Stark white scar against my dappled skin,
Reminds me of days spent with him and
Kool-Aid stands,
Driveway Monopoly,
Garden adventures laden with strawberries and tomatoes.
One particular rainy day, I reached into my closet
In search of a quiet inside game.
Instead
Raw nail, old nautical mural which my Mother deemed unacceptable for viewing,
Injured girl
Bleeding a trail from that dark closet.
The picture hidden and dangerous
Just like his secret love for me.
He weathered the wound of my later refusal
Our ships passing farther apart than my Mother’s
muted mural recommended.
No Band-Aid large enough to cover my “No”
He sought his balm later in a Florida cult.
Deeper search, redder blood.
I wonder about the white of his scar.
Tuesday, June 30, 2009
Monday, June 29, 2009
Tonight I Write
Tonight I write:
For this baby bunny with ears at attention, so thin of body and translucent of skin.
For the squirrel in the branch of this tall maple, playfully jumping, no fear of falling to the earth.
For the robins that are hopping, testing an evening meal as the last of the sun’s orb sinks into the waiting earth.
I write for the mother duck sitting stoicly on her nest, ten eggs waiting to break life open.
And for the blue jays, not even the calm of evening can shake them from their sharp anger.
Tonight I write.
For the garden and seeds still softly buried, willing their sharp hulls to give way to tender sprouts.
For the white-flowered astilbe whose branches already reach for the sun.
For the newest lilac bush, whose leaves are turning brown but who refuses to give up her sweet scents.
And I write for the man who tilled so many gardens when my hands were yet small.
It is for him that I write.
The sunsets and the harvestings cannot quiet the lessons from those gardener’s eyes.
And his secrets still dance in the light of the fireflies pulsing in my yard this night.
Tonight I listen, and tonight I write.
For this baby bunny with ears at attention, so thin of body and translucent of skin.
For the squirrel in the branch of this tall maple, playfully jumping, no fear of falling to the earth.
For the robins that are hopping, testing an evening meal as the last of the sun’s orb sinks into the waiting earth.
I write for the mother duck sitting stoicly on her nest, ten eggs waiting to break life open.
And for the blue jays, not even the calm of evening can shake them from their sharp anger.
Tonight I write.
For the garden and seeds still softly buried, willing their sharp hulls to give way to tender sprouts.
For the white-flowered astilbe whose branches already reach for the sun.
For the newest lilac bush, whose leaves are turning brown but who refuses to give up her sweet scents.
And I write for the man who tilled so many gardens when my hands were yet small.
It is for him that I write.
The sunsets and the harvestings cannot quiet the lessons from those gardener’s eyes.
And his secrets still dance in the light of the fireflies pulsing in my yard this night.
Tonight I listen, and tonight I write.
Eight Years to Miss Him
It was eight years ago this day. A balmy Friday morning in Jamaica. I was sitting on the patio eating the freshest mango and papaya I had ever indulged in. But something just didn't feel right. The only way I can explain it is that I got a strange feeling that overtook me. I called home to check on my Dad, who had been hospitalized for four months before rolling me down the aisle a few days before. He was not in the rehab room where he had been, and I panicked. I finally tracked him down in the ICU. I never believed I would have to ask that question to my mother: "Is he going to die?" The answer was worse: "Yes." He had been in a coma for most of the week and his blood pressure was so dangerously low. My Mom held the phone to his ear so I could say good-bye. I thanked him for his love and his lessons. I told him I loved him. I cried in his ear. I hung up the phone to jump on a plane back to Cleveland and he died ten minutes later. I know he heard me. What a gift to be able to say good-bye. I wish it had not been so soon and he had not suffered so, but I know that he heard me. Time has not really erased the pain of that day, finding out my Dad died when I stopped for a layover in Charlotte, but
time has sharpened the lessons my Dad taught me and the love that he showed me. And that Friday morning on a beach of white sand, I learned the value of being heard and the gift of being loved.
time has sharpened the lessons my Dad taught me and the love that he showed me. And that Friday morning on a beach of white sand, I learned the value of being heard and the gift of being loved.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Mother Duck
The nest haunts me. Just two days ago she was there, stoicly sitting on ten eggs like a queen on her throne. Today, she is gone, but two eggs remain. Bits of shell litter the interior of the nest, remnants of baby ducks that have waddled away. But still, two eggs remain. Maybe she knows something I don't, but I can't imagine a mother that leaves two babies behind. Must be her rules are different somehow. But still, I am haunted.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
He Bugs Me
The noise mocks me. Every time the power goes out, the curmudgeon a few doors down doesn’t hesitate to plug in his generator pronto. And then in the dark of night, with my popsicles melting and my children screaming for want of their nightlights, the stark hum of the generator grates like a giant mosquito buzzing in my ear.
He’s a surly fellow, this one. Single man in the neighborhood, retired Cleveland cop. Meets the geriatrics on the dot every morning at McDonald’s to solve the problems of the world. I once saw him hold a buff teenager in a headlock until the cops arrived, called because the young man dared to walk across his pristinely manicured lawn. It’s the lawn that he loves the most. Riding mower glides passionately across the heavily watered thoroughfare. Edges are carefully manicured and coiffed. Cuts his trees down so he doesn’t have to rake the leaves. Puts little faces on the stumps in a bizarre homage to totem poles or Cabbage Patch dolls, I’m not sure which. And every Halloween without fail, he ropes off the grass so the miniature pirates and princesses do not parade across his precious lawn.
Cars are his second love. He is single-handedly trying to revitalize the failing American auto industry, I think. He has one white Rendevous; he used to own two of the exact same year. Now it is joined by a fiery red sports car with plates that say GERRR and a red Chevy truck with racing stripes. These vehicles get washed frequently, and I mean WASHED. He scrubs them down, at least one car each day, and when he is done, he blow-dries them with the leave blower. This man is thorough!!
But it’s the generator that kills me. This sweltering night, my kids’ room lit only by the handfuls of glow sticks they clutch in sweaty fists, I angrily imagine him kicked back in his man cave, ice-cold beer in hand. But then again, if his house is the only one on the block that is lit, maybe the mosquitoes are all annoyingly buzzing around HIS head.
He’s a surly fellow, this one. Single man in the neighborhood, retired Cleveland cop. Meets the geriatrics on the dot every morning at McDonald’s to solve the problems of the world. I once saw him hold a buff teenager in a headlock until the cops arrived, called because the young man dared to walk across his pristinely manicured lawn. It’s the lawn that he loves the most. Riding mower glides passionately across the heavily watered thoroughfare. Edges are carefully manicured and coiffed. Cuts his trees down so he doesn’t have to rake the leaves. Puts little faces on the stumps in a bizarre homage to totem poles or Cabbage Patch dolls, I’m not sure which. And every Halloween without fail, he ropes off the grass so the miniature pirates and princesses do not parade across his precious lawn.
Cars are his second love. He is single-handedly trying to revitalize the failing American auto industry, I think. He has one white Rendevous; he used to own two of the exact same year. Now it is joined by a fiery red sports car with plates that say GERRR and a red Chevy truck with racing stripes. These vehicles get washed frequently, and I mean WASHED. He scrubs them down, at least one car each day, and when he is done, he blow-dries them with the leave blower. This man is thorough!!
But it’s the generator that kills me. This sweltering night, my kids’ room lit only by the handfuls of glow sticks they clutch in sweaty fists, I angrily imagine him kicked back in his man cave, ice-cold beer in hand. But then again, if his house is the only one on the block that is lit, maybe the mosquitoes are all annoyingly buzzing around HIS head.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Flying Lessons from Grandpa
The splash rings through the pool. I am lounging on the sticky plastic chair, lazily reading the same paragraph in my paperback again and again. The splash catches my attention and I look up just in time to see the floral on black sear into the drink. She is at it again, this daughter of mine. High dive: nine steps of pure Mommy torture above solid concrete. Then a pause at the top, a deep breath, and a determined six year old strut to the edge. She plunges like a pencil, writing her summer again and again with scissor kicks and flailing arms. I know she is tough. She who barely flinched for her kindergarten shots and proclaimed her double tooth extraction “fun”. But there is something about the height, the flight and the depth of the waiting pool that stills my heart, again and again.
She doesn’t get this love of heights and flying freely from me. Far from it. She wonders why I never join her on the boards. Even the low dive, a mere three steps from the earth, is too much for me. She cajoles me and says its like soaring. “Before you hit the water, you feel like you’re flying. Its cool.” I prefer my “cool” planted firmly on the concrete at the side of the pool, preferably under the striated umbrella.
The bell rings, signaling the end of swimming and the start of the dreaded rest period. It seems like she is always in line when the bell rings. She stomps over to where I recline, determined, clouded eyes searing. Stopping is painful. Icarus is determined to fly, and resting is no place for a girl like her. She grabs her snack. Pavlov’s Law determines that with the ringing of the bell comes the eating of a snack, even though lunch is not yet a distant memory. “Mom, its time to read.” We use break time to read. A snack, a juice box, and a good summer book make the wait to get back on the boards a little more bearable. Usually a time for Junie B, Jones and such classic tales as Cheater Pants, today I reach a little farther into the pool bag.
Out comes the Family Book, a collection of fairy tales of sorts: today’s version a story of heights and fears and a little boy of nine. She wraps her hooded towel tighter as we snuggle into the reclining plastic chair and I begin a tale of the pain of soaring.
The summer air stirred gently as the family stood in the serpentine line. Young Charles fidgeted like he had ants in his pants, and received the requisite number of stern looks from his father next to him. But this was no ordinary day. Today was one of the most long-awaited days of the summer, a chance to ride the Witch’s Wheel and the Blue Streak, to practice skeet shooting and gobble deep fried cheese on a stick. Cedar Point was the summit of every summer boy’s fantasy, and today was the day for Charles.
To be continued........
She doesn’t get this love of heights and flying freely from me. Far from it. She wonders why I never join her on the boards. Even the low dive, a mere three steps from the earth, is too much for me. She cajoles me and says its like soaring. “Before you hit the water, you feel like you’re flying. Its cool.” I prefer my “cool” planted firmly on the concrete at the side of the pool, preferably under the striated umbrella.
The bell rings, signaling the end of swimming and the start of the dreaded rest period. It seems like she is always in line when the bell rings. She stomps over to where I recline, determined, clouded eyes searing. Stopping is painful. Icarus is determined to fly, and resting is no place for a girl like her. She grabs her snack. Pavlov’s Law determines that with the ringing of the bell comes the eating of a snack, even though lunch is not yet a distant memory. “Mom, its time to read.” We use break time to read. A snack, a juice box, and a good summer book make the wait to get back on the boards a little more bearable. Usually a time for Junie B, Jones and such classic tales as Cheater Pants, today I reach a little farther into the pool bag.
Out comes the Family Book, a collection of fairy tales of sorts: today’s version a story of heights and fears and a little boy of nine. She wraps her hooded towel tighter as we snuggle into the reclining plastic chair and I begin a tale of the pain of soaring.
The summer air stirred gently as the family stood in the serpentine line. Young Charles fidgeted like he had ants in his pants, and received the requisite number of stern looks from his father next to him. But this was no ordinary day. Today was one of the most long-awaited days of the summer, a chance to ride the Witch’s Wheel and the Blue Streak, to practice skeet shooting and gobble deep fried cheese on a stick. Cedar Point was the summit of every summer boy’s fantasy, and today was the day for Charles.
To be continued........
Thursday, June 25, 2009
That Kind of Mommy
Dear Child of Mine:
You run to me, begging me to push you on the swings. But you are five, and I am not that kind of Mommy. You can very easily pump your still-pudgy legs to help you reach for the sky, I know. You dance over later, asking me to go to the bathroom with you. But I am not that kind of Mommy, and I know you can take care of your own business at the local pool restroom. You wonder why the other kids have GPS chips under their forearm skin, their Mommies following them to wipe off any errant water droplets at any given moment. But I am not that kind of Mommy. You are perfectly capable of jumping in the two foot and doing your ice cream scoop strokes with yourself. Later, you come whimpering inside during afternoon playtime, crying for me to make you a fort. But I am not that kind of Mommy. I will be your biggest cheerleader and proudly take a picture of it when it is done, but I know your five-year old self contains the creativity to assemble your (lounge chair, soccer goal net, beach towel, stick) fort in style.
You beg me, pretty please with sugar on top, that you want to watch television ALL DAY LONG. But I am not that kind of Mommy and thirty minutes is plenty before your brain turns rotten. Your sister cries because EVERY OTHER girl in her class has an American Girl doll and twelve Webkinz, but I am not that kind of Mommy either. She is perfectly content playing with hand-me-down dolls, and her little brothers. You want to own every store-bought costume of your super-heroes, but I like you in Daddy’s too-big belt and your Great-Grandpa’s fedora, carrying the measuring tape greedily in your clutches as you bring your little brother to justice. You fall on the ground screaming when the ice cream truck rolls by. But I am not that kind of Mommy, and the twelve freezer pops waiting for your dessert cost less than one frozen treat in the truck.
I AM the kind of Mommy that will let you live and breathe and dance. You may walk down the whole street to school by yourself, even though I get weird looks from your teachers and the neighbors, and the crossing guard glares at me later. You may get your own drink refill at the Mexican restaurant; the look of pride on your face says it all. You may dress yourself each morning, even though you insist on long sleeves and pants on an 85-degree day, and your sister has a striped skort flanked with a polka dotted shirt, in lovely clashing colors. You may play outside in the back yard all by yourself, even if you are playing Indians with giant sticks or using the swingset as an obstacle course. You can frolic in a flooded sandbox, covering yourself from toes to head, even if the ground-in sand never quite comes out of your clothes. You may kiss worms and touch slugs and play for hours in the dirt, provided that you put the worms back in the garden that you planted all by yourself, carrots and cukes in little clusters like church choirs reaching to the heavens. I AM that kind of Mommy.
I AM the kind of Mommy that will be the supporting actress for your leading-man role. I will read you books to stretch your mind. Take you to church to build your faith. Make you write and draw in a journal even when every day you want to draw a sailboat and name it “Burger”. I will show you the beauty of nature and the peace found watching a sunset or sitting by the lake. Teach you to help your Grandma and say prayers for your Grandpa in heaven. I will remind you to shake hands and look people in the eye and always have a kind word for a stranger.
Child of mine, this world is not such a scary place. Many people will try to tell you that there are bad guys on every corner and tainted food and toys in every house. But you are fine. You really are. You are old enough to think for yourself, to trust your instincts, to stay out of treacherous situations. And that is what your Mommy expects of you. But its also true that we learn the most from our mistakes. I bet you will never use permanent markers to create your Indian war paint again, right? Life is for the living; it is a grand adventure. And how will you ever learn to make the big decisions if I never allow you to work on the small ones?
So, my son: laugh, write, ride, play, sing. Ride your bike around the corner and back. Build a rocket ship fort in the back yard. Talk to strangers at the park. Get close to the duck warming eggs in Grandma’s back yard. And always know that I am right behind you to cheer, to teach, to apply band-aids and sun screen, to kiss your broken heart back together. Yes, I AM that kind of Mommy.
You run to me, begging me to push you on the swings. But you are five, and I am not that kind of Mommy. You can very easily pump your still-pudgy legs to help you reach for the sky, I know. You dance over later, asking me to go to the bathroom with you. But I am not that kind of Mommy, and I know you can take care of your own business at the local pool restroom. You wonder why the other kids have GPS chips under their forearm skin, their Mommies following them to wipe off any errant water droplets at any given moment. But I am not that kind of Mommy. You are perfectly capable of jumping in the two foot and doing your ice cream scoop strokes with yourself. Later, you come whimpering inside during afternoon playtime, crying for me to make you a fort. But I am not that kind of Mommy. I will be your biggest cheerleader and proudly take a picture of it when it is done, but I know your five-year old self contains the creativity to assemble your (lounge chair, soccer goal net, beach towel, stick) fort in style.
You beg me, pretty please with sugar on top, that you want to watch television ALL DAY LONG. But I am not that kind of Mommy and thirty minutes is plenty before your brain turns rotten. Your sister cries because EVERY OTHER girl in her class has an American Girl doll and twelve Webkinz, but I am not that kind of Mommy either. She is perfectly content playing with hand-me-down dolls, and her little brothers. You want to own every store-bought costume of your super-heroes, but I like you in Daddy’s too-big belt and your Great-Grandpa’s fedora, carrying the measuring tape greedily in your clutches as you bring your little brother to justice. You fall on the ground screaming when the ice cream truck rolls by. But I am not that kind of Mommy, and the twelve freezer pops waiting for your dessert cost less than one frozen treat in the truck.
I AM the kind of Mommy that will let you live and breathe and dance. You may walk down the whole street to school by yourself, even though I get weird looks from your teachers and the neighbors, and the crossing guard glares at me later. You may get your own drink refill at the Mexican restaurant; the look of pride on your face says it all. You may dress yourself each morning, even though you insist on long sleeves and pants on an 85-degree day, and your sister has a striped skort flanked with a polka dotted shirt, in lovely clashing colors. You may play outside in the back yard all by yourself, even if you are playing Indians with giant sticks or using the swingset as an obstacle course. You can frolic in a flooded sandbox, covering yourself from toes to head, even if the ground-in sand never quite comes out of your clothes. You may kiss worms and touch slugs and play for hours in the dirt, provided that you put the worms back in the garden that you planted all by yourself, carrots and cukes in little clusters like church choirs reaching to the heavens. I AM that kind of Mommy.
I AM the kind of Mommy that will be the supporting actress for your leading-man role. I will read you books to stretch your mind. Take you to church to build your faith. Make you write and draw in a journal even when every day you want to draw a sailboat and name it “Burger”. I will show you the beauty of nature and the peace found watching a sunset or sitting by the lake. Teach you to help your Grandma and say prayers for your Grandpa in heaven. I will remind you to shake hands and look people in the eye and always have a kind word for a stranger.
Child of mine, this world is not such a scary place. Many people will try to tell you that there are bad guys on every corner and tainted food and toys in every house. But you are fine. You really are. You are old enough to think for yourself, to trust your instincts, to stay out of treacherous situations. And that is what your Mommy expects of you. But its also true that we learn the most from our mistakes. I bet you will never use permanent markers to create your Indian war paint again, right? Life is for the living; it is a grand adventure. And how will you ever learn to make the big decisions if I never allow you to work on the small ones?
So, my son: laugh, write, ride, play, sing. Ride your bike around the corner and back. Build a rocket ship fort in the back yard. Talk to strangers at the park. Get close to the duck warming eggs in Grandma’s back yard. And always know that I am right behind you to cheer, to teach, to apply band-aids and sun screen, to kiss your broken heart back together. Yes, I AM that kind of Mommy.
Swimming Lessons
Day 4: The butterfly. I can't believe she can really do the butterfly. Legs in that dolphin kick, undulating like a worm through the glistening water. Arms out and over and around. Face in and re-planted in the watery cool. In the water she is free. On land, she is bogged down by ideas, or hair in her eyes, or her little brothers. But in the water....sweet freedom of the butterfly flitting through the water.
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