Category: Non-Fiction

Some Things I Remember

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There are things you tell me before you die. Hurricane fears, the way rain scares you, bad dreams. You regret giving up your apartment. You miss seeing dolphins from your window on the bay. The view in assisted living is more limited.

But you have memories. Paris, London, Istanbul, Beijing. You toured the Galapagos. A birthday treat from Richard. Doesn’t he need you in the apartment? Sadly no, I say.

Some things survive. You remember a sweet sixteen necklace from your father. The jewelry that was your mother’s. Richard’s mobiles and guitars. Mexican crockery. Still, some things you don’t recall.

A Word From the Wise

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My mother-in-law treasured words. Scrabble was her game. Precision, patience, strategy.  Tiles that scored both ways or landed on a triple made some sweet satisfaction. Sometimes points weren’t the point;  defensive play wins games while openings encourage neophytes and friends. When she spoke, a few words said it all. Most often she meant to be kind. An invitation, a suggestion, wise words, sometimes firm redirection, sharp, if necessary. 

She held onto words until the end. She gathered them slowly. It took time to retrieve them. They balked, hidden away from memory, supplemented by smiles and nods. The sentences were short. The meaning was clear.

Things My Father Never Said

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Growing up, Christmas decorations consisted of a tree we cut ourselves, tinsel, lights, bulbs, a star. Dad didn’t spring for expensive yard displays, but loved driving around to look at other people’s. The brighter, the merrier; the more Santas, reindeer, elves, and Nativities; the better. So on Christmas Eve we would bundle into the car and gawk at the four or five big neighborhood productions.

The year my parents retired to Florida, we made a Christmas tour. A bigger, wealthier town, there were many huge displays. Dad kept saying, “Look at that.” But he meant, “We earned the American Dream.”

Art Makes Life

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The artist is not in sight, but dinner is waiting for her. The long thread that holds her web to a fence on one side and a hedge on the other stretches at eye level. We bend to avoid it. We take care because we can. Because we have time to notice.

We are not running from war, wildfires, earthquakes, floods. We are not doom scrolling, furious, hunkered down. Instead, we appreciate the utile beauty of a spider web. It has survival value and strength, a work of art glistening with dew in the sun. A reminder of tenacious life.

Crow’s Wing

Photo by Monica McHenney November 2023

We kept the dogs away. The severed wing lay at the corner, iridescent, shiny, black. How could it happen, a crow’s wing but no crow. Was there an epic battle with a hawk? Was the wing collateral damage? We wandered on, dogs incurious, my husband and I trying to solve this puzzle. 

“Evidence. I want a picture.” 

So we went back. The clues were obvious. There was no blood. The dogs had no interest. On further examination, a bit of fabric, synthetic feathers, the wing a costume piece. A case of overactive imagination; the best and worst of being human.

A Dog Who Purrs?

Photo by Monica McHenney

Kohnan is a dog, though at times we think he’s a cat. Like when he luxuriates in the sun and, swear to God, purrs. Snout out, a rub on the rug, all two feet of him stretch, roll, vigorous arch, turn over and repeat. Pure pleasure.
I rub his tummy and his neck. He deigns to hold court on the comfy rug because he’s royalty. Devotion is his due, right? His liquid brown eyes melt me.
But when I leave the room, he foreswears sunshine for my sunless office and settles at my feet. I guess he is a dog.

Last Postcard

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The last postcard I sent to my mother came back labeled, “Attempted- Not Known.” My fault. I left off all but the G in Georgetown, Texas. No zip code. Maybe it was a premonition that stopped my hand. The date of return was the day she died.

“Love you,” is all I was trying to say. Would she even have heard the aide read the two words? She hadn’t responded to my daily postcards. Maybe the message was lost to her in the haze of last days, not in the post office where someone shrugged, unable to deliver the undeliverable.

Thanksgiving Thoughts

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I’m thankful that 300 years after the Treaty of New Echota was signed, the American Congress is considering seating Kimberly Teehee as a delegate from the Cherokee Nation. It shouldn’t have taken this long. Not every tribe gets a seat at the table, albeit a non-voting seat. But it is a step.

I am grateful to Deb Haaland, Interior Secretary, for her support of Native language recovery, a reversal of the agency’s historic efforts to destroy Native culture. Throughout history, language has kept subject cultures alive, preserved the dignity of their peoples, and fostered a richer experience for all.

Watching Too Much Escapist TV

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I’ve always wanted to find a hidden passage behind a bookcase or though a trap door in the floor. Wonderland or Narnia. A priest hole would work. Maybe that’s why British mysteries hold such appeal for me. So when Rosie the Roomba mapped a passage from my study to the street, I was ecstatic, if confused. Was the opening hidden under the rug? Had we covered the exit to the street with a raised bed like we did the clean-out for the sewer?

My husband says the new room is a mapping error from Rosie getting stuck. I hope not.