mist

 She sashays to

a waltz wafting on

the western wind

       

     Across moonlit marsh

above placid pond

over roiling river

 

She dances past dawn

softening the sunrise and

hushing the waking world

Heading Home

Shadows ferment and deepen as I walk home. I explore the confines of my mind, searching for distraction, even one word to riff with, to spin and disassemble, but all is silent. There's no noise around me either. It's like being wrapped in cotton gauze and tucked inside a bottle. 

My desire to explore is met with stiff resistance and I continue on my path, straight as a skeleton's ulna. Soon, a precious light comes into view, growing as I near. That's when I hear it. A choir of angels. I realize that I have wings and lift into the air, free at last.

The Serial Killer

I approach my victims with stealth and murderous intent. One by one, I pluck them from their destructive and self-absorbed lives.

For the most part, they never see it coming and before you know it, they are struggling for air, legs flailing until they are, at last, still. Later, I will discard their bodies and start again.

It may be a futile attempt given how many of them populate the area, but I do what I can to protect my precious flowers, no matter how lacy their leaves have become. Damn beetles!

descent

 I rush down the highland slope

compelled by gravity toward thinner air below

 

green gold and blue blur

trees bow at my passing

birds startle and

rivers shiver

 

all other sound is lost beneath

my roar

Life Before

 

Miranda left the store, list still clutched in her trembling hand. She dropped the paper in her purse and fished out her keys as she hurried to her car.

Once inside, she locked the doors and turned the air on full blast. She couldn’t be sure if it was another hot flash or adrenaline, but she felt in danger of spontaneous combustion.

It was not like her to be so bold, to take matters into her own hands. But the time for waiting was long past and action was imperative.

She had less than 2 hours left to check everything off her list.

Miranda pulled the list from her purse. It spanned the length of the #10 envelope in her tiny, measured block print. Fortunately, most of the items were already checked off.

She puts the car in gear and navigates the twists and turns to Rib Mountain State Park and parks near the visitor center. Her sturdy shoes carry her across the uneven path, through the maze of large rocks and to the tower.

She begins the climb. These are the last moments of “life before.”

As she reaches the third platform she pauses to look out over the city she’s always called home. It’s small by Chicago or Minneapolis standards but it holds everything she needs. All she is finally claiming and curating.

Finally at the top, out of breath but smiling, she carefully releases the paper cranes she made earlier in the day. Her heart flutters along with the paper as it makes its way to trees, bushes and ground. She feels good as she takes her list in hand and crosses off WATCH CRANES FLY and CLIMB RIB MOUNTAIN TOWER.

Only two items remain on her list and less than an hour before she begins chemo.

Quickly, before she can scold herself out of it, she grabs her pocketknife and carves her name in the top deck’s railing, then begins her descent.

She’s nearly back to her car when she remembers to cross CARVE NAME from her list and sees that there’s just one item left. She takes a moment to look around and notices a clump of hyssop. She snaps some stems and brings the flowers to her nose, inhaling deeply as she walks back to her car. She thinks that maybe she will plant some outside her condo as a reminder to SMELL THE FLOWERS every day.

 

The Prodigal Kitty

The cat wanders past looking quite pleased with herself. After a two-day absence she has returned. The prodigal kitty, fattened on songbirds and squirrels, chipmunks and rabbits. She lumbers, belly  hanging low, mewing to herself a lullaby. I look out the screen door before locking it and spy the rodent head she left, a gift, no doubt, and peace offering after her wild outdoor adventures.

I know we shouldn’t let her out. Our village has an ordinance forbidding cats from roaming. But she was wild when she chose us and we simply cannot convince her to remain indoors. She darts between my legs when I carry laundry out to hang it on the line. She climbs the screen and yowls, demanding to be set free. She  has a life, after all. Social engagements to keep. Lovers to meet. Rodent populations to control.

Soon she will mother her third litter of kittens. I promise myself I will take her to the vet to have her ‘fixed’. But I’ve broken that promise twice before. I love the blind eyed babies she bears. Their early wobbling steps. Their fierce need to nurse. The way they quickly fluff out. Their endless curiosity and antics. They make the world a bit less lonely. They bring me joy. They are my family too.

(Memories of Misty, one of our family cats from my childhood.)

Laundry

 I remember playing amid the bed sheets hanging from Mom’s clothesline at seven years old, my sister briefly silhouetted by the morning sun, disappearing before I could tag her. Only the ghost of a giggle remained to prove she’d been there.                            

When I was 16, my mother worked on an inpatient psychiatric unit, a high school equivalency degree enough to quality her to monitor the residents. One day, when a colleague was on lunch break and late to return, my mom was left defenseless in the face and fists of a resident who tried to kill her. With blackened eyes, bruised throat and broken ribs she watched me hang our laundry under a dazzling sky,  me so desperate to help, so thankful that intervention came in time and she was returned to us intact, mostly. It was a gift to have her continued guidance as I moved into adulthood.

I put up a small  umbrella clothesline outside our duplex door in 1988 and hung my children’s clothes to dry throughout the summer when they were one and two-years old. Onesies, wee socks, sleepers, leggings, t-shirts and sweet teddy bear crib sheets cavorted in the breeze amidst my husband’s work shirts. These were meditative moments while toddlers napped, and the scent of line-dried sheets was a comforting welcome when it was time to sleep.

We bought our first house in 1991 and erected a sturdy clothesline behind our garage. It was the site of energy saving efficiency as well as fantasy borne of blankets slung over the lines to create forts for my little ones. We’d play beneath the woolly shade imagining we were dragons or pirates or royalty in a castle.

When we moved to our current home in 2014, we reverted to the umbrella style clothesline to make the most of a smaller back yard. One day when I was hanging shirts on the line, my little neighbor girl asked why I was putting my clothes on a tree. It saddened me to realize that she would never know the joy of hiding among the sheets or pretending beneath a blanket lovingly positioned by a parent. I explained that I was drying my clothes, that I loved the way they smelled when I brought them in, that I was saving energy by letting the sun and the breeze do the work that would otherwise fall to the dryer in the basement, that I enjoyed the excuse to spend a little more time outside. She simply nodded and trotted off to play with her brother.

February of 2024 was a strange month in Wisconsin, warm enough for me to hang laundry on the line above snow-free grass. Dormant plants were tricked by the spring-like weather and some began to sprout. I carried my laden clothes basket to the back yard, basking in the 50-degree temperatures and the brilliant sun. I thought of all the times my mom had hung the laundry to dry, and her mom, and her mom’s mom. My mom was prevalent in my thoughts that day… She was at her home dying of the cancer that had spread throughout her body and I was at my home for only a few hours… my sisters and I were caring for her around the clock and it was my turn for a brief respite. I thought of her welcoming smile and sparkling eyes as I retrieved each item from the basket and fixed it with wooden clothespins to the web shaped lines. My gratitude for all she taught me welled and overflowed as tears.

She left us a few days later and I’m thankful she’s no longer suffering. I imagine her watching me hang laundry from wherever she is, smiling.