one minute,
you were flying free in a dreamy rose ribboned sky with the wind kissing your wings
and the next minute,
you were crashing into a false future,
impersonating a cloudy horizon,
delivering a heart-stopping
ending
to a very small but precious story
At 4:30 I make coffee. Taking the dog outside, we are met by a large buck about 20 feet from the door. All three of us freeze in place. I know he will outlast me in this staring stand-off. I look away, not wanting to be percieved as a threat. The dog growls softly, we slip back into the warm kitchen and hear the buck bound quickly away, snapping branches with his strong gallop. Watchful now, we walk softly, snow crunching and breath rising in the darkness—the day begins.
I looked for you at the grocery store – in the soup aisle, in the bread area of the bakery, by the colorful and confusing boxes of pop, but I didn’t see you anywhere. I noticed there were no small containers of Turner’s whole milk and I knew you’d be disappointed. I remembered, as I passed the frigid butter boxes, that you had about 5 expired boxes of Land ’O Lakes butter in your refrigerator when I cleaned it out two months ago. It was the salted butter, that’s the one we like best.
I always park close to the store, so the walk is easier for us. I’ve been to the store three times since you died and the first two times I parked in the same place where we always park. Today, I parked in a different spot, across the street and on a different side of the store. I wish I could say that I laughed at myself when I couldn’t find my car after shopping. My ironic confusion only made me feel more exhausted.
On New Year’s Eve, I listened to some of your messages on my phone. On one day in July, there were 11 messages from you which range from sweet to cruelly delusional. Contrary to the expected reaction, I sit completely dry-eyed and listen to your voice – even the angry messages bring me a familiar sort of peace.
I look for you at your house, expecting to see you in the kitchen, in the hallway, in the sun room. I sit quietly on the couch and fix the blanket and the pillows when I leave, because I know how you like them to be neat and straight.
The world continues on its path forward. People are out shoveling snow and I see a dog playing with young kids like something out of a Hallmark movie or an insurance commercial. My life is forever altered marking a “before” and an “after”, but life in general continues without missing a single beat. This is simultaneously devastating and comforting.
At my house, I hear your voice kindly commenting on the little kitchen shelf and the new creamer I bought last week. I look for you around the corner and expect the dog to be barking at your awkward movements as you try to find a place for your coat and your purse. But the dog isn’t barking, your coat isn’t here.
You, are not here.
Where are you?
Dear November,
You are a velvet pouch of rubies and garnets, of golden topaz and magical emeralds. I try to inhale you, deep into my lungs and into my spirit. Your breath of cool, night frost turns to fog in the early morning. Comforted by your crisp embrace, I drive along country roads with my eyes filled by beauty and my heart filled with hope.
my mum: We’re all going to hell together.
me: We’re not going to hell now, we’re safe here. We’re all together and it’s nice here.
my mum: This is hell.
me: Tell me what you grew in your garden?
my mum: In hell?
me: In Ohio, you had a beautiful garden and you grew lovely roses.
my mum: Oh the roses were my favorite, red and pink and yellow roses…
pause
my mum: I want to die.
me: I know mama.
beautiful patterns everywhere— my anxious eyes rest on shadows, running along edges and staring hard until the picture changes, gets defined, becomes blinding and then visible—
changed, altered, simplified,
I am calm once again
in the morning i stand at the window, the steam from my coffee makes me squint—
i think about windows, portals, visions of dreams, of flying
away and above and beyond what we know, through fields of corn and poppy
riding on the back of pick-up trucks to watch fireworks and feel alive again
write something positive–
something about amber leaves
or silver cobwebs
the smell of books and brewing coffee,
or 3:00 am labyrinthine logic
write about her soft whisper
and long shadows on the bricks
as the sun sets on another long October day
“…there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air…Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful—Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels—a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those Byzantine churches…”
“Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry.
“And what is beauty?”
“Terror.”
“One likes to think, there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing, in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does, is a fool.”
All excerpts from the book, The Secret History by Donna Tartt, 1992
I want to write about the state of our political world, the injustice, the oversight, the ignorance—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about politics
I want to write about the state of our collective consciousness, the pros and cons of a hive-mentality, the necessity of it for survival as well as its potential to negatively influence culture—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about morals
I want to write about being a citizen of the world, how average people don’t immigrate for fun—folks leave their country, their language, their food, their families, their jobs, their homes in order to improve their lives and the lives of their children by prospering in a safe environment. There is a protocol for immigration, that is understood. There are laws to be observed in order for a society to function, all very true. But desperate people do desperate things. And if you’ve never been desperate in this life, count yourself lucky—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about empathy
I want to write about misogyny—the idea that in the year 2025 we still shame victims of abuse, we still use laws to control women’s bodies, we still base medical testing on males only, we are willing to vote for a convicted criminal rather than a black woman—but that’s not what my blog is about, I don’t talk about racial and gender equality
It might be time to bring this little blog that is 11 years old to a close for now. I’m not sure, I’ll have to think a bit more upon it. I’ve lost my enthusiasm for making my writing public on this forum. I’ve always thought of the writing here as a bit of a respite from reality. But, I don’t know, I can’t quite work out if it’s shallow in the face of so much that is wrong in our lives or a testament to all that is right in my own (privileged) life, most likely a little of both.
I’ll leave you for now, with some images that I do blog about: a robin’s egg found in a potted fern, irises and my little sweet girl, Juliet. Be well readers, walk the world with as much inner peace as you can possibly acquire.
spanishwoods 