'Name?' Was the first and last thing he said to me. I answered. And as I began to offer more, he turned and got to work. My schedule was out of order. Stopping mid week to pick up groceries was humbling. Time is never regained once lost. Sunday I was distracted. I missed items. So, here I am; at a new store, a Wednesday interloper, with a new person. I guess, I am the new person too. Tamar stopped suddenly and looked out over an adjacent field. The parking lot butted up against a promised expansion of some store currently in the plaza. It was puddled and strewn with broken things; fencing, floes of Styrofoam, patches of grass, shattered adolescent tree trunks. In the distance, a hypertensive highway teemed with commuters. The dull crashing of crates snapped my attention back to task. Tamar was already in motion, returning to the depot. At the warehouse door he threw one more glance over his shoulder at the chaotic field, shook his head, and entered.
change
tropism
and even though
there is more space
out there
than in here-
a bit more room
where you stand.
it would be easy
to assume
that there’s no motion.
and if it seems
like my swells
don’t happen on demand
or appear clear,
you should take a
minute away from
this conversation.
then you might
understand that
no matter
what my waves
sound like
to your ear,
my tides aren’t
the same.
and I ain’t the same
ocean.
storage solutions for emotional baggage part 1
when crisis arrives it's often in svelte boxes. stealthy. well packed. air tight. each misdirection framed with instruction, paired with pictures, numbered, itemized. it makes the process seem so logical. fasteners and spacers are codified, in sealed plastic sleeves. warnings against leaving children unattended around sharp pieces are printed on the paper instructions and the storage bag. once built, there are also cautions against letting children climb up, or on, the item. unless it is a bed, then don't climb the headboard and definitely don't play under it. there's safety in redundancy. outcome assured, sore back notwithstanding. missing pieces? there's a 1-800 for that. need help building? check the website, forward slash, helpdesk. lay out the pieces, as numbered. grab a Robertson screwdriver. or is it a Phillips? grab the one with the cross, not the square. the flat head, the simplest tool, is never needed. guaranteed that the tip will skip at least three times, easily removing skin from bone. storage solutions instead of problem solving.
the fear of nothing
Something changed while I was not looking.
Not in my surroundings, it's the interior furnishings that have been moved.
I am sitting on the couch at 5:00 AM, Wednesday.
Stretches done. Meds taken. Cat fed. Wait, did I take my meds?
There is still one week of Christmas break remaining.
Coffee wobbles in my cup and slowly stills.
I stare at the poorly stirred turbulence; that is how I feel right now. Still. And separate.
CP24 let's me know that it will be unseasonably warm.
The surprise is missing from the newscaster's voice.
My today has started. The kid's day ended just 5 hours ago.
Their stomping up the stairs at midnight, briefly startled me awake.
This margin seems to be growing and in retrograde- me rising earlier, them setting later.
I open the back slider, smell the air, and wonder what I expected from this season.
Funny, if 'today' is measured by the rest of the world waking, 'today' is still, like, 3 hours away.
When did I become a pre-sunrise tv watcher and a weather fan-boy? Why?
A week ago I sloshed and bubbled as we hustled to wrap up school.
I was in a cohort of the deflated, claiming rights to a break, fist bumping for a Friday.
Last year, same time, I said something like 'I will need a whole holiday to get ready for this holiday.'
This year we teleported out of school a day early.
Announcements of inclimate weather interrupted the bells.
We pulled the chute and left without the usual Yule tidings to all.
People slipped and slid as they hustled in excitement across the parking lot.
Everything was electric, everyone was a raw wire whiplashing on wet road. And even as dangerous as the black-iced pavement was, the beacon of early dismissal made folks forget their fears of falling.
Now, just now, I struggled to find the name of the day.
Kinetic energy will eventually come from the coffee. Potential though, is all spent.
Midway through this break and my commute triangulates far too simply- bathroom, bed, couch, kitchen.
My associations hitch far too consistently- cat, son, daughter, spouse.
I write, drink coffee, cook for the family- all purposeful, all through a background noise.
An idea has taken nest in my head.
Shooing and handwaving has only made it loft higher and higher in the rafters.
It's squawk familiar and fresh at the same time.
'Retirement.'
Is it a question, promise, or threat?
I close the back slider, my cat takes this as a cue. He chirps and runs to his food bowl.
He has already eaten, but I give him a second breakfast anyways.
in the darkest hollow
this pain,
my chest,
handmade,
down lined
woven into
this hollow-
is dark,
compressed,
of
twigs and threads,
my bones
and marrow.
our blood,
a place,
hidden
safe and away
from
sharp teeth,
claws,
and
sorrow.
high up
enough
to hold me
where few
can
ever
follow;
released
from grief
I remember
a warmth
that once
slept beneath
my breast.
far
away
in this
forest,
of
memories,
keepsakes,
and
unrest.
no tests,
it's
just me
calling
out to
those
who have
outgrown
our nest.
a song
so sweet
there's
no choice
but
let my
heart break
I
guess.
the fact that someone notices
we are mostly memories
hoping to be recalled;
given purpose and consequence
in that instant instance
just before the page turns.
what was it we just talked about?
you know,
the gloom that brightens
and slumps at the same time.
the craving that our body of work,
our remains,
continues to vibrate and clang
in some useful measure-
still.
in retrospect,
piece after piece,
a life re-sembles
some of the art
that frames it.
but
these are not materials
of matter.
not mortar or 2by4.
no rebar, no shingle.
they will not ever
sit level or
settle into a
foundation.
memory is metaphor.
moments, echoes.
most is just
fleet foxes daring us
to follow around the tree,
tails flashing a beckoning
or a caution,
warning,
in the last minute,
that we have
left the path.
left our home.
we are chapters,
not categories or
title pages,
thumbed and dog eared
by another reader
and our story,
like the fox's print,
will disappear
under iridescent
snow before it
is ever
truly
found.
words keep wolves at bay 