Category: Loss

Time to Reconnect

Photo by EmK Photography on Pexels.com

Do you remember Tom?

Your eyes are the first to understand. They open wide, drawn to a presence.

His cheeks not pale. Bright red, like the way they were that winter day. Electric day.

The day the snow fell in April.

And you met.

He came with a shovel. 

Cleared your sidewalk.

You had cookies and hot chocolate together.

The steam rose wet in the frigid air. 

Before he was your husband, walking boot deep in fluffy snow.

Tom. Laughing at unexpected falling flakes. Catching them in his mouth. 

Living life to the end.

The last word goes to Tom.

I Saw Strength and Sorrow in My Grandmother’s Art.

Photo by Monica McHenney

I try to imagine my grandmother’s life. When I met her in 1970, she was living outside of Jackson, Michigan. My father hadn’t seen her since he was five. I have one picture of her sitting between my parents, with my sister, under a watercolor of bare-masted boats and impressionist water. I thought she’d painted it. She showed us hers, smaller, unframed.

Calm, I can’t imagine that her life started that way. She bore twenty children; spent years in a mental hospital. Beginning in 1933, she lost her children; her world changed. I try to imagine, but it’s really hard.

Friendship

Photo by Tiwi Riders on Pexels.com

I remember the motorcycle he rode.

I remember sneaking off with him when he was sixteen. I was fourteen, full of elaborate excuses; girlfriends who vouched for me. Wind in my face, the noise, the leather jacket and the helmet. I saved up, hid them at his house.

I remember when he told me he was gay.

I remember how cool I played it. “I wondered,” I said. I thought, what were the chances he was wrong?

I remember every unworthy person he dated. I’d ask him, “Are you sure? What do you see?”

He’d say, “You’re my best friend.”

Clancy Hits It Home

Photo by Bryce Carithers on Pexels.com

Clancy struck out for the third time. He was distraught. The love of his life had left with the ballboy that morning. He hadn’t seen it coming. Like that ball he’d missed by just a hair.

“A hair,” his coach said. “More like a country mile. Go get your eyes examined.”

Clancy made an appointment. The optometrist told him that with his vision it was a miracle  he’d ever hit a ball. She also made the observation that his girlfriend needed glasses. And she said yes when he asked her out for dinner. He only hit home runs after that.

The Oddest Things Happen When Mrs. Potts Takes a Walk.

Photo by Bilal Furkan KOu015eAR on Pexels.com
Trees gather like a fairy ring around a fallen trunk.
Elephants gather to mourn their dead.
They trumpet the loss.
They stay for long enough that the sky
Turns color on multiple days.

Mrs. Potts changes the color 
Of her dress from brown to blue to black.
She walks the neighborhood
To distract herself. She nods hello.
She makes everyone feel safe.

Mrs. Potts firmly says, “I do not believe in fairies.
Elves, yes.” Elves clean her kitchen at night.
They almost never sleep.
Like Mrs. Potts herself, they are creatures of habit.
They gather by fallen trees, like elephants.

A Tree Shining on the Hill

Photo by David McElwee on Pexels.com

“This tree will be removed due to oak root fungus. Direct comments to…” Unprepared, for the posted notice, her heart stopped.

After Dave passed on, she’d sat under the canopy of the live oak, its small stiff leaves immune to drought. Their tree, his, hers. She watched chickadees play.  So much time had elapsed since they first met on that hill.

The tree stayed the same. It had reached maturity, or maybe it was so large that a few inches of growth didn’t register. Timeless, it had seemed destined to watch over the bay for all eternity. Nothing lasts forever.

The Dark Reign of Winter

Photo by Ray Bilcliff on Pexels.com
Stride, stride, stride in rhythm, thunder, lightning, falling rain.
Sky dark bursts of water, soggy, wet, boggy, cold
Slow, slow, slow on reaching shelter, comfort, hearth and home
Build a fire, light it quick, make a pyre, a righteous pile
Of all that grieves, grieves, grieves a dark heart,
A burdened heart, weighed with sorrows, like bombs exploding
In black bursts of regret, regret, regret no solace yet.
Slowly warmth creeps through the air, beauty erupts in licks of varicolored flame.
Familiar objects tug, tug, tug at memory,
Filled with thoughts of times past when life was ours, and freedom.

Three AM Thoughts After Listening to a Zoom Featuring Robert Haas

Photo by Anton Klyuchnikov on Pexels.com
We met on the mountain at the halfway point between up and down. 
Hard-packed dirt bordered by scrappy shrubs 
and occasional candy wrappers, 
the path slid into loose gravel,
washboard erosion.
We braced, slowed, stopped. 
We stood face to face, more honest than when we fought,
voices raised in anger at slights so minor as to be unmemorable. 
We embraced, we wept, we sat on a boulder 
looked out on the sea, 
its azure blue, green, purple depths 
roiling, settling, welling up.
We wavered, pulled by the gravity of the moon and the earth.
We hovered between earth and sky.

Trust Your First Guess

Photo by @coldbeer on Pexels.com

“A tenner on Marmalade.”

The guy with the eyeshades burped. It was a disparaging burp. “You’d bet on an orange horse. Take my advice. Save your money.”

“Well what would you advise?” The lady, or maybe she was a floozy, asked. She fluttered her eyelashes and tugged at dangly paste earrings. “Help a girl out.”

“God, my feet are killing me. Take my place so I can sit down and I’ll give you a winning tip.”

The lady was used to dead feet. She had on heels that were half her height. “Deal.”

And it was Marmalade by a nose.

We’ve Cornered the Market in Tragedy

Photo by esrageziyor on Pexels.com

Fall colors pull me into the corner boutique. Rich burgundy, rust, and hints of black,  abstract shapes intertwine, chase an Asiatic pattern over the five foot silk length. I’m in love. When I wrap the scarf three times around my neck, the sales lady says, “It suits you. You have a long neck. A dancer’s neck.” I’m not a dancer. I have two left feet. But I take it because the colors perfectly suit the melancholy of the fall day. On the sidewalk outside, there’s a newspaper in the box at the corner. The headline reads, “People’s Temple: Mass Suicide.”