day to day month to month year to year
my body changes; my hair curlier my calves
leaner, my arms stronger but today shakier too my mind
sharper, contented, but cautious, aware of so many facts it cannot hold
i'm finding myself forgetting the scent of my highschool boyfriend'ss jeep but
imagining it was cotton hung on the cottage line where we took photos for the senior
year smiling with a navy criss-cross lace blouse i wanted to wear every day that
summer i don't remember when it was i got rid of that garment how quickly
the ornaments of a life shift while only a few remain always a watch
my brother gave me the summer after i finished college a hand-
written note on a sheet of notebook paper folded, hidden
under a velvet pillow in the dark brown box i opened
for no reason last thursday; the note fell onto the
floor of my small room no one else there to see
stooping down slowly to retrieve parchment
remembering, suddenly, the moment i read
the letter the first time, seven years ago,
in my first apartment the one on
commonwealth avenue where
the above-ground subway
train rumbled by every
forty-five minutes
and the sunlight
came in green
waves in the
springtime
when i
was almost ready
to be happy again.
Monday, February 4, 2019
a monday
gray morning
coffee & key lime pie
dark-winged bird-filled picture-taking
sometimes you need actual family (blood and
bone and smile lines shared) to make art
with you to feel how good it is to be
alive making art
every single day especially
the gray ones the shudder of something
you lost something you forgot something you
dreamed and somehow
loved
tiptoeing along clavicle and elbows
hushed, tender, murmuring, then
taken up, away, away!
in the february wind
coffee & key lime pie
dark-winged bird-filled picture-taking
sometimes you need actual family (blood and
bone and smile lines shared) to make art
with you to feel how good it is to be
alive making art
every single day especially
the gray ones the shudder of something
you lost something you forgot something you
dreamed and somehow
loved
tiptoeing along clavicle and elbows
hushed, tender, murmuring, then
taken up, away, away!
in the february wind
Monday, January 14, 2019
there was a three-story gray house at the
corner of elm and lakeshore. the row of
mailboxes in front for the folks up the hill
big wraparound deck built at the second floor
cold cream colored tile in the kitchen
they caught me hiding beneath the
dinner table eating butter straight from
the tub with a silver soup spoon
we loved the spiral staircase in the far corner
of the kitchen leading up from the cold to the
spongey new carpeted living room, squishing the
fabric between our tiny toes and climbing over
the yellow crushed velvet love seat scene of
the crime time I felt off it and broke my arm
I fell off a wooden chair in the kitchen years
before, a tiny cast on my one year old left arm
I'd fall off a neighbor's trampoline years later,
third time's a charm, this time broke something
in my shoulder, and sometime afterward in
the fourth grade maybe, was the last year in the
big gray house, yes, it was the year of the
rollerblades for turning ten and my mouth
bled and bled and bled in the long car ride
to concord to see the picture of my grandpa
on the wall and wish he could be my doctor
like he had been everyone else's they said
they felt better as soon as they walked into
his basement office in the big white house
with the black shutters and the christmas
wreath still up, skiers etched into gimlet
glasses, quiet sadness sketched into the
walls, i think he must have had the gift
of presence, perhaps the ministry of it,
even, but i only remember stories i heard
so much i think i recreated them as memories
maybe it was the summertime when we moved
down the hill, i can't remember
i remember my sister kicking the for sale sign
with S O L D in big red letters across the name
of our real estate agent's name and telephone number
she'd give it one big kick every day on the walk home from school
until one day it fell over and no one picked it back up
i can't remember what else though
i can't remember much of being little at all
but there was tea
yes, tea! mama brought us tea on the side of the house she called
her english garden, usually after she put us through the ordeal of her
hair cuts in the front of the house under the deck, watching john swing
golden locks freely flying about, safe from her old metal scissors and
worried hands messing about with our gnarled and twisted locks
two times to the hair salon with brushes stuck at the nape of our necks
and afterward we little girls were taught to separate our hair into two halves
well-brushed after a bath, and twist the sections into two identical braids
each night before going to bed, to keep ourselves and our mama tear and tangle free
braids worked better than fancy shampoos with false promises
overtime our hair grew more and more wild and untamable, but still we persisted in the
nightly ritual of brushing and braiding and braiding and brushing
but flossing was never as highly enforced
the english garden was never forced to endure detangling; it rejoiced
in reckless abandonment of regular tending, ivy cascaded down the side of the house, lilacs grew where they pleased, when they pleased, and if they pleased, at all.
we sat and sipped, quiet after the tension of mama's brush pulling our heads and necks
and little shoulders, relieved that the haircut was finished and wouldn't have to be seen to
again for a good long while. we pretended our biscuits were crumpets and
i always wondered why mama seemed sad but also seemed glowing as she
watched us, her girls, and sometimes johnny too if they had their fill of swinging,
sipping tea and having a little conversation, among the weeds and pansies
after the rollerblading fall and once my teeth grew back i was older
i asked mama if I could make my own tea in the mornings when
she was leaving before work before i awoke, and she agreed
each morning that spring after i made a cup of english breakfast tea,
two splashes of two percent milk, two spoonfulls sugar,
always missing the clumps they had at the beautiful restaurants
in london that christmas, toes cold in my slippers on the cream-filled floor I
crept to spy on the garden and see if my flowers were growing
they were mama's too, but my eyes feasted on them just for myself a little
i checked on them every morning of april and may to see if the bells had arrived
usually, just before my birthday, i could hear their little lily-of-the-valley song
it followed me down the hill and to the city for the week-end
it followed me to italian seasides, the old men and womens' arms clasped
around each other singing "turna sorrento" eyes closed and chests proud,
it followed me even to school, one morning
it whistled softly, forlornly, down by my toes, and i
bent down, too early for any other
wayfaring stranger to see, and i let
the bells kiss me on my nose
i've gone much further away now,
and have had many more cares and woes
but i carry the lily clear bell song in my heart
and where ever i go, it grows
corner of elm and lakeshore. the row of
mailboxes in front for the folks up the hill
big wraparound deck built at the second floor
cold cream colored tile in the kitchen
they caught me hiding beneath the
dinner table eating butter straight from
the tub with a silver soup spoon
we loved the spiral staircase in the far corner
of the kitchen leading up from the cold to the
spongey new carpeted living room, squishing the
fabric between our tiny toes and climbing over
the yellow crushed velvet love seat scene of
the crime time I felt off it and broke my arm
I fell off a wooden chair in the kitchen years
before, a tiny cast on my one year old left arm
I'd fall off a neighbor's trampoline years later,
third time's a charm, this time broke something
in my shoulder, and sometime afterward in
the fourth grade maybe, was the last year in the
big gray house, yes, it was the year of the
rollerblades for turning ten and my mouth
bled and bled and bled in the long car ride
to concord to see the picture of my grandpa
on the wall and wish he could be my doctor
like he had been everyone else's they said
they felt better as soon as they walked into
his basement office in the big white house
with the black shutters and the christmas
wreath still up, skiers etched into gimlet
glasses, quiet sadness sketched into the
walls, i think he must have had the gift
of presence, perhaps the ministry of it,
even, but i only remember stories i heard
so much i think i recreated them as memories
maybe it was the summertime when we moved
down the hill, i can't remember
i remember my sister kicking the for sale sign
with S O L D in big red letters across the name
of our real estate agent's name and telephone number
she'd give it one big kick every day on the walk home from school
until one day it fell over and no one picked it back up
i can't remember what else though
i can't remember much of being little at all
but there was tea
yes, tea! mama brought us tea on the side of the house she called
her english garden, usually after she put us through the ordeal of her
hair cuts in the front of the house under the deck, watching john swing
golden locks freely flying about, safe from her old metal scissors and
worried hands messing about with our gnarled and twisted locks
two times to the hair salon with brushes stuck at the nape of our necks
and afterward we little girls were taught to separate our hair into two halves
well-brushed after a bath, and twist the sections into two identical braids
each night before going to bed, to keep ourselves and our mama tear and tangle free
braids worked better than fancy shampoos with false promises
overtime our hair grew more and more wild and untamable, but still we persisted in the
nightly ritual of brushing and braiding and braiding and brushing
but flossing was never as highly enforced
the english garden was never forced to endure detangling; it rejoiced
in reckless abandonment of regular tending, ivy cascaded down the side of the house, lilacs grew where they pleased, when they pleased, and if they pleased, at all.
we sat and sipped, quiet after the tension of mama's brush pulling our heads and necks
and little shoulders, relieved that the haircut was finished and wouldn't have to be seen to
again for a good long while. we pretended our biscuits were crumpets and
i always wondered why mama seemed sad but also seemed glowing as she
watched us, her girls, and sometimes johnny too if they had their fill of swinging,
sipping tea and having a little conversation, among the weeds and pansies
after the rollerblading fall and once my teeth grew back i was older
i asked mama if I could make my own tea in the mornings when
she was leaving before work before i awoke, and she agreed
each morning that spring after i made a cup of english breakfast tea,
two splashes of two percent milk, two spoonfulls sugar,
always missing the clumps they had at the beautiful restaurants
in london that christmas, toes cold in my slippers on the cream-filled floor I
crept to spy on the garden and see if my flowers were growing
they were mama's too, but my eyes feasted on them just for myself a little
i checked on them every morning of april and may to see if the bells had arrived
usually, just before my birthday, i could hear their little lily-of-the-valley song
it followed me down the hill and to the city for the week-end
it followed me to italian seasides, the old men and womens' arms clasped
around each other singing "turna sorrento" eyes closed and chests proud,
it followed me even to school, one morning
it whistled softly, forlornly, down by my toes, and i
bent down, too early for any other
wayfaring stranger to see, and i let
the bells kiss me on my nose
i've gone much further away now,
and have had many more cares and woes
but i carry the lily clear bell song in my heart
and where ever i go, it grows
to donny:
one october
i hit my head
getting into my car
parked too close to the
cambridgian curb and a few
days after began the big new job
and a few days after read on facebook
that you jumped off the george washington bridge
and a few months later he questioned why i
still got sad about you even though i
hadn't seen you in a few years and
a few months later he dumped me,
twice, and a few years later i
left that city, and another
few years later, i,
wrote this song,
and a few
moments
later
i still felt sad, but, i
felt better,
too
i hit my head
getting into my car
parked too close to the
cambridgian curb and a few
days after began the big new job
and a few days after read on facebook
that you jumped off the george washington bridge
and a few months later he questioned why i
still got sad about you even though i
hadn't seen you in a few years and
a few months later he dumped me,
twice, and a few years later i
left that city, and another
few years later, i,
wrote this song,
and a few
moments
later
i still felt sad, but, i
felt better,
too
Tuesday, January 8, 2019
sun and earth
perihelion;
we perch, our tall chairs pushed tightly together
at a square table opposite the bar (no room
at the inn) the wine, an aged italian dripping
lusty barnyard moonlight and black pepper,
absorbs perilously short range pressured rays
the impact will throb in the morning, but for the moment,
it's safe here, leaning closer for your
didactic confidences painting portraits
twenty years young and centuries old
i perse my lips, pondering a list of sweets
Go on, you say, it's your choice, you continue,
I know decisions are difficult, and you pause.
i feel you watching me.
i let the wonder linger.
hazelnut and chocolate, or something new, something
sunflowery, olive oil and grapefruit. cream. pistachios.
i've already had my first anchovie tonight, ah well--
qui ne risque rien n'a rien.
i catch our waiter's eye.
something unbearable traces the etches in the thick ring
you wear on your right hand; spells of it dance twisting the blue, i know
your eyes are still smiling at mine. i don't let myself look again,
one more glass of wine. one more stolen story from your magpie lair.
any second, we'll shift; i'll move, you'll stay the same.
i'll drift back, back,
away.
aphelion:
apart.
Monday, December 10, 2018
a memory of december 7th
Five years ago on Pearl Harbor day, I woke up cold in a twin bed in my grandmother's house in Shaker Heights.
It was a bitterly wintry first weekend of December in Cleveland. I had packed stockings and skirts, wanting to show off my recent transformation into Boston city chic to Ammah, ever supportive of my classical music pursuits, and I woke up regretting the thin contents of my carry on. I pulled stockings on and put my pajama bottoms back on over them, doubled up on socks, and shrugged a wool scarf I'd found in the closet around my torso. I got back in bed, but it was still too cold. I gave up on the dream of sleeping in on a Saturday, and got out of bed to wander down from the third floor attic room.
Grandma was sitting downstairs, and she greeted me.
"Hello Barbara."
I shrugged it off, reminded her I'm her grand-daughter Lucy, I'm visiting her and mom for the weekend. I got in last night on a slightly delayed flight, and took the rapid from the airport to the neighborhood station. It was late, so she probably didn't hear me come in. I'm sleeping in Aunt Al's room.
"Oh, yes, oh yes. It's so good to see you! How is working at the symphony? Are you liking it?"
I was surprised she remembered about the symphony. It's funny what could stick and what wouldn't from the day to day exchanges. Mom had been telling her about my impending visit for weeks, maybe months, maybe even since the day I bought the ticket in early October. It had been several weeks since I started the new job, and feeling a bit settled and flush with cash after a few solid paychecks, I bought a ticket. Ammah had Alzheimer's, along with a grab bag of other ailments that come along with living past ninety. It had been a tough five years, and a tougher five before.
Mom told me to wait until January to visit, "there's no rush,we'll be here just the same", but I had been amazed by the blank boxes in December under the numbers 6, 7, and 8. It was some kind of sign. I was sitting at my still new desk in October one Tuesday after all of my colleagues had left, killing time before a rehearsal at Old South Church. I could've walked over right away and met everyone for the traditional pre-sing burrito, but something was tugging on the edges of my temples. I hadn't seen mom since May and Ammah since June. The distance had been weighing on me all fall, and was only getting worse. And I didn't know why.
In Ammah's kitchen, I put the kettle on and perused the breakfast options. The big kitchen windows made the room even chiller than upstairs and I shrugged on my wool hat and stood closer to the stovetop. Mom came bustling up from the basement, her arms full of cookbooks, and ordered a veggie egg white omelette if I was gonna hopefully get cooking.
"There's sausages too, sweetie, in the freezer."
It would be a full, quiet morning. While grandma watched a news program and finished her tiny breakfast, I examined every inch of that old house. I had spent very little time in it as a child; we always spent time with Grandma Bryan at the cottage on the lake in Michigan instead of in Ohio. I was fascinated by the artifacts and treasures she had stashed and stored and kept all of these years. The last of her family line, Ammah inherited everything from the dark wooden dining set to pink china to animal figurines. I spent time moving around like the house was a beloved art museum, saying hello to old friends and loving on new ones. Picking up her books and turning them over in my hands, opening the first page to see if her name or my great-grandmother's, the English major, would be inscribed in wiggly blue pen.
Another cup of tea and toast in hand, I made my way back through all of the rooms and to Ammah's side in the living room. Mom had picked out a Christmas tree a day or two before, and set it up for me to decorate. She had pulled out our box of ornaments from our old house in Massachusetts, as well as all of the Christmas ornaments she could find in the basement. Grandma sat and we talked about music and my last visit to Cleveland the year before for Thanksgiving, and the Rachmaninoff piano concerto we had taken her to hear at the CSO. I took a sip of my tea and realized I was on the edge of tears, turned back to the tree and kept hanging ornaments while Ammah hummed to herself, not knowing I could hear. I didn't know where my brain was, and why I was feeling heavy again, even in this moment. I wondered what Ammah was thinking about, too.
Mom appeared in the living room, in between trips carrying laundry upstairs, and asked me to play the piano and sing a hymn or two for Grandma, but I pushed it off. Keyboarding skills at Wellesley had done nothing for me. Plus, the only hymnal on the instrument was the 1982 and all the hymns are the trickiest in that one. I felt guilty for opting not to bring my flute or guitar for the weekend. A real musician would be able to play a Christmas hymn for their grandmother.
I put the last ornament on the tree, and brought each of us a plate of a few chocolates and cookies, and more tea. When every one was settled with sweets in their spots around the tree, I plugged in the lights. Ammah sighed, and smiled. Mom got the glassy faraway look in her eyes, the one she gets whenever she talks about sailing. And horse races. And India. Something snagged in my chest, and I looked away.
We had plans to do a few errands while Ammah napped. Mom had discovered a used book store, a magical place, complete with a large, loving cat, and wanted to show it to me quick before grabbing essentials (wine) at the grocery. We split up; mom to mystery and myself to poetry and rare books. Far too long later, mom found me. She was worried. We made our purchases, and hurried out of the peaceful store. At the supermarket, I could see mom growing more anxious the longer we waited in the check out aisle. She wasn't sure, but she felt we had been gone too long. She'd only meant to be gone an hour, and two had snuck by.
When we got back to the house, Ammah was awake, and she was frightened. She wasn't breathing well, and I left mom to take care of the nurse duties while I unloaded the car and put away the groceries. I could hear labored breathing from the bedroom, and an unfamiliar cough.
I didn't know what it was or what was happening. But I also knew, somehow, exactly what was happening. I had known all day. Maybe even since the night I sat at my cubicle and cried, and thought about Donny and thought about Cleveland, and booked a ticket.
Mom called out asking for a glass of water and warm wet dish cloth, and then she asked me to get dinner prepped while she waited for Ammah's breathing to stabilize. She'd forgotten, we'd already made a meat loaf. All that needed doing was green beans and potatoes, and I could wait a while until dinner time rolled around. It was only 4. I went upstairs to the little twin bed and got back in bed still in my jacket, scarf, hat, and mittens. I put my headphones in. All I could hear was a rattling, unfamiliar cough. I closed my eyes, and focused my brain on just the soft words of "Joy to the World", my favorite version. The one I was listening to walking home to my flat in Vienna after Thanksgiving, when it snowed for the first time in my new city. The one I was listening to in June when I visited Ammah at the cottage with Aunt Alice and decided to bake Christmas cookies and a pie the same morning. Alice's iguana had died the night before, drowned in the bathtub.
The song played twice, then I gave up again. Too damn cold for a nap. I went back to the kitchen. it had become the only slightly warm spot in the whole house.
I put the kettle on, and pulled out the mixing bowls. Flour, baking powder, hazelnuts, salt. Sugar, egg, a splash of milk. The star-shaped cookie cutter mom gave me last Christmas. The raspberry jam was still in the last shopping bag, and the powdered sugar. I pried the tiny recipe card out of the back pocket of my leather purse, and twisted my long hair up, tying it in place with a rubber band from the silverware drawer. Grandma's kitchen apron was only a waist skirt, but it would do. I pulled the strings around my back and then brought them back in front of my waist to tie a crisp bow. Smoothed the soft fabric down with both hands. Took a deep breath.
Mom was with Ammah; everything would be okay. I was with them both, and soon, we would have star-shaped cookies, and falling snow.
--- in memory of my grandmother, Sarah (Sally) Sells Bryan who died in her bed with her beloved animals, one of her two daughters, and one of her two grand-daughters by her side, on December 7, 2013, after a Cavalier's win
It was a bitterly wintry first weekend of December in Cleveland. I had packed stockings and skirts, wanting to show off my recent transformation into Boston city chic to Ammah, ever supportive of my classical music pursuits, and I woke up regretting the thin contents of my carry on. I pulled stockings on and put my pajama bottoms back on over them, doubled up on socks, and shrugged a wool scarf I'd found in the closet around my torso. I got back in bed, but it was still too cold. I gave up on the dream of sleeping in on a Saturday, and got out of bed to wander down from the third floor attic room.
Grandma was sitting downstairs, and she greeted me.
"Hello Barbara."
I shrugged it off, reminded her I'm her grand-daughter Lucy, I'm visiting her and mom for the weekend. I got in last night on a slightly delayed flight, and took the rapid from the airport to the neighborhood station. It was late, so she probably didn't hear me come in. I'm sleeping in Aunt Al's room.
"Oh, yes, oh yes. It's so good to see you! How is working at the symphony? Are you liking it?"
I was surprised she remembered about the symphony. It's funny what could stick and what wouldn't from the day to day exchanges. Mom had been telling her about my impending visit for weeks, maybe months, maybe even since the day I bought the ticket in early October. It had been several weeks since I started the new job, and feeling a bit settled and flush with cash after a few solid paychecks, I bought a ticket. Ammah had Alzheimer's, along with a grab bag of other ailments that come along with living past ninety. It had been a tough five years, and a tougher five before.
Mom told me to wait until January to visit, "there's no rush,we'll be here just the same", but I had been amazed by the blank boxes in December under the numbers 6, 7, and 8. It was some kind of sign. I was sitting at my still new desk in October one Tuesday after all of my colleagues had left, killing time before a rehearsal at Old South Church. I could've walked over right away and met everyone for the traditional pre-sing burrito, but something was tugging on the edges of my temples. I hadn't seen mom since May and Ammah since June. The distance had been weighing on me all fall, and was only getting worse. And I didn't know why.
In Ammah's kitchen, I put the kettle on and perused the breakfast options. The big kitchen windows made the room even chiller than upstairs and I shrugged on my wool hat and stood closer to the stovetop. Mom came bustling up from the basement, her arms full of cookbooks, and ordered a veggie egg white omelette if I was gonna hopefully get cooking.
"There's sausages too, sweetie, in the freezer."
It would be a full, quiet morning. While grandma watched a news program and finished her tiny breakfast, I examined every inch of that old house. I had spent very little time in it as a child; we always spent time with Grandma Bryan at the cottage on the lake in Michigan instead of in Ohio. I was fascinated by the artifacts and treasures she had stashed and stored and kept all of these years. The last of her family line, Ammah inherited everything from the dark wooden dining set to pink china to animal figurines. I spent time moving around like the house was a beloved art museum, saying hello to old friends and loving on new ones. Picking up her books and turning them over in my hands, opening the first page to see if her name or my great-grandmother's, the English major, would be inscribed in wiggly blue pen.
Another cup of tea and toast in hand, I made my way back through all of the rooms and to Ammah's side in the living room. Mom had picked out a Christmas tree a day or two before, and set it up for me to decorate. She had pulled out our box of ornaments from our old house in Massachusetts, as well as all of the Christmas ornaments she could find in the basement. Grandma sat and we talked about music and my last visit to Cleveland the year before for Thanksgiving, and the Rachmaninoff piano concerto we had taken her to hear at the CSO. I took a sip of my tea and realized I was on the edge of tears, turned back to the tree and kept hanging ornaments while Ammah hummed to herself, not knowing I could hear. I didn't know where my brain was, and why I was feeling heavy again, even in this moment. I wondered what Ammah was thinking about, too.
Mom appeared in the living room, in between trips carrying laundry upstairs, and asked me to play the piano and sing a hymn or two for Grandma, but I pushed it off. Keyboarding skills at Wellesley had done nothing for me. Plus, the only hymnal on the instrument was the 1982 and all the hymns are the trickiest in that one. I felt guilty for opting not to bring my flute or guitar for the weekend. A real musician would be able to play a Christmas hymn for their grandmother.
I put the last ornament on the tree, and brought each of us a plate of a few chocolates and cookies, and more tea. When every one was settled with sweets in their spots around the tree, I plugged in the lights. Ammah sighed, and smiled. Mom got the glassy faraway look in her eyes, the one she gets whenever she talks about sailing. And horse races. And India. Something snagged in my chest, and I looked away.
We had plans to do a few errands while Ammah napped. Mom had discovered a used book store, a magical place, complete with a large, loving cat, and wanted to show it to me quick before grabbing essentials (wine) at the grocery. We split up; mom to mystery and myself to poetry and rare books. Far too long later, mom found me. She was worried. We made our purchases, and hurried out of the peaceful store. At the supermarket, I could see mom growing more anxious the longer we waited in the check out aisle. She wasn't sure, but she felt we had been gone too long. She'd only meant to be gone an hour, and two had snuck by.
When we got back to the house, Ammah was awake, and she was frightened. She wasn't breathing well, and I left mom to take care of the nurse duties while I unloaded the car and put away the groceries. I could hear labored breathing from the bedroom, and an unfamiliar cough.
I didn't know what it was or what was happening. But I also knew, somehow, exactly what was happening. I had known all day. Maybe even since the night I sat at my cubicle and cried, and thought about Donny and thought about Cleveland, and booked a ticket.
Mom called out asking for a glass of water and warm wet dish cloth, and then she asked me to get dinner prepped while she waited for Ammah's breathing to stabilize. She'd forgotten, we'd already made a meat loaf. All that needed doing was green beans and potatoes, and I could wait a while until dinner time rolled around. It was only 4. I went upstairs to the little twin bed and got back in bed still in my jacket, scarf, hat, and mittens. I put my headphones in. All I could hear was a rattling, unfamiliar cough. I closed my eyes, and focused my brain on just the soft words of "Joy to the World", my favorite version. The one I was listening to walking home to my flat in Vienna after Thanksgiving, when it snowed for the first time in my new city. The one I was listening to in June when I visited Ammah at the cottage with Aunt Alice and decided to bake Christmas cookies and a pie the same morning. Alice's iguana had died the night before, drowned in the bathtub.
The song played twice, then I gave up again. Too damn cold for a nap. I went back to the kitchen. it had become the only slightly warm spot in the whole house.
I put the kettle on, and pulled out the mixing bowls. Flour, baking powder, hazelnuts, salt. Sugar, egg, a splash of milk. The star-shaped cookie cutter mom gave me last Christmas. The raspberry jam was still in the last shopping bag, and the powdered sugar. I pried the tiny recipe card out of the back pocket of my leather purse, and twisted my long hair up, tying it in place with a rubber band from the silverware drawer. Grandma's kitchen apron was only a waist skirt, but it would do. I pulled the strings around my back and then brought them back in front of my waist to tie a crisp bow. Smoothed the soft fabric down with both hands. Took a deep breath.
Mom was with Ammah; everything would be okay. I was with them both, and soon, we would have star-shaped cookies, and falling snow.
--- in memory of my grandmother, Sarah (Sally) Sells Bryan who died in her bed with her beloved animals, one of her two daughters, and one of her two grand-daughters by her side, on December 7, 2013, after a Cavalier's win
Thursday, November 22, 2018
once
once
a long time ago
a young girl dreamed
riding her bicycle down
a quiet country lane
northern michigan her domain
and she dreamed
she dreamed
she thought what if, what if
what if, what if
once
still long ago
that same young girl dreamed
walking hand in hand
with a curly haired boy
in the snow
a few days before the new year
and they dreamed
they dreamed
he said what if, with me?
what if, with you?
she thought what if, with me?
what if, with you.
but she couldn't
see it through
they met at a party
no, the first time he saw her
she was sitting in her window
playing a sad french song on the guitar
but back to the night at the party
they had a lot of rum
and stumbled out in the viennese streets
he recited pushkin to her
as she sat
to catch her
tipsy fevered
breath
months later she said
what if, we tried?
what if, I came back to your side?
what if, an ocean meant nothing to us?
what if
she'll keep dreaming
she's dreaming
a long time ago
a young girl dreamed
riding her bicycle down
a quiet country lane
northern michigan her domain
and she dreamed
she dreamed
she thought what if, what if
what if, what if
once
still long ago
that same young girl dreamed
walking hand in hand
with a curly haired boy
in the snow
a few days before the new year
and they dreamed
they dreamed
he said what if, with me?
what if, with you?
she thought what if, with me?
what if, with you.
but she couldn't
see it through
they met at a party
no, the first time he saw her
she was sitting in her window
playing a sad french song on the guitar
but back to the night at the party
they had a lot of rum
and stumbled out in the viennese streets
he recited pushkin to her
as she sat
to catch her
tipsy fevered
breath
months later she said
what if, we tried?
what if, I came back to your side?
what if, an ocean meant nothing to us?
what if
she'll keep dreaming
she's dreaming
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