No Such Thing as Big Brother... ?

If I were one of those humans who engaged in the creation of conspiracy theory
(which I am not)
I think I would wonder far more than I have about the price of gasoline.

If I tended toward a belief that the government, in the end, has an alternative agenda
(which I don't)
I might be concerned that congress does not seem to be doing anything about its skyrocketing cost.

If I looked for someone to blame for my dwindling bank account and the ever-increasing depth of Exxon McScrooge's money-vault
(which I simply won't do)
I might think that paying so much for gas would be the only way the government could coerce my fellow Americans and I to get rid of our S.U.V.'s

To improve our energy independence.

And fight terrorism.

And help the auto industry by buying another car sooner.

If I owned an S.U.V., I might consider these things.
But I don't.

And the government's on our side.
So I won't.

But it would force our big-car-American-habits to change.
So... I might.

If water is
To cure.
To calm.
To change.
Just How do you deal
When Water’s the thing
that makes you feel
Forgotten
Forsaken
Forlorn?

Once Upon a Time, A Grandmamma Lived in the Bronx

There’s never enough time, is there? My father’s mother, my very dear Grandmamma, passed away recently after a long illness. She was 91. I knew her my entire life, and it wasn’t long enough. I have inherited, among other things, her furniture.
Family photos.
Photos of people I’ve never met.
Thank you notes from weddings.
Funeral cards for people I didn’t know.
Funeral cards for people I loved.
Copies of her wedding invitations.
Her elementary school diploma.
Hats in styles that range over 8 decades.
Construction paper cards I made her as a child.
A ring from the 1939 world’s fair.
A red and brass lamp.
A blue and brass lamp.
A pair of lamps, one a female statue, one a male statue.
Curtains.
Curtain clips.
Silverware marked “Brd. Of Ed. NYC.”
Letters.
A coffee pot.
A music box.
A cat.
Statues of saints.
A 3-inch wide roll of some sort of cellophane.
Knickknacks.
Paper card made for her by my father as a child.
A hairbrush.
Plates.
Jewelry.
And photo after photo with stories behind them that I’ll never know. And I can’t ask who is in them, where they were taken, how she was feeling. Was she happy, or just smiling for the photos? Did she like the other people but just lose track of them as life and children and aging parents got in the way? What dreams did she have as a child that she never fulfilled? All the trappings of a life… but you can never know a person by looking at their leftover stuff… at the dross that’s still here, once the light goes wherever it goes. All there are then are memories of organ-playing, of big family dinners, a box turtle who somehow learned to beg for meatballs, black olives on fingers, and the… er… unique taste of Bronx water.