grief

i don’t know 
the particular grief 
you feel 
but i know its relative

it tears at you 
and beats you down

it makes you wonder 

if love 
is worth 
the 
cost

the answer 
in the daylight 
is 
absolutely 
yes

the answer 
in the dark
is a silent
stinging 
pain

the little things

Eli could smell her presence in the house. She smelled of summer – wood smoke, with a hint of coconut and sea spray. Looking up, he saw her face and he smiled. His gaze settling on her pale blue eyes. He loved her eyes – spaced just slightly too far apart which made her face interesting. But it was her freckles he loved best. They were stardust, sprinkled across the bridge of her nose as if heaven itself had underlined her eyes. His Audra. “Hello, Beautiful.”

“Eli, love, I didn’t hear you come in.” She rises and kisses him softly on the cheek. “I didn’t expect you home so soon. Let me get some coffee going.”

Eli follows her to the kitchen and sits at the far side of the table so he can watch her work. She dances through the world, so gracefully. Her long arms arcing around her as she gathers all the necessities for coffee and places them on a tray. “Here I come. Make room.” He moves over a seat and she slides into the place he just vacated.

“I talked to Bennie today. He and Leanne are going to come by this weekend for lunch.” Audra pauses as she cools her coffee off with a small puff of air. Sensing him tense, she continues, “Seems they’re out this way visiting Leanne’s cousin. He said something about two birds. Tell the truth, it was hard to hear him as he was driving during the call.”

Clenching and unclenching his fists, Eli gathers his thoughts before he proceeds, “Well Audra, I’m not sure that’s a good idea…” Audra puts her cup down with a little more force than necessary. “Don’t take that tone, Audra. I know my own mind.”

 Slowly sipping her coffee, she looks over the rim at him and arches an eyebrow. “You don’t want my opinion, Audra – so stop asking for it. You’ve already made up both our minds and damn if I’m going to make it easy for you to boss me around. Look at that, will you? My coffee’s gone cold.” Audra rises and takes his cup to heat up his coffee.

“Now don’t try getting on my good side. My good side took the day off ten years ago and never came back. I’ll give you a choice: I’m going to be grumpy now, or I can be grumpy at lunch with Bennie and Leanne.” Audra places his cup down and kisses his cheek, “You can be grumpy both times if you want, that choice is yours. The rest of us non-grumpy people will still sit with you on the back patio and enjoy the sunshine whether you, dear, are grumpy today or grumpy tomorrow. Whether you’re grumpy in bed or grumpy in the shed. Whether you’re grumpy on the patio or grumpy doing cardio. We all love you regardless of your grumpiness.”

“Don’t you try to get me to forget that I have been bamboozled. You, dear Audra, are a terrible liar. Leanne doesn’t have a cousin out this way. Heck, she doesn’t have any cousins at all. For all the grief I get for not paying attention, I happen to know that Leanne is an only child of only children; therefore, there are no ‘cousins’ for Leanne to have.” Crossing his arms over his chest he gloats.

“My goodness, Eli. I guess an old dog can learn, after all.” Audra smiles enigmatically. “To think I honestly thought I could get away with my deception. You, dear man…” she leans in and kisses him softly on the cheek, “…are always a step or two ahead of me.” Eli couldn’t shake the feeling that he has been completely and totally bamboozled by his wife.

 “Dad, Dad…” Bennie shakes his father trying to wake him. “Dad… are you awake?” He asks as he shakes a bit harder.

Rousing slowly, Eli shakes his head to clear the dream from his mind. “Bennie? I’m awake. What are you doing here? Where’s mom? I was just talking to her.”

“I live here. Remember, you came to live with us after…” he trails off at the end.

Eli closes his eyes again and wishes for his dream to resume.

The Lake

The warmth of the fire tingled skin that had spent too long in the sun. A gentle pain easily ignored as we all consumed roasted marshmallows and listened to the stories being told in the warm New Hampshire evening. The mountain to our backs and the lake shimmering in the darkness, silent except where water met land. The sound gentle and relentless, a heartbeat. Or an echo. Perhaps the lake spoke to us of our future. It for sure told each of us individual truths; whether we understood it or not was of no consequence to the lake.

It holds memories both idyllic and imperfect. We would load up the station wagon and head north, most often my mother driving and my aunt riding shotgun. Piles of kids jostling for position in the back seat and what was affectionately referred to as the way back. Kids today just can’t understand the exhilaration of riding untethered in a speeding station wagon waiting to hit a bump to see how high you could be thrown. Just a shifting mass of kids all excited to be on the road to “Up Country” and days spent swimming, and playing with siblings, cousins, and who-all-else happened to roll up to Nana’s camp.

Like many childhood memories, days, months, entire years morph together into events that cannot be constrained by linear time. Being at the lake is that type of memory, the years and events run together and, if pressed, it would be difficult to untangle into any form that resembles coherency or precision of thought. I do remember sunshine and rain storms. I remember the smell of road tar, hot and sticky, and cloyingly sweet. I remember the phone booth that just stood at the side of the road, waiting. I always hoped to see Superman in there but that dream remained elusive. I remember trips to the dairy to get fresh milk and cream, cold glass bottles slick with condensation that we had to shake carefully before we poured it. I still shake milk. Mostly though, I remember freedom.

The camp sat across the street from the lake and up a set of stairs fashioned from sand and tree trunks. The uncles would repair them every summer. On the far end of the camp sat the sand pile, where one of my cousins threw a handful of sand in my face. An uncle spent the better part of forever gently removing all the sand and grit from my eyes. The cabin was one step above a tent – four walls that enclosed a raised platform covered in faded linoleum that served as the floor. Curtains divided the sleeping areas from the living area. A tarp roof lashed to the exterior walls and held aloft by a central pole. A roof where after a rainstorm, rain would pool in the front left corner. Every so often, Nana (or another grown up), would grab a broom and gently prod the recalcitrant water. The resulting rush of rainwater over the front window never failed to amuse me. A win for man against the constant onslaught of nature.

Camp had no electricity and no interior plumbing. Some nights we played cards by candlelight – a repurposed Chianti bottle covered in layers of colored wax, vestiges of candles long burned – kept the darkness at bay. The community outhouse was behind the camp and just a hop down the dirt road. We didn’t like to go at night so there was a rush to use it before full dark. If you did wake up and had to use the bathroom, it was the chamber pot. A real one. An actual porcelain pot with a lid. I’m assuming the grownups took care of the contents in the morning as it was always clean and ready. Waiting for those not brave enough to walk the woods in the dark.

To get clean drinking water, pairs of us (at least I was always paired with my sister, Tracey) were dispatched to the well! Now if my recollection holds, we walked for literal miles! But probably not. We would gather plastic gallon jugs and set off down the dirt road to the valley just behind the general store. Climbing slowly down the embankment, we clung to saplings and plants to keep our footing on the slick leaves and pine needles that carpeted the ground. Sound took on a muted and soft quality. Even the insects sang in awed and hushed tones. The small footbridge was covered in lichen and moss and always heralded the end of our long quest for potable water. Placing the empty jugs under the spout, we took turns priming the pump. Two small girls barely tall enough the raise the well handle high enough to get the water flowing. I’m pretty sure we lost more water to the ground than we gathered into our jugs. The walk home was appreciably more difficult than the walk to the well. As like all stories from the olden days, the walk home was uphill. Luckily for us it didn’t also snow.

It was a good place to be a child.

matter of fact

born to poverty and dysfunction

destined to repeat lessons
chronically unable to be learned – to penetrate the layers of protection
haphazardly constructed

thriving never seemed an option worth exploring

nothing pushed you forward except time’s relentless pace
and
its refusal to let you gather wits – whether yours or another’s.

always off-balance
you learn to walk on the edge of the chasm
one wrong move away from darkness

navigating a world determined to ignore you – as if your pain
was not big enough or interesting enough
to
warrant the attention of the universe.

or

to matter.

fog of memory

fog calms me
it offers comfort
mystery
but requires
honesty
and trust in your memories
yourself
which haunts the middle of dreams
disjointed and disheveled
calmness radiates from every pore
a blanket of sorrow
that never covers
everything
at the same time
a foot or shoulder or
psyche
inside out
raw
bloody
empty