The Blonde Boy

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 He slide into the seat,

just touching my side.

Not crowded,

but comfortable ,

to us both.

"I am six. 

I will be six all of time now."

No glances towards me. 

No eyes meeting. 

Just quiet wonder, 

in a quieter
voice. 

The Summer I Ran Away

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In summer, I ran away.

From:

 making dinner, 

worrying about what time I had to get up,

how late I was staying up to; 

read, 

clean, 

think, 

and listen to music. 

Not once did anyone;

ask me if I should really be;

eating that, 

or shouldn't I eat something, 

or maybe you should get some sleep,

or say: I'm turning off the light.

(Just as I came to the most interesting part of the book)

I have never lived alone. 

Maybe, if I lived alone all of the time, 

I would miss: 

care, love, and shepherding

that comes from those asking these questions. 

But...

For now it is a respite.

Biding My Time

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It seems while colonizing my home and yard,

1. Trees have grown taller

2. My children are adults

3. I have grandchildren 

5. My parents have died

6. My words have found homes on other pages

7. My compassion has grown

8. My desires have evolved

9. I remember all of the nursery rhythms from my youth 

10. I still could loose a few pounds. 

In all of this, what I know the most clearly is; one can always grow, one can always love, and one can always forgive.*

* One should always plant bulbs knowing, in spring hope will grow again. 

The Apple Tree Outside My Window

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Photo courtesy of my niece Kristine

Spring slowly awakens my apple tree with shy leaves creeping out tentatively from

 the small buds that were set last year.

Testing the cold air of April while taking the risk of growing.

In hope of this very moment,

The small pink flowers of beauty call to the bees to come,

Drink of the nectar, while inadvertently allowing the sensual sex of trees to bring forth fruit.

As it is heavy laden with flowers, waiting to give birth to the fruit of its branches.

 

The apple tree outside my window         

Waves hello to me in the summer

The branches heavy with fruit and leaves brush up against my window,

In the dry warm winds of the last days of golden sun,

I am brought back to the summers of laying in the orchard of my youth,

Reading a book,

Not noticing time blowing by with the wind.

 

Ahh but Autumn.

My tree graciously gives to me, not only the

Rustling of the leaves against my screen on my window,  

But the joy of watching slowly ripening fruit.

 Even though, I must call to the squirrels to leave the fruit alone,

So, I alone,

May eat of the garden of Eden in my back yard.

 

During the winter I gaze longingly at the baren branches,

Dreaming of the spring leaves that will sprout, with the promise of spring.

The empty branches, look baren,

but I know better,

I know that spring follows winter,

even though I am now in the winter of my life, and my spring is over,

my fruit has grown,

 and bringing forth fruit of their own,

This young tree is going to go on to bring forth fruit,

For years to come, without me. 

The Mirror

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You are the sun, this is me mirroring you.

                                                                                   

 I see your face,  though you cannot see mine. 

It is a glimpse in the mirror as I walk past the doorway.

Your eyes are focused somewhere else, 

       so I can look without observation in the reverse. 

There are laugh lines, which others can see.

But I know things, not obvious to the casual observer, 

       and I am nothing close to a casual observer.

I know you have been hit with harsh moments,  

       between your rust colored eyes, hard.

I know you choose smiles that slide onto your face, 

      instead of holding the hurt close.

All of these thoughts travel the speed of a blink, 

      as you see me, watching you, in the mirror.

And, you smile with a question in your eyes, 

     asking me if all is well?

Which it is, as we mirror each other, 

      in a moment. 

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.