Age-Old Dramas I Can't Help but Experience

My heart is at it again, I’m afraid. This world is too much for me with its babies dying in fires and sons hacking their mothers to death. My heart breaks a little each time I watch the news. But it’s the close at hand reality that really gets me. Today at the library, the five little old ladies in their wheelchairs, shuffling feet propelling them forward. I flash forward myself, to see them back in their nursing home rooms by themselves, living out their days staring at white walls and only ever half reading the books they choose. Or later at the grocery store, the man in his wheelchair-stickered car, stuck halfway in and out of the parking space because his car won’t start. I stop and offer to help. He doesn’t need me and says it will start again soon. He sounds surprised at my offer. I wonder what he is going home to. See the two small blue bags on the seat next to his cane. I imagine what cold house or dark rooms await him tonight. And I wonder about myself. Will all the pieces of my heart be eaten up in these vignettes by the time I reach old age? Or does each encounter fill me up, make me speak more gently, love more deeply, and prepare me for the time when I will be alone, with only the memories of long-ago days for my companions.

Her Forest Room

They run without coats today, so warm for the middle of November. I cannot fathom that I will have the windows open much longer. But today it is warm air that flutters in with the last of the autumn leaves. She lures her little brother to the forest room, a tiny space in the back corner of our yard, surrounded by good neighbors and their fences. This is her place, my girl. A sanctuary from her days of school and chores and brothers, she has named this corner of the world and takes her dolls there to play pretend. She has asked me to rake the leaves away. Bare dirt massages her bare feet and this is how she likes to play. She is so willing to lose her shoes and her inner critic as she dances and climbs the tree that makes a Y up to the heavens. Her brother spares his shoes, but dances and twirls like the somersaulting leaves. They are Indians, raccoons, Boy Scouts today. Each game of pretend melds into the next until neither one is quite sure where they are. They drum loudly on the overturned garbage can with bats and sticks. Good ear-plugs also make good neighbors. I marvel at these children and their personalities. So free in this back yard to dance and dream and be. Not constrained by shoes or peers or weather. May they always be as free as the leaves that tumble from my half-constructed pile.

Where I'm From

I am from charred wood and Pine-Sol,
From the smell of beef stew cooking on the stove
And the sound of football announcers on the t.v.

I am from oak trees and tire swings
And a conifer I planted myself on the back patio.
From a tiny house just big enough for love
And a Barbie Convertible and numerous changes of clothes.

I am from Charles and Rosemary and
The Kelly family from Ireland.
From “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing right.”
And “The only thing boring about it is you.”

I am from Irish eyes and cousins picked up at the airport,
From endless summer days in the tomato patch
And nights chasing fireflies and jumping fish in the Bay.

I am from a culture of writers and storytellers
And stories about the one that got away.
From working hard first and then relaxing
With a good book or a good drink.

I am from a giant garbage bag full of photos
Sepia-toned and aging in my mother’s attic.
Some long-forgotten people and memories they made.
The moments of my history unknown,
That I am now condemned or convinced to repeat.

It's Not Nice to Rake the Dead

The sun sinks lower in the afternoon now, somehow brighter and closer to me, though I know that is not possible. And I stand in my yard, thinking that I have seen this all before. My rake is my pen and I write on the memories I keep. Another fall day. Another leaf pile. Another parent raking and piling just to see his work scattered all around the yard.

The children play hide & seek. I love the magic of the game. Wherever two or more are gathered, the game is renewed when neighbor kids and cousins come to play. They run through my yard on this bright afternoon, too warm for November. They tiptoe through grass in bare feet, toes amazed to be free. They hide in the leaf piles I create. I am careful about where I rake.

The stew cooks on the stove inside. Hearty potatoes and carrots that I peeled myself. The Italian bread lies waiting for butter and grubby outside hands to devour it. My knife is my pen and I serve these memories to my children at dinner.

The leaves are dead. As is my father. So much of what I knew and believed has also died. My rake churns on and scours the grass, the crinkling sound loud in my ears. Reminds me of a joke my sister told. “Are you raking leaves that have died? It’s not nice to rake the dead.” But I must. And I do. On this too warm fall day with the sun hazy and peeking through the trees, I haul these leaves to the curb. I pile the tarp high with crumpled leaves and worn out dreams. I try to pile on all the dead things, hide them in the leaves with broken promises and twigs and missing moments that I thought I knew. The tarp is heavy as I gather the corners, careful not to spill the funeral of my thoughts on my whitewashed lawn. My work goes on. And so do I.

The children run giggling through the yard. And I remember. The stew on the stove in the kitchen. The crinkling of leaves in huge piles. The fun of hide & seek and jumping in piles of leaves. And I wonder if she is buried in the tarp below the leaves: that little girl who dreamed like a queen so many years ago. And suddenly, I am not sure if I am the girl or the parent or the dream. Or maybe I am just a skittish leaf that is tumbling from the tarp today.

Things the Garbage Men Won't Take

I love the miracle of the garbage men who cart away the rubbish in my life. They arrive so early to my house each Monday they seem like fairies in the night. No running curbside in my pajamas with a forgotten bag; I can never catch these tricky goblins. Plus it’s Monday; who is at their best speed on Monday morning? So yes, the bags and bundles must be flailing on the lawn the night before or they will spend another week stinking up the garage.

They take everything, these guys, and last week they were cursing my name, I am sure. The pile of garbage covered the tree lawn and spilled onto the sidewalk. The detritus of so many years hiding in my garage and attic and basement. Two mattresses that graced the big boy bed of my son, hand-me-downs sagging and stained. A broken table. Another table, functional but ugly. Five bags of regular garbage, banana peels and coffee grounds spilling from their bags. Two baby strollers. One broken soccer net. One thousand little toys from McDonald’s Happy Meals that I snuck into the bottom of the cans. A broken mirror. Already had my seven years of bad luck. It can go too while the guys are at it. An iron fireplace grate given to me by my neighbor. He’s gone too, but it was a beautiful Arizona lady that lured him away. A broken lamp. A piggy bank with no lid, the money already spent anyway. A broken ladder, covered in peach paint. A pile of empty boxes. A tiny bassinet for a baby doll. The little daughter that played with it has also vanished. Yet another table stained with homemade red silly putty and the two matching chairs that were always being used to scale the desk to the fish tank. The puffy slip from under my wedding dress worn so many years ago.

But its what the garbage men won’t take that I am thinking about today. They won’t take tires or fire extinguishers. They can’t be bothered with my broken heart or the bruised ego or giant vacuum of emptiness that are eating up my vision and soul. I even try to trick them like I did with the paint cans. Wrap up these inadequacies, brokenness, unspent dreams and squirrel them away in a box criss-crossed with duct tape. Duct tape covers a multitude of sins I know. But the garbage men caught me that day and ripped the taped boxes open before spilling the cans and paint all over the lawn. It looked like a crime scene. I know better than to sneak things into the garbage these days. And duct tape doesn’t work so well when dealing with feelings and dreams.

And so these things stink up my heart. The books I don’t read to my children. The deeds I don’t do for my sweet mother. The kind words I don’t say to my students. And most of all these days, the pile of garbage is filled with the dreams I never tried for myself, the harshness and emptiness I let others impose on me, the broken pieces that I can’t quite fit back together of the woman I used to be and the one I want to become. And that refuse is doing much more damage than the reeking moldy bags of cheese in my garage.

After Apple Picking

So many, many rainy mornings and sunny afternoons, that window was my gateway to the field of apple trees across the country road. Like sentries guarding the stories that I taught, the seasons’ leaves budded and fell with Odysseus and Romeo and Huck Finn. I would stare out that window, poised at the podium while students scribbled and fretted, made connections and language. And in my million and one moments, I never once thought of you. I dreamed and pondered, but never once believed that you would be here, a wiry boy of five, clutching your sweating dirt-stained palm to mine.

And now we stand like sentries, action figures hiding from the bad guys in the apple orchard. And now I am on the other side of the window and the other side of the world, it seems. Perspective is a funny thing. You are what I didn’t know to wish for in those dark mornings when the mist rose over the apple trees or those warmest of afternoons when I could hear the shouts of children field-tripping among the apple rows.

And now it is you and I who run through these fields, reaching past our grasp to where the juiciest apples remain unpicked. Your brother and sister join in our game, but it is you that understands the beauty of the fall fields, the miracle of crisp air and worms in green apples and the sting of cider up our noses from the piles of rotting fruit at our feet.

It is you that pulls me back to my grandmother’s yard, so many years ago when I was a girl of your age. Sprawled not in an orchard, but under the one giant apple tree by the bay, I would flatten myself against the earth so the wind would not find me. The October sun beat sparingly, so busy playing peek-a-boo with the clouds. And as I lay, I watched my dad climb the ladder to reach the ripest harvest.

Now you are the sweet son playing peek-a-boo between Rome and Macintosh. And you are the window through which I can see the girl who used to be and the parent I miss so much. And you my son, the apple of my eye, reflect the lessons I sometimes forget: beating the bad guys, searching for honor and apples without worms, and breathing deeply on a sun-kissed fall day.

Matryoshka

My heart rips a little each time I drive away.
Although I suppose the holes in me leave more
Room for love and dreams and power.
That’s what I like to think anyway.
The longing is a puzzle that rips me up
And then sews me back piece by piece.

And the paradox is that each patch
Makes me stronger. Kiln-fired strength
To use in fierce arenas where I fight
The fires of my days and
The loneliness that snuggles close at night.

My heart is not used to being free.
And my spirit and intellect enjoy your playground too.
The wonder of your piercing eyes and strong hand in mine
And the dimple that dances with your words
Plays on my mind as the wheels roll on.

I drive and drive, trying to stuff the pieces of my heart
Back in the box, as if they can return miraculously, perfectly,
like those Russian nesting dolls.
But they never truly fit this way
And there is no room now for packing peanuts that
Cushion the blows in transit.
The bruises will be deep this time.

The road does not cleanse me as I wish.
The miles of flat fields cannot erase
The smell of you in my hair and
Your voice in my ear.
You stick to me like eyeballs to monsters’ hands
And cat hair to black jeans.
And even in my sadness you make me
Smile.

I love you with the fierce protection of a mother bear
Although I cannot take credit for any of you,
Except for your re-birth in my heart and
The dreams I hear when the lights are out and you
Let me chalk a door around your soul.