates the Alameda Free Library Writers Group and is a member of the Irish American Writers & Artists Association; she hosted two salons on Zoom featuring writers, poets, and filmmakers.

Peephole

I remember when I knew my nanna had wandered
Into that gray veil, Hades of dementia.
We resided in the same Queens apartment building.
Ascending the stairs together,
Her shuffling feet sounded louder than
Her droning about tea bags she wanted me to try.
Repeated ten times in ten minutes. 

I hurried to my studio across the hall from hers.
“Bye, Nanna,” I quickly said as she closed the burgundy metal door.
I noticed her peephole shook and shuddered, loose-like,
Something not in use anymore.
Puzzled.

Five minutes later, an urgent knock on my door,
Nanna demanding,
“Lori, Lori, Lori,”
Through the peephole, 
Nana resplendent in only her bra and panties,
Holding a box of Barry’s Tea.

“Here.”
“I remembered.”
“Goodnight.”
Proudly, she surefooted her way back to her apartment.
Stunned, still at my door long after she shut hers.

Laughed at first, but the scene
Weighed on my nights,
And any time a door opened on our third floor,
I looked for her from my peephole,
Praying.

Surgery

It was dark still when I dropped you off today
The streets were empty
Just a couple of predawn walkers
Determined yet distracted
Headphones, staring at illuminated cell phones
Missing the hilarious cat
Sitting in the middle of Lincoln Ave., licking its back leg
Stretched high, saluting

Oblivious

We talked about the cat
We talked of the blinking traffic lights
Making us pause, not stop.
We rarely see these
We are never up this early

We don’t talk about the destination

Don’t forget to call my mother when it’s over
Remember to text my sister
She will let everyone know.
We have already discussed this many times
But you feel comfort in the control of information
You say, “Let her know that everything is all right” 

Everything is not all right 

We barely slept after you applied
The body preoperative skin preparation cleanser the doctor gave you
And we were startled when, at 3:34 a.m.
The buzzing alarm jangled our nerves
As you drank the prescribed protein drink 

“Can I have a sip?”  I joked.
You firmly said

“No, you don’t want this”
So true 

I don’t want the surgery to remove the lump
That is cancer
That’s inside of you 

I don’t want the suffering
I know you will bear with the grace
That is kind and true and that is you 

I don’t want to drop you off at Kaiser

I want to be wild again
And live like there’s not a care in the world with no
Doctors’ calls
No dye injections
No pre-operation appointments
No radiation
But that voice in my head is not helpful 

That I must tamp down

The streetlights reflect the glassy hospital windows
Headlights cast a sheen on the asphalt
You drive into the drop-off
I cannot accompany you in, as we are in a pandemic
We hold hands and embrace before I take the driver’s seat 

I watch you enter the maw of the hospital lobby
The automatic door slides open
You enter
Doors slides close
You’re gone 

And I dissolve into the city dawn