The First Time

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 As your fingers glide

graciously along 

my arms, 

to settle on my shoulders,

I am transported 

to the first time.

The First time

you had the right to 

this action. 

Which,

of course, 

created a reaction in me. 

A Touch of the Brain Cancer...

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That is what he said to me, as we stood at the end of each of our driveways. Timing our conversation in between the cars that were passing us as we caught up with each other. That is the way with near neighbors. One doesn't speak for days, weeks, maybe even months, if the weather is cold, or icy, or snowy. 

He wan't even Irish. He was Italian. The Irish are always know for the understated catastrophe, while I thought, the Italians were a much more exuberant people, or is that a stereotype? Not being Italian, I not an expert in these matters. 

How does one have a touch of the brain cancer? This was a quandary I have puzzled over for the last two years, as he struggled with surgeries, radiation, chemotherapy. It seemed to me as I watched, from across the street, it was so much more than a touch, it looked more like dynamite hitting hard where it hurt the most. 

As his journey followed the path of illness, I watched ambulances make intermittent visits to his home, ferrying him away, for his wife to return him days later. 

She always sent me a wave and a smile as she slowly took up all of the outside tasks I was use to seeing him do for the last twenty years. She once mentioned, he just wan't sure if she was taking the lawn mowing seriously enough. Really, I responded, as I was unaware that lawn mowing was a serious matter. Yes, she said. He wanted the rows to be straighter, the edges cleaner, the clippings to disappear. Her thoughts? He was missing being able to control...anything. When she shed it in that light, I could see it too.  Smiling, she would go back to sweeping her drive, and I would walk back up mine, admiring her more each day. 

These last two years have given me the opportunity to watch two people who were truly dedicated to making the time add up to something. Something of substance. Something to admire. Something that is rare. 

It is easy to love when we are young. It is easy to love when we are healthy. It is easy to love when the journey is uneventful. But we grow old, we get sick, and mountains form over years making life challenging.  The real reward, is when we are old, when we are sick, and when life's journey is very eventful, in every sense of the word, we still love. 

His "touch of the brain cancer" was an detour I am sure they would have rather not experienced, yet they did it with grace, kindness, and love, each and every day these last two years. He will be missed, this old neighbor of mine, but his memory will be strong in my heart for the rest of my life. 

Lingering Thoughts

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If you should die...

       before me,

I will still slide my 

Hand - or- leg over to your side,  

Seeking warmth, 

   and comfort, 

and

   safety in dreams,         

When I was not alone. 

...

Recordar

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Some of the artist recent work...

Spaniards have a word,
just one word,
that captures
the memories of
our years together.

Recordar (in Spanish)
literally means:
remembering back
through my heart.

All from my recent Mother's Day card

Sliding forward
without
stop
without
pause
without
awareness


we have been
trapped
here.
Together.

It has been:
for better
and for worse.

Remembering back,
as viewed through my heart,
I see it has been:
more of the better,
and much less of the worse.

Nellie: who had a slower life, while moving faster

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Nell at 18

Last week, my husband's grandmother's egg timer was inadvertently broken. Do you remember the kind? Wooden with a glass hourglass filled with sand. Just enough sand for a three minute egg. Which to be honest,  I have never made.  Still, I have harbored this non-electronic device, for over thirty years. My four children played with it often.

It bit the dust in the hands of my grandchildren. Sigh.

It wasn't till it was broken, I began to think about how every morning Grandma Nellie would make eggs with the timer. First for her husband, then her son Walter Jr., and a few years later her daughter Rosemary was added to the mix (who was my spouses mother).

If Nellie's mornings were anything like mine, it must have been rushed. Then again, she was a force to be reckoned with, so maybe, they came to the table dressed, co-operative and  ready to eat.  Never to be late for the nuns who waited for them at school.

 I'll never know for sure.

Still, I can see her hand, as she dropped the egg in the boiling water, flipping the timer over,  glancing over at the children, while capturing the toast as it catapulted into the air from the toaster, with the butter ready to be spread, glancing over as the last sands slipping through the glass,  grabbing the metal "egg spoon" (as she called it) lifting the eggs, slipping the oval protein into egg cups (which I also possess). With a quick slice of the knife, giving the egg the equivalent of a haircut, ready to be serve.

This was her way. Neat, tidy, efficient. I aspire to her standards, while never quite reaching the flag.

Upon marring my husband, I began visiting her once a month. In between visits we wrote letters to one another. Her's always signed off with the phrase, love and prayers.

As my children arrive, I brought them with to visit. Over the years it became more frequent. For the last three years of her life I spent every Monday with her, toddlers in toe.

Nell was an original. Her stories fascinated me.  She would tell me the tales of her seven sisters, her two brothers,(she would rather not speak of them, she could forgive, but she couldn't forget. Why, I'll never know).

She would tell of how she bleached the bottom of her shoes after returning from her daily forays into Chicago, until she no longer felt up to her trips on the  "L"*. Visiting Marshall Fields, Holy Name Cathedral, and Lutz's on her way back home.   Then her shoes stayed home, along with herself.

My favorite will always be her response when asked if she would be coming for a visit. Nell would say "with the help of God and six policemen, I'll be there."

I have always thought this was most likely her escort as she ascended into heaven.


*The Chicago "L" (short for "elevated" as the train is elevated above the streets) is the rapid transit system serving the city of Chicago

Un-moored

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I never take
Clipper ships,
   (of my dreams),
out my back door.

Across the grass
to the apple orchard,
firmly secured by
threads of life,
I dragged my boat.





A picnic table
 providing a deck,
so to speak,
to lay upon and read.

Gliding through
waves,
actually leaves rustling,
hearing the sea
slide past,
as pages turn.

Pulling me into the
current of far away.

** Painting by MONTAGUE DAWSON:The Billowing Ocean - The Clipper Ship “Titania”

Saving it For You

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You've always loved a good pear. 

Going about each deliberate movement,
folding the paper,
sliding my hand firmly
along the crease of the paper,
wrapping up love.

Hoping these gifts of my heart
are encased around your heart
as this paper is
around this parcel.

This parcel of small
items that add up to
the small moments
of life we have shared.

At Long Last...

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Dear Reader,

At long last I have found some words to write. For a long dry spell, I hadn't any words to write or share. All due to a series of surgeries. SO tedious to hear about, and even more to write about.

One of my many knitted babies,
which my daughter thinks is a tad surreal

Now, hopefully, this period of my life is soon to be over, and I'm finding I do have some words buried inside digging to come out.

Hallelujah!

I had been afraid they wouldn't ever appear again. Now, I feel the tremors, not unlike a volcano, breaking through onto the page.

Much has happened since my last forays into posting. Grandchildren have been born, great losses have been sustained (and recovered from), paradigm shifts have occurred, and all is (still) well.

This next waltz of life, I hope, will bring meaningful, funny, insightful, and worthy words to the page for your eyes to read.

Here we go!

All the best,
Naomi