Fly Away

 Grackles squabble and squawk outside my window. Their aggressive behavior is supremely irritating, second only to the garish clash of patterns on their feathers. They monopolize the feeders, chasing other birds away and arguing with those who contest their dominance. Their incessant activity and noise drills into my brain vying with the news of my mom’s cancer recurrence. If only I could attach this knowledge to those striped and dotted feathers and see them fly away. I would slam the window up, clap my hands and scream to send them on their way and pray that they never returned.

Shane

 

How does one console a mother whose youngest son is gone. departed for the unknown, he remains unknowable since he returned a decade ago. A U.S. Army sergeant, four tours of duty as a demolitions expert in the middle east did him damage. Subjected to multiple explosions, one that killed his best friend and all others in the vehicle, left him with irreparable brain damage through he looked fine on the outside. Yes, he was awarded the Bronze star and multiple Purple Hearts, but they did nothing to mend the post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) and chronic traumatic encephalopothy (CTE). As a result, when he, convinced that his next door neighbor in a smallish Wisconsin town was a demon eating children's souls, agonized over what to do before picking up his rifle, entering her home, and killing her while her two children hid. 

He is my cousin, and watching these events unfold has been heart rending. After months and months of time in jail, he was found incompetent to stand trial and remanded to a mental health facility. Eventually he was transferred to a group home for Veterans where he did very well. He earned the privileges of riding his bike around this new tiny town, working out at the local YMCA and spending a weekend or two per month with his parents at their home.

A few weeks ago he received a notice that there would be another competency hearing. They do them twice each year. But this one was worded differently and he thought it meant he was going to prison. 

Somehow he covered the 70 miles to his parents' home while they were gone, took his mothers' car and drove to New Mexico. We know he was there because he was stopped by a tribal police officer who did not have the jurisdiction to detain him. He could be anywhere now, the nationwide APB issued too late. 

He is a carpenter. He is a devout Catholic. He is a decorated military Veteran. He is irrational and paranoid. He is missing. And he is my cousin. 

Fresh Cut Grass

 My son lived in Portland, Oregon from 2018 to 2019. In the spring of 2018, my husband and I, along with our two daughters and their husbands, planned a vacation to meet our son in Portland before traveling to Seaside and Cannon Beach.

It was lovely to be there where there was already abundant green as opposed to the stark white and brown Wisconsin landscape we had temporarily left behind. As we walked along a Portland street on our way to a brew pub, we passed a man mowing a lawn. Thus began a conversation about the best smells of summer. Freshly cut grass ranked number one among our group, with camp fire a close second.

I wondered if these smells evoked long summer days playing in the backyard with cousins, aunts, uncles and friends – and my husband and I… grass clippings sticking to bare feet and sweaty legs as they built forts, wrestled or dreamed on that blanket of green. We’d often finish those days with a backyard bonfire, sometimes making ‘pudgy pies’ in small iron molds with long handles over the fire for dinner. Other nights, we’d go outside after dinner and roast marshmallows for s’mores. Our son loved to start his marshmallows afire, blowing them out like torches once a crispy black crust had formed on the outside. Our daughters, more discerning, would slow-roast theirs along the ember edges of the fire, rotating the stick-speared sweets until they turned a delicate toasty brown. This technique resulted in a marshmallow melted all the way through – gooey perfection.

I never asked if those memories played a part in their votes for best smells of summer, but I know for me they did.

Found

 

Rooted here

Quiet, earth-bound

Tremors of wisdom fill the air

An embrace wide enough to span

The ocean.

A feast of tranquility

An understory of understanding

Bliss.

The North Pool

 Shoes squeak across the YMCA lobby. Folks of all ages hurrying to their class or preferred workout area. 

A notice is posted at the desk that the north pool is temporarily closed, so lap swim is available only in the south pool. Two women walk by whispering about a rumored drowning at this morning's water exercise class. 

I decide to walk over and check it out for myself.

I peer through the glass of the observation deck. The lights are off in the pool area and it's hard to see. The rescue hook, kick boards, water weights and a discarded swim shoe lay strewn across the deck. 

I checked the locker room door. Unlocked. I pushed it open and entered the dark space. The only light was a soft glow coming from the sink. A woman stood there, naked as the day she was born, finger combing her hair in the mirror. 

"Hello," I ventured. "I was just trying to figure out why the pool is closed.

She continued futzing with an errant curl near her right ear.

"Oh, I don't know what all the fuss is about," she replied as she continued to struggle with an errant curl near her right ear. 

I washed my hands and told her what I'd heard at the front desk. When I looked up again, she was gone. All that was left was a single water shoe and a small puddle of pool water where she had stood. My question had been answered.

Impending

 Rising winds set the trees

dancing.

Leaves scatter, a poor imitation

of the raindrops to come.

Unsettled Night

 

I was immersed in an interesting dream when

I woke to a cold finger on my forehead,

images scattered,

fog on wind.

 

The second time in a single night,

summoned to swap wet sheets

and blankets for

dry bedding and

witness the small being

burrow deep

returning to her dreams,

a warm kiss planted on her brow.

 

Spreading Love

 The world is heavy.

Grief bleeds through media

and daily conversation.

Let me balance bad news

with hopefulness.

Make me a clown

showing others humor and beauty

in the mundane.

Make me an instrument of joy and

waft me on the wind

like dandelion fluff

to land far and near

spreading spores of love

wherever I alight.

Grammar of Desire

Beneath the tree's shadow

two souls study the

grammar of desire.

They experiment with 

lips and hands,

not thinking,

only feeling.

We, perched in topmost branches,

spread our wings and soar,

released at last.

Delays

Clara clatters down the hall, one heel on her battered shoes an eighth-inch shorter than the other, the rubber lift having worn off. Her blue and red dyed hair clashes with her traffic cone orange jacket, but she doesn’t care. She loves color and revels in visual cacophony. 

She reaches her office door and bumps it hard with her hip as she turns the knob. Reluctant hinges grudgingly stutter the door to a partial open. She meant to fix that last week. 

Clara pushes through and drops her sack lunch (today it’s egg salad on rye along with a side of mincemeat pie, dangerously close to expiration) on her desk. The floor is cluttered with boxes and files. The grimy high set windows allow the barest trace of sunlight through. Maybe next week she'd climb the rickety office ladder and take a swipe at them.

With a sigh she plops in her ancient, creaky office chair. Missing the bus had made her late for work. Again. At least there were no meetings today that she'd need to rush off to.

A knock on her door startles her and she swings her chair to the left, banging both legs in the process. She swears a blue streak as a head, topped by lustrous black hair above a handsome face and startling blue eyes, peeks past the door and into her domain. It is at this precise moment that the seat of her chair chooses to disengage from the bottom (the large screw that had come out yesterday sat atop her desk waiting for re-insertion), and she toppled backward, legs akimbo. Clara instantly and irrevocably regretting her decision to delay shopping for new undergarments. 

Temptress Spring

Winter descends

decisive and bold

cold blowing and

candles lit to offset

shrinking daylight.

He is direct.

 

Spring, however, is capricious,

tantalizing and teasing with

tastes of warming temperatures

to tempt us from our dens.

But suns warming rays are fleeting

and daffodils suffer below

late snow blankets.

Last fall’s leaves and winter trash

rush across lawns to gather at fence lines,

hedgerows and roadside ditches.

She is a diva, constantly changing

her mind and guise.

 

She peeks from cloud covered skies,

curious how long we will wait.

 

health issues and car trouble

sitting in the ED waiting room

listening to a family talk

   dad and seizures

   car trouble and repair mistakes

   recipes and Hallmark channel movies.

 

I wait, alone, to find out

   why my uncle’s leg has doubled in diameter

   why he is in excruciating pain

   why they can't give him the test he needs

And wish it was a car problem.

After the Snow

 clear march sky

 

 

sun reflects off

 

settled snow

 

 

finches feed on seeds

 

and sing

 

 

opportunities abound

Season

Season wandered her way throughout the year. Her moods shifted from cool to benign, balmy to frigid, steamy to stormy. She was changeable, to say the least.

One spring, she brought a freezing damp and withered the tulips who had foolishly begun to open up. After that, she moved with loving tenderness, nurturing and encouraging nascent ideas and growth.

As spring gave way to summer, she shone. Brilliant in the high blue sky, sun beamed down, grass grew tall and lush, crops grew sweet, deer grew fat. She had her tempers of course, sending wind swirling and ripping across fields and through neighborhoods until she was spent and her mood cleared. Stars bloomed in the sky as crickets sang.

By autumn she grew tired. Color blazed across her countenance then fades to brown and dropped to damp earth. Flowers ceased to bloom. Nights grew cold. She grew feeble.

Finally, she laid down and slept, left to dream of returning youth. 

Smile

 “Why don’t you smile,” he asked. “I bet you’re pretty when you smile.”

Right! Why would I bother smiling for him? He smelled like whiskey and cheese. His implication that I should try to make myself appealing for him was appalling.

We sat alone in the booth. The jukebox on the other side of the spare room issued no rollicking rock, no beautiful blues, no jumping jazz. It was silent and hulking, half hidden in shadows where lights should be at play.

“My grampa used to own this place.” He looked around, wistful. “I was here a lot as a kid. It was the only way to see my folks.”

He touched my wrist, reminding me of the three-day old bruise residing there. I withdrew my arm and wrapped it around my middle.

“Would you get me something to drink?” I kept my eyes cast down as I made the request.

He grunted something but got up to fetch me a glass of something that sloshed as he set it down.

The glass was heavy, likely an original from when this dump first opened. I took a sip. Lukewarm soda water from the tap behind the bar, I guessed.

“Some ice sure would be good,” I said. “Do you think you could get some for me?”

Another grunt, this time louder, followed by the crack of worn vinyl as he left the bench. Thankfully he was in a solicitous mood.

I slid over, the bench silent under my insignificant frame, and stood. He was just turning toward me when I hit the back of his head with the weighty glass. The tray of shriveled ice he had scavenged from the ancient freezer behind the bar scattered as he slumped and slid toward the floor at my feet, a rivulet of red springing from his scalp.

I turned him over and dug through his shirt pocket for the key to the padlock he’d put on the door. As I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled it free from the cloth his hand closed around my ankle. With my free foot I stomped down on his throat and fled toward the door, turned the key in the lock, flung open the door, and ran to the parking lot.

Nature was in the process of reclaiming the slab of asphalt where cars and trucks had parked before the highway was rerouted. A For Sale sign swung, lopsided, in the hot wind. Storm clouds gathered in the west. I looked at the long stretch of empty road and barren land wondering how far it would be to civilization and whether I had the strength to get there. There was only one way to find out.

I began to run.

 

Sweet Summer

 I am alive.

I spin and jive.

Honeycomb and bees

come from a hive.

Get to the water and

take a dive.

A cold shower is

sure to revive.

Give yourself a

big high-five.

Trees sigh and

apple peels fly,

fruit and knife

pare. Pie thrives.

Peace and Mourning

 

Frosty lace covers the tree branches, the bushes, the shepherd’s hook in my dormant garden where a few leaves poke up from dirty snow. Now as thin as onion skin, not much more than an intricate weaving of vein, they provide little cover for the perennials tucked beneath.

The ground beneath the snow at Gates of Heaven is diamond-hard this time of year. It took jackhammers and a backhoe hours of pounding and slashing to leave the rectangle that would receive your coffin. The family didn’t want to wait for the spring thaw. You had to be buried right away.

After the church service, we formed a line around the hole and sang as you were lowered in. Some stepped forward to drop tentative flowers on the glossy wood before the first ceremonial handful of dirt was sprinkled down. We didn’t witness the piled dirt return to its resting place. That would be done later.

We were ushered back to our cars and the funeral lunch. Aproned parishioners waited on us with abstract solicitousness. I chatted with friends, dry-eyed.

Finally, in the car, alone with a peace lily someone insisted I keep, I wept for you, for me, and for all that was lost.