Yes, I will water the flowers.
No, these are not Her flowers.
Yes, I will set back the clocks.
No, these are not Her clocks.
Yes, I will take you to the grandkids.
No, these are not Her grandkids.
Yes, I will cut back the roses.
Yes, that grow on Her grave.
I wasn’t there when the wild thing got her. I knew it like you know things in dreams, without knowing how or why– but knowing, with a certainty unrivaled in the walking-around-world.
I didn’t know her, though. I didn’t know who she was, or her name, or how she came to be mauled by a wild beast in the middle of northern Missouri. Still, I somehow recognized her 80 year old self as an unknown other rolled her, in her wheelchair, into church.
Mom and I were seated a few pews back from the front. The lady entered, and terrified, I ushered Mom to the far end of the row. I scanned the entrance for a sign that the wild thing had re-found his victim and followed her inside. I readied for a threat that never came. As hard as I watched, it was only the lady, and once safely seated she smiled and nodded her relief. Mom and I made our way back to the opposite end. We were close enough now that I could see Joan just ahead, and very near the lady. We fastened eyes and the fear faded enough that we could all sit down. We settled back in our seats a little, but I kept one arm linked together with Mom’s, and the other extended, aisle-side, to ward off whatever wrong thing might come.
Mom took note of this new arrangement and said You’re still trying to protect me, aren’t you, kid? And I said Yeah, Mom. I’m trying my best, and I stayed there like that until morning, positioned between her and whatever harm might want to find her, but day broke and the sun burned through and I opened my eyes to find she was gone again anyway.
We are not the kind of people who have lumpectomies. We are the kind of people who sail through a summer with Carole King blasting, luring handsome Kansas boys from 17th street for a dance and a drink.
We are not the kind of people whose parents die. We are the kind of people whose Dad’s take us fishing, whose Mom’s take us swimming, for picnics at the creek.
We are not the kind of people
We are not the kind of
people
We are not the kind of people and we are
the kind of people who
are not the kind of people
we are not.
You might think it cruel
of the Black-Lace Weaver
to eat his parent alive
(within minutes!)
when he’s barely one week old,
but I think I’d be grateful
to the boy for making
such quick haste.
Some species draw it out 50 years,
leave their parents broke
and footless and ask them,
“Can I still have your jewelry?”
the night before they die.
This morning, in the very early morning,
I ribboned through the Allegheny foothills aboard
an eastbound train, where I first saw the trees,
the closest trees to Ichter’s trees that I have ever seen.
These trees that postured upward
were hopeful, lean, and tall in the mist of a
Pennsylvania hillside,
in the midst of a hundred other trees that
were much more squat and half again as round-
happy with themselves just to root and make do.
I thought of the Ichter trees and the who
of he that drew them, wondering if the child he once was
fashioned trees like these
and pinned them on the school hall wall
next to those of his classmates-
with the little round figures of
people-potatoes with legs,
and the requisite yellow sun,
burning bright with the hope for a bigger role
in the upper left hand corner of
the crinkled Big Chief page.
It’s hard to breathe on a moving train
with trees like these around and reaching
high on a Pennsylvania hillside
toward a lacustrine sky–
especially as the train moves on and
the trees give way to the stone remains
of Someone’s former home,
crumbling its grief around the remaining foundation.
Maybe one day in a long way later
I will tell Mr. Ichter about the
willows I grew up with,
whose branches lifted me dry
across creek beds on the way to the
train tracks that cut through Lucerne,
past the chert rock roads
and the beanfields and the Red Brush
water rushing someplace else.
Pennsylvania
1/14/05
West Putnam Ups and Downs
Stitching, seam after seam, it took her the rest of recess to secure my circle skirt to its top and
restore the dress my mom had made for me
I hadn’t yet learned all the lessons the slippery slide had in store
I knew—through siblings or smarter classmates—that wearing shorts underneath
prepared you for playing
…anything.
I knew but didn’t
that day so now I know that
good as it gets, there is the capability of tearing things in two
It takes a skillful teacher to,
on one hand,
sew–despite it not being in the job description–on this side of the door and
send away sight-seekers standing on the other.
She made it seem effortless she seamed so smoothly; mending she made all things seem possible.
I learned a lot that day
My beautiful dress broke in half
it’s back together now -you can’t even see where it hurt my feelings, mom
thanks…to Mrs.Boland
and from skillful schoolteachers before and since…
have hopefully helped others learn some lessons
sliding
now all I need to know is
how to sew
a broken heart
|
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I am underwater and her words reach me in waves:
Doctor unavailable. Appointment rescheduled. Circumstances beyond our control.
I remember drills designed to give my muscles memory
about when to look left and turn right and fake a defender
away from my jumpshot
repeating those same sets of movements
again and again until on game day
the feel of a forward’s breath over my left shoulder
told my arms and hips and head all they needed to know
to do what’s next.
I remembered those drills this morning
in the days before Dr. Dawn
with the phone in my hand and the out-of-town DoctorOfficeLady
telling me why my Mom has to wait again.
I force myself to listen to her vapid explanation as I watch my Mom
lower her head as
she labors to lift her hand
and I practice asking nicely
for reconsideration while other words with
Ms and Fs and the hardest K sounds catch silently in my throat
along with the sentences
I know where you are
and I’ll be coming around to show you
how a daughter feels
when her Mom is in pain
and the doctor unavailable again
and her appointment rescheduled again
and I’m really very sorry for the beating but, honest,
it’s beyond my control.
| miriam
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| Sheila
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| Amy Cunningham
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| miriam
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| Ruby
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| Cranky Ricky
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| c
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| jonnypravda
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| Big Bill
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| Neil
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| Progressivo
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| rrrwomyn
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| Michelle
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| Michelle
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| The Back Porch Philosopher
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| Philip
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| You dont know Jack
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| Mojoman
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| Slade
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