Ugh.
The snow.
If it were October,
I would be giddy at the soft flakes
cascading
down,
tugging at the already ready to fall leaves,
blanketing the last living flowers into sleep,
reminding me of quiet, snowy nights.
But it's May.
The snow will rip the baby leaves
AND THEIR BRANCHES
from the trees
before they are able to shade us from the hot summer sun.
It will smother the fledgling vegetable gardens.
Tulips, lilacs--the flowers will die.
I will not wear my winter coat,
or gloves,
or a hat.
I will not shovel any snow
or remove it from the windshield.
It is time for sunshine and warmth,
for a light jacket and no socks,
for windows open at night,
for putting the space heater away.
Not for cold and seeing snowflakes
in the umbrella of orange
beneath the streetlight outside my house.
Showing posts with label stuff from creative writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label stuff from creative writing. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2014
Monday, March 17, 2014
P: Pepperoni
Urbana, Illinois, 2003
I didn't want to see the movie Old School.
Amy and I and our husbands and a bunch of their running group buddies went to the movies. When we got there, the men all wanted to see Old School. I didn't. Amy didn't care. So I ended up going to see Old School instead of something I thought would be more redeeming.
The University of Illinois is home to one of the largest greek systems in the entire country. And when we walked into the theatre, every single fraternity brother from the university was there, filling all of the rows except for the very first one. That's where we sat.
I was terrified. I remembered years ago at a CU football game how there were fraternity brothers throwing pepperoni at people. I never knew why. But they thought it was really funny.
So there at Old School, I worried and waited for the pepperoni slices to start flying. How long until there would be one landing on my forehead or in my hair or on my shoulder or slapping me on the cheek?
There were no pepperoni slices in the theatre. Those fraternity brothers never even threw popcorn at us. But they certainly howled with laughter at all of the funny moments in the movie.
Except for the one where Will Farrell says that he's too busy to party because of the big day at Home Depot the next day. WE (the old people in the front row) laughed at that line. That was our world at the time.
I didn't want to see the movie Old School.
Amy and I and our husbands and a bunch of their running group buddies went to the movies. When we got there, the men all wanted to see Old School. I didn't. Amy didn't care. So I ended up going to see Old School instead of something I thought would be more redeeming.
The University of Illinois is home to one of the largest greek systems in the entire country. And when we walked into the theatre, every single fraternity brother from the university was there, filling all of the rows except for the very first one. That's where we sat.
I was terrified. I remembered years ago at a CU football game how there were fraternity brothers throwing pepperoni at people. I never knew why. But they thought it was really funny.
So there at Old School, I worried and waited for the pepperoni slices to start flying. How long until there would be one landing on my forehead or in my hair or on my shoulder or slapping me on the cheek?
There were no pepperoni slices in the theatre. Those fraternity brothers never even threw popcorn at us. But they certainly howled with laughter at all of the funny moments in the movie.
Except for the one where Will Farrell says that he's too busy to party because of the big day at Home Depot the next day. WE (the old people in the front row) laughed at that line. That was our world at the time.
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Ode to Senioritis (and my seniors)
Of course your homework isn't done.
It's 89 days until graduation
and the sun is shining.
Your friends are distracting you.
It's not your fault.
There are geese to chase at the park.
Your dog ate your backpack.
No joke.
And you ran out of gas on the way to school.
You'll get to work
maybe after you finish your paper airplane.
You'll look at me through
the telescope you just made out of your writer's notebook.
I can take it. Really I can.
You are not the first group of seniors
I've lived through a second semester with.
Even though your friends will show up with coffee
at the classroom door,
I will still ask you to write.
Even though you'll play Flappy Bird
behind Kesey's pages,
I will still ask you to read.
You won't even care anymore
if you have the option to attend or not.
Won't even believe it
when I ask you to get up and move across the room
to put some thoughts on a sticky note on a poster.
Exhausted by the weight
of high school ending
and whatever's next looming
(not totally in focus yet)
and the impending good byes
and the last time you'll walk up the ramps,
or play foosball in the senior lounge,
or get to school early enough to get your favorite parking spot...
The affliction is real,
the only cure graduation.
And in the mean time
I will cherish every moment.
Because you will leave
and I will still be here
when you maybe come back to visit the Castle.
But
we
will never
be here
in this place
at this time
together
again.
It's 89 days until graduation
and the sun is shining.
Your friends are distracting you.
It's not your fault.
There are geese to chase at the park.
Your dog ate your backpack.
No joke.
And you ran out of gas on the way to school.
You'll get to work
maybe after you finish your paper airplane.
You'll look at me through
the telescope you just made out of your writer's notebook.
I can take it. Really I can.
You are not the first group of seniors
I've lived through a second semester with.
Even though your friends will show up with coffee
at the classroom door,
I will still ask you to write.
Even though you'll play Flappy Bird
behind Kesey's pages,
I will still ask you to read.
You won't even care anymore
if you have the option to attend or not.
Won't even believe it
when I ask you to get up and move across the room
to put some thoughts on a sticky note on a poster.
Exhausted by the weight
of high school ending
and whatever's next looming
(not totally in focus yet)
and the impending good byes
and the last time you'll walk up the ramps,
or play foosball in the senior lounge,
or get to school early enough to get your favorite parking spot...
The affliction is real,
the only cure graduation.
And in the mean time
I will cherish every moment.
Because you will leave
and I will still be here
when you maybe come back to visit the Castle.
But
we
will never
be here
in this place
at this time
together
again.
Thursday, January 30, 2014
Ronald Edition #1: Magic Camera
What can your magic camera see?
Will it show you Carl in space?
Or Liza's epic battle?
Emily's magic camera says your eyes were full of stars.
Take a photo of Sawyer's chickens
As they run beneath Annabel's swing.
Or capture a moment at a dance not usually photographed (Sarah's nose kiss.)
(and here's Sav's)
(and when you're done with that, tell me what poem below says about me and my cats)
(this poem too)
The Cats
They walk through my house on litter box feet--
on my pillow
on the kitchen counter
across the dining room table.
They leave their hair everywhere.
Sometimes even in my food.
They stand behind corners of walls and
swipe at legs and feet as they go by.
They hiss at the dog.
She only wants to play.
They nuzzle but then bite visitors' heads and
think package ribbons and knitting yarn
are their toys alone.
They yowl in the house at night
chasing pom poms and drowning them
in the water bowl.
They throw up.
They always throw up.
And yowl until you feed them again.
They poop in the house.
In a box.
And then sometimes,
I'll come into a room to find Phoebe
wiggling on the carpet with her tummy to the sky.
She purrs as she wiggles,
looking innocent and sweet
inviting me to rub her belly.
And I do.
But sometimes it's a trap.
Leaving my hand with little tiny scratches by menacing cat claws.
Will it show you Carl in space?
Or Liza's epic battle?
Emily's magic camera says your eyes were full of stars.
Take a photo of Sawyer's chickens
As they run beneath Annabel's swing.
Or capture a moment at a dance not usually photographed (Sarah's nose kiss.)
(and here's Sav's)
(and when you're done with that, tell me what poem below says about me and my cats)
(this poem too)
The Cats
They walk through my house on litter box feet--
on my pillow
on the kitchen counter
across the dining room table.
They leave their hair everywhere.
Sometimes even in my food.
They stand behind corners of walls and
swipe at legs and feet as they go by.
They hiss at the dog.
She only wants to play.
They nuzzle but then bite visitors' heads and
think package ribbons and knitting yarn
are their toys alone.
They yowl in the house at night
chasing pom poms and drowning them
in the water bowl.
They throw up.
They always throw up.
And yowl until you feed them again.
They poop in the house.
In a box.
And then sometimes,
I'll come into a room to find Phoebe
wiggling on the carpet with her tummy to the sky.
She purrs as she wiggles,
looking innocent and sweet
inviting me to rub her belly.
And I do.
But sometimes it's a trap.
Leaving my hand with little tiny scratches by menacing cat claws.
Friday, March 15, 2013
My phobia
What is the name for the phobia of umbrellas?
The name for the fear of umbrellas is anoraknophobia. Individuals with this phobia fear anoraks and other water stopping garments.
So there it is, but this doesn't totally capture it. My fear is the not water-stopping capabilities. I fear the poky thingies and the possibility of getting my eyes poked out.
(from http://www.chacha.com/question/what-is-the-name-for-the-phobia-of-umbrellas)
Flash Fiction: Your Furniture Arrived this Morning
I kicked off of the ground and headed to the sky. This time, I would go higher. The bright blue sky and the sunshine beckoned me. No clouds in my way.
Below me I saw the trails I hiked on sunny afternoons like this, traveling beneath me in speeds greater than I can traverse them on foot. But the ground was not my focus--up up up I flew.
Today the skies were not empty. I waved to a man flying a collection of furniture through the sky. He waved back as I realized that the chest of drawers he was sitting upon looked a lot like the one I fished my socks out of that morning.
And was that my sofa trailing behind him?
No matter. My focus was the sky. And the warm air gently caressing my skin and fluttering my hair. And how my stomach leapt each time I angled upward and gained yet more altitude.
But was I gaining altitude or losing it?
In the distance I saw the city materialize on the horizon, the skyscrapers and the wide roads that lead to them.
The metal and glass structures pulled my feet to them like a magnet, but I wasn't quite sure why.
I landed softly on the top of a skyscraper and kicked off again to continue my flight. But instead of up, I floated down. I landed on a railing for a balcony and kicked up again to only float slowly down. Down to where I could see people through windows talking and working, down to where the sunlight faded, down to where the noise of the city engulfed the silence of flying through the air.
Down to where the sky was only a small patch at the top of the buildings. I could only see it when I craned my head upward. I could reach for it but my feet still pulled me gently down.
I landed on the sidewalk and took several steps forward as I looked around to determine where I was. I nearly ran into a man, so I twirled around quickly and walked in the other direction.
He followed. I walked. He followed.
I stopped and turned to face him. "Don't touch me!" I yelled, pointing at him angrily to hide the fear that was spreading in me.
"I think this is where you're supposed to be," he said simply.
Silence.
He added, "Your furniture arrived this morning."
Below me I saw the trails I hiked on sunny afternoons like this, traveling beneath me in speeds greater than I can traverse them on foot. But the ground was not my focus--up up up I flew.
Today the skies were not empty. I waved to a man flying a collection of furniture through the sky. He waved back as I realized that the chest of drawers he was sitting upon looked a lot like the one I fished my socks out of that morning.
And was that my sofa trailing behind him?
No matter. My focus was the sky. And the warm air gently caressing my skin and fluttering my hair. And how my stomach leapt each time I angled upward and gained yet more altitude.
But was I gaining altitude or losing it?
In the distance I saw the city materialize on the horizon, the skyscrapers and the wide roads that lead to them.
The metal and glass structures pulled my feet to them like a magnet, but I wasn't quite sure why.
I landed softly on the top of a skyscraper and kicked off again to continue my flight. But instead of up, I floated down. I landed on a railing for a balcony and kicked up again to only float slowly down. Down to where I could see people through windows talking and working, down to where the sunlight faded, down to where the noise of the city engulfed the silence of flying through the air.
Down to where the sky was only a small patch at the top of the buildings. I could only see it when I craned my head upward. I could reach for it but my feet still pulled me gently down.
I landed on the sidewalk and took several steps forward as I looked around to determine where I was. I nearly ran into a man, so I twirled around quickly and walked in the other direction.
He followed. I walked. He followed.
I stopped and turned to face him. "Don't touch me!" I yelled, pointing at him angrily to hide the fear that was spreading in me.
"I think this is where you're supposed to be," he said simply.
Silence.
He added, "Your furniture arrived this morning."
Thursday, February 28, 2013
The Seven Deadly Sins
Be a glutton.
With love. With friendship. With kind acts and kind words.
Engage in wrath
toward anything that offends your soul.
Be greedy with time: save it, hoard it, plan it out carefully
so you're able to hike through the woods
and get your work done.
Sloth-like behavior
is what lets your body stop
so your mind can wander toward discoveries you might not otherwise find.
Be proud of what you've made,
from cookies to scarves to mistakes.
Lust after your bliss.
And envy only who you would be in another wild, crazy version of you
to challenge your imagination
to develop your superhero characteristics
and to cultivate your appreciation
for you
here
now.
With love. With friendship. With kind acts and kind words.
Engage in wrath
toward anything that offends your soul.
Be greedy with time: save it, hoard it, plan it out carefully
so you're able to hike through the woods
and get your work done.
Sloth-like behavior
is what lets your body stop
so your mind can wander toward discoveries you might not otherwise find.
Be proud of what you've made,
from cookies to scarves to mistakes.
Lust after your bliss.
And envy only who you would be in another wild, crazy version of you
to challenge your imagination
to develop your superhero characteristics
and to cultivate your appreciation
for you
here
now.
Phoebe Cat
At eleven pm,
when the house is curled up in bed,
she comes alive
yawling at the pom pom she chases
up and down the stairs, through the hall,
kitchen,
living room,
under the dining room table and
sometimes leaving it soaking in her water bowl.
During the day
she's invisible
hiding mostly from the dog
unseen by visitors who are surprised when she does
slink into the room.
She'll appear to block the warm air
coming from a heating vent or
to squawk for her dinner.
But then she is gone
until the house is silent
the dog asleep for the night
and
she purrs and rolls on the bath mat
waiting for someone to scratch her tummy.
when the house is curled up in bed,
she comes alive
yawling at the pom pom she chases
up and down the stairs, through the hall,
kitchen,
living room,
under the dining room table and
sometimes leaving it soaking in her water bowl.
During the day
she's invisible
hiding mostly from the dog
unseen by visitors who are surprised when she does
slink into the room.
She'll appear to block the warm air
coming from a heating vent or
to squawk for her dinner.
But then she is gone
until the house is silent
the dog asleep for the night
and
she purrs and rolls on the bath mat
waiting for someone to scratch her tummy.
Tuesday, February 12, 2013
Inspired by "Miracle Workers"
I can run. But no more than two days in a row. The runs
never feel totally swift and smooth, but
they feel better when I space them out.
I'm almost 40 and this is what I do.
Exercise
six days a week to keep muscles and lungs strong to
keep the pain at bay.
But mind the line, when crossed it's too much.
No amount of training can keep my joints from hurting after
two hours of anything--
hiking, running, biking, sitting at the computer.
I'm almost 40 and this is what I do.
Sleep more. The morning alarm battle is epic.
Every day.
But the morning oatmeal routine helps to bring me into the day peacefully.
Read more. Books keep me cogent and TV makes me dull.
Write with my students.
Remember the lessons of yoga:
Focus on the breath and all else disappears.
Stretch and stretch some more--I'll get there.
It won't happen immediately, but I will get stronger.
I'm not too old to do a headstand.
Go to Boulder Ink to connect the daisies on my arm.
I'm almost 40 and this is what I do.
never feel totally swift and smooth, but
they feel better when I space them out.
I'm almost 40 and this is what I do.
Exercise
six days a week to keep muscles and lungs strong to
keep the pain at bay.
But mind the line, when crossed it's too much.
No amount of training can keep my joints from hurting after
two hours of anything--
hiking, running, biking, sitting at the computer.
I'm almost 40 and this is what I do.
Sleep more. The morning alarm battle is epic.
Every day.
But the morning oatmeal routine helps to bring me into the day peacefully.
Read more. Books keep me cogent and TV makes me dull.
Write with my students.
Remember the lessons of yoga:
Focus on the breath and all else disappears.
Stretch and stretch some more--I'll get there.
It won't happen immediately, but I will get stronger.
I'm not too old to do a headstand.
Go to Boulder Ink to connect the daisies on my arm.
I'm almost 40 and this is what I do.
Inspired by "Direct Orders"
Breathe. The air is cool and fresh coming across Sunset Lake at dusk.
Breathe. Fresh bread is baking in the oven, there's butternut squash soup on the stove, and you've just come in from a cold February day.
Breathe. Mom just made it home from work on Christmas Eve, 1982, in the blizzard that paralyzed Denver for a week.
Breathe. There's Jane, finally, and she does indeed have 10 fingers and 10 toes and a powerful set of lungs.
Breathe. All the grading is done, the grades are turned in, the classroom is clean, and it's summer vacation.
Breathe. That was the best performance of the season, and it happened at finals for the state marching band competition.
Breathe. The dissertation. Is. Done.
Breathe. The moving truck just pulled away, empty. All of our stuff is finally in the new house.
Breathe. You got past the boulder field on Long's Peak before the lightning started.
Breathe. Jane found her homework. It wasn't lost, just deep in her backpack.
Breathe. Her fever broke.
Breathe. Dad is fine. The side air bags kept him safe.
Breathe. Hug Paul.
Breathe.
Breathe. Fresh bread is baking in the oven, there's butternut squash soup on the stove, and you've just come in from a cold February day.
Breathe. Mom just made it home from work on Christmas Eve, 1982, in the blizzard that paralyzed Denver for a week.
Breathe. There's Jane, finally, and she does indeed have 10 fingers and 10 toes and a powerful set of lungs.
Breathe. All the grading is done, the grades are turned in, the classroom is clean, and it's summer vacation.
Breathe. That was the best performance of the season, and it happened at finals for the state marching band competition.
Breathe. The dissertation. Is. Done.
Breathe. The moving truck just pulled away, empty. All of our stuff is finally in the new house.
Breathe. You got past the boulder field on Long's Peak before the lightning started.
Breathe. Jane found her homework. It wasn't lost, just deep in her backpack.
Breathe. Her fever broke.
Breathe. Dad is fine. The side air bags kept him safe.
Breathe. Hug Paul.
Breathe.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Creative Writing, Ronald Edition #1
What if you were the last person left on earth, tweeting into the #nothingness?
You would need to know #HowToUseHashtags. Maybe even you could write a story entirely in Tweets as you wait for someone, anyone, to respond. If you were a #grammarnerd, it would be awesome because you wouldn't have to worry about other people's stupid mistakes making your eyes burn.
But what would happen if no one ever responded?
What if there was no one there to play the most intense game of #tictactoe ever?
Would you have lucid dreams of #farawayplaces?
Would you make a list of #thingsyoulikestodo?
Would you wonder why you were there?
Just you and the tweets and that octothorpe?
Would you ponder #anotherworld?
Would you make up a #lovefail story about the first day of school sophomore year?
And then, in response to a Tweet where you only say, "#greatexpectations #makesmewanttodie,"comes a response: "What's a #hashtag?" You might ask yourself, "#canIvomityet?" in a #rant because hashtags have been your everything and now the only other person alive doesn't even know what they are. You have nothing in common. Your relationship is doomed.
But then you realize how pathetic it is that hashtags were your only contact with anyone else alive in the universe. So you would ponder the stupidity of them. And then realize how #hashtags have become your bully.
Maybe you would start to wonder #wherethesimplethingshavegone. And you would #reflect and realize that you must do it for love if you don't love it get out.
So you simply haiku.
In #hashtags.
You would need to know #HowToUseHashtags. Maybe even you could write a story entirely in Tweets as you wait for someone, anyone, to respond. If you were a #grammarnerd, it would be awesome because you wouldn't have to worry about other people's stupid mistakes making your eyes burn.
But what would happen if no one ever responded?
What if there was no one there to play the most intense game of #tictactoe ever?
Would you have lucid dreams of #farawayplaces?
Would you make a list of #thingsyoulikestodo?
Would you wonder why you were there?
Just you and the tweets and that octothorpe?
Would you ponder #anotherworld?
Would you make up a #lovefail story about the first day of school sophomore year?
And then, in response to a Tweet where you only say, "#greatexpectations #makesmewanttodie,"comes a response: "What's a #hashtag?" You might ask yourself, "#canIvomityet?" in a #rant because hashtags have been your everything and now the only other person alive doesn't even know what they are. You have nothing in common. Your relationship is doomed.
But then you realize how pathetic it is that hashtags were your only contact with anyone else alive in the universe. So you would ponder the stupidity of them. And then realize how #hashtags have become your bully.
Maybe you would start to wonder #wherethesimplethingshavegone. And you would #reflect and realize that you must do it for love if you don't love it get out.
So you simply haiku.
In #hashtags.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Connected by memories (rough draft for in-class feedback)
I walked into the funeral home--a thing I knew nothing about because at age nine, I had never been to one before. No none had died before. I don't remember any other room in the building, or the building from the outside, or even the drive to get there, or the flight from Denver to Detroit, or the drive to Stapleton, or packing for the trip--only the morning my brother had woken me up a few days before to tell me that our grandfather had passed in his sleep.
From the door to the room where the casket was, I remember looking tentatively toward the big box surrounded by flowers and, in my memory, illuminated by light. I could see his profile. His chest--not moving up and down as it would if he were sleeping. His skin looked pink, not cold and dead. His eyes resting closed. I had never seen a casket before or a dead person, and this dead person was my grandfather.
I can't remember when I had seen him before that--I think it may have been a while, but the vision I had of him at that moment did not align with the memories I held of him. Galloping down the sidewalk to the park with him walking behind me, pretending my pony tails were reins. How when he visited Denver, he retrieved donuts for us every morning from the donut shop a few blocks away--a shop we rarely went to when he wasn't in town. Silver dollars from him pockets. The two-step shuffling dance he did in our foyer, humming and smiling. The joyful glint in his eyes. How he said he was only resting his eyes when we caught him asleep in his chair.
At this moment in that coffin, he was not only resting his eyes. And that was a very difficult thing for me to understand.
That morning I had woken up on a scratchy green sofa in the living room of my grandparents' apartment. My grandmother no longer stayed there; both she and my grandfather had been moved to the nursing home where he died. But that is where my brother and my parents and I stayed while we were in Dearborn for the funeral.
My brother and I camped out in the living room on the olive green sofa, much too narrow to really sleep comfortably on. My parents slept in the two twin beds in my grandparents' room, separated by a nightstand. I had only ever seen that on "I love Lucy." Lucy and Ricky's bedroom kept their beds at a safe distance from one another, something I thought was only about television land rules of marriages or something, since a queen-sized bed dominated my parents' bedroom and I thought that was how it was everywhere except for on TV.
All of it was weird, the narrow sofa, the twin beds, the kitchen without Grandma standing in it putting cookies back in the oven for just five more minutes, the table without Grandpa sitting at it reading the paper. Even the shower in their bathroom--the shower curtain leaned in toward me as I washed, a phenomenon I had never witnessed before. The shower curtain at home had magnets in it to attach to the side of the tub to keep the curtain from attacking a person while showering. But here the steam billowed freely behind the curtain making it reach out toward me, sucking all the space out of the shower. Grandpa was dead, and my nine year old mind imagined he had something to do with the shower curtain encroaching on my shower.
My mom led me slowly to the casket. She told me I could walk right up, touch him even. I kept a safe distance of at least six feet. From there I could crane my neck to see him, to see the suit and tie he wore, to see his motionless hands folded one over the other on his belly. His hair was combed, his skin I could see from here was kind of powdery, his chest did not rise and fall slowly, though I watched and waited for it to. My vantage point from the doorway of the room made it seem he was peacefully sleeping. From the vantage point of six feet away, I could see that was not the case.
My grandmother suffered a brain aneurysm in her forties that left her paralyzed on her left side. Her left hand always sat still in her lap, but she still played pinochle using a special half-moon contraption that sat on a table and held her hand of cards for her. She wore a brace on her lower leg to keep the ankle straight, and that along with a four-legged cane allowed her to walk. Her gait required her to step with her right foot, then use her entire body to propel the left foot forward, leaning on the cane for support.
By the time my grandfather passed, Grandma got around in a wheel chair mostly, but that day she insisted on walking to the coffin to say goodbye. We all watched as she slowly approached, supported by my dad. She held a handkerchief in her right hand to catch the tears she could not hold back. When she got to him, she touched his chest, grasped his hands, kissed his forehead. She sobbed loudly, repeated his name over and over, bent her head over the casket. I watched but didn't, feeling as if I was intruding on one of the most sacred moments of a human life.
Our vigil at the funeral home took hours that day. The family--my parents, brother, and I, my dad's two sisters and their husbands and my ten cousins (I the youngest of my grandfather's twelve grandchildren)--we stayed there as people came by to see us, to see him, to say how sorry they were, to sign the visitors' book. My young adult cousins seemed to get it all a bit more than I; they escaped to the basement of the funeral home to smoke cigarettes and would come back upstairs to murmur quietly with the visitors, whom they knew and I did not since they all lived there in Dearborn and I was only visiting.
At one point. I found myself sitting next to my aunt Barbara, my dad's older sister. She would pass away herself only a few months later; I know now looking back that she was already that day ravaged by lung cancer. And again a similar scene played out in that same funeral home, even the young adults escaping to the basement to smoke cigarettes while their mother reclined silently in a coffin upstairs due to her own years of smoking. I wasn't at that funeral, but my dad told me about it. So the day I sat next to her was the last time I saw her, and we both had our shoes and socks off, looking at our toes.
Look at that, she said.
Our second and third toes, both of us on both feet, are almost webbed together, connected by flesh at a spot much farther up on the toes than where the flesh connects between the other toes on our feet.
Until that moment, I had always thought my toes were kind of weird and they even embarrassed me.
But my toes, like my memories, they connect me to these moments and these people. I, the youngest of my grandfather's grandchildren, am married and have a kid and a 17-year career and a few college degrees. I'm turning 40 this year. The oldest of us, my cousin John, is now in his 60s and his four children are all married. When I see my cousins now we are all adults together. I'm no longer the nine-year-old child, confused by death, terrified by a shower curtain, looking to them to see something about how I was supposed to act with a dead grandfather in the room.
We share these memories. We are family.
From the door to the room where the casket was, I remember looking tentatively toward the big box surrounded by flowers and, in my memory, illuminated by light. I could see his profile. His chest--not moving up and down as it would if he were sleeping. His skin looked pink, not cold and dead. His eyes resting closed. I had never seen a casket before or a dead person, and this dead person was my grandfather.
I can't remember when I had seen him before that--I think it may have been a while, but the vision I had of him at that moment did not align with the memories I held of him. Galloping down the sidewalk to the park with him walking behind me, pretending my pony tails were reins. How when he visited Denver, he retrieved donuts for us every morning from the donut shop a few blocks away--a shop we rarely went to when he wasn't in town. Silver dollars from him pockets. The two-step shuffling dance he did in our foyer, humming and smiling. The joyful glint in his eyes. How he said he was only resting his eyes when we caught him asleep in his chair.
At this moment in that coffin, he was not only resting his eyes. And that was a very difficult thing for me to understand.
That morning I had woken up on a scratchy green sofa in the living room of my grandparents' apartment. My grandmother no longer stayed there; both she and my grandfather had been moved to the nursing home where he died. But that is where my brother and my parents and I stayed while we were in Dearborn for the funeral.
My brother and I camped out in the living room on the olive green sofa, much too narrow to really sleep comfortably on. My parents slept in the two twin beds in my grandparents' room, separated by a nightstand. I had only ever seen that on "I love Lucy." Lucy and Ricky's bedroom kept their beds at a safe distance from one another, something I thought was only about television land rules of marriages or something, since a queen-sized bed dominated my parents' bedroom and I thought that was how it was everywhere except for on TV.
All of it was weird, the narrow sofa, the twin beds, the kitchen without Grandma standing in it putting cookies back in the oven for just five more minutes, the table without Grandpa sitting at it reading the paper. Even the shower in their bathroom--the shower curtain leaned in toward me as I washed, a phenomenon I had never witnessed before. The shower curtain at home had magnets in it to attach to the side of the tub to keep the curtain from attacking a person while showering. But here the steam billowed freely behind the curtain making it reach out toward me, sucking all the space out of the shower. Grandpa was dead, and my nine year old mind imagined he had something to do with the shower curtain encroaching on my shower.
My mom led me slowly to the casket. She told me I could walk right up, touch him even. I kept a safe distance of at least six feet. From there I could crane my neck to see him, to see the suit and tie he wore, to see his motionless hands folded one over the other on his belly. His hair was combed, his skin I could see from here was kind of powdery, his chest did not rise and fall slowly, though I watched and waited for it to. My vantage point from the doorway of the room made it seem he was peacefully sleeping. From the vantage point of six feet away, I could see that was not the case.
My grandmother suffered a brain aneurysm in her forties that left her paralyzed on her left side. Her left hand always sat still in her lap, but she still played pinochle using a special half-moon contraption that sat on a table and held her hand of cards for her. She wore a brace on her lower leg to keep the ankle straight, and that along with a four-legged cane allowed her to walk. Her gait required her to step with her right foot, then use her entire body to propel the left foot forward, leaning on the cane for support.
By the time my grandfather passed, Grandma got around in a wheel chair mostly, but that day she insisted on walking to the coffin to say goodbye. We all watched as she slowly approached, supported by my dad. She held a handkerchief in her right hand to catch the tears she could not hold back. When she got to him, she touched his chest, grasped his hands, kissed his forehead. She sobbed loudly, repeated his name over and over, bent her head over the casket. I watched but didn't, feeling as if I was intruding on one of the most sacred moments of a human life.
Our vigil at the funeral home took hours that day. The family--my parents, brother, and I, my dad's two sisters and their husbands and my ten cousins (I the youngest of my grandfather's twelve grandchildren)--we stayed there as people came by to see us, to see him, to say how sorry they were, to sign the visitors' book. My young adult cousins seemed to get it all a bit more than I; they escaped to the basement of the funeral home to smoke cigarettes and would come back upstairs to murmur quietly with the visitors, whom they knew and I did not since they all lived there in Dearborn and I was only visiting.
At one point. I found myself sitting next to my aunt Barbara, my dad's older sister. She would pass away herself only a few months later; I know now looking back that she was already that day ravaged by lung cancer. And again a similar scene played out in that same funeral home, even the young adults escaping to the basement to smoke cigarettes while their mother reclined silently in a coffin upstairs due to her own years of smoking. I wasn't at that funeral, but my dad told me about it. So the day I sat next to her was the last time I saw her, and we both had our shoes and socks off, looking at our toes.
Look at that, she said.
Our second and third toes, both of us on both feet, are almost webbed together, connected by flesh at a spot much farther up on the toes than where the flesh connects between the other toes on our feet.
Until that moment, I had always thought my toes were kind of weird and they even embarrassed me.
But my toes, like my memories, they connect me to these moments and these people. I, the youngest of my grandfather's grandchildren, am married and have a kid and a 17-year career and a few college degrees. I'm turning 40 this year. The oldest of us, my cousin John, is now in his 60s and his four children are all married. When I see my cousins now we are all adults together. I'm no longer the nine-year-old child, confused by death, terrified by a shower curtain, looking to them to see something about how I was supposed to act with a dead grandfather in the room.
We share these memories. We are family.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
Descriptive moment
I walked into the funeral home--a thing I knew nothing about because at age nine, I had never been to one before. No none had died before. I don't remember any other room in the building, or the building from the outside, or even the drive to get there, or the flight from Denver to Detroit, or the drive to Stapleton, or packing for the trip--only the morning my brother woke me up a few days before to tell me that our grandfather had passed in his sleep.
From the door to the room where the casket was, I remember looking tentatively toward the big box surrounded by flowers and, in my memory, illuminated by light. I could see his profile. His chest--not moving up and down as it would if he were sleeping. His skin looked pink, not cold and dead. His eyes resting closed. I had never seen a casket before or a dead person, and this dead person was my grandfather.
I can't remember when I had seen him before that--I think it may have been a while, but the vision I had of him at that moment did not align with the memories I held of him. Galloping down the sidewalk to the park with him walking behind me, pretending my pony tails were reins. How when he visited Denver, he retrieved donuts for us every morning from the donut shop a few blocks away--a shop we rarely went to when he wasn't in town. Silver dollars from him pockets. His two-step shuffling dance he did in our foyer, humming and smiling. The joyful glint in his eyes. How he said he was only resting his eyes when we caught him asleep in his chair.
At this moment in that coffin, he was not only resting his eyes. And that was a very difficult thing for me to understand.
From the door to the room where the casket was, I remember looking tentatively toward the big box surrounded by flowers and, in my memory, illuminated by light. I could see his profile. His chest--not moving up and down as it would if he were sleeping. His skin looked pink, not cold and dead. His eyes resting closed. I had never seen a casket before or a dead person, and this dead person was my grandfather.
I can't remember when I had seen him before that--I think it may have been a while, but the vision I had of him at that moment did not align with the memories I held of him. Galloping down the sidewalk to the park with him walking behind me, pretending my pony tails were reins. How when he visited Denver, he retrieved donuts for us every morning from the donut shop a few blocks away--a shop we rarely went to when he wasn't in town. Silver dollars from him pockets. His two-step shuffling dance he did in our foyer, humming and smiling. The joyful glint in his eyes. How he said he was only resting his eyes when we caught him asleep in his chair.
At this moment in that coffin, he was not only resting his eyes. And that was a very difficult thing for me to understand.
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