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

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

the fox dances

something woke me
6 am and
I sat up straight

something woke me
wasn't sure I knew it's name but I
tried to look it in the face

it wasn't real
but it wasn't fake
it wasn't wrong
but it wasn't right either

got outta bed
walked around
but it was darkness I found

warmed a cup of day old tea
grabbed the sugar
the milk had gone bad

washed my face
brushed my teeth
waited
it all came back

you went away
you didn't say goodbye
you didn't say why

trusting used to come so easy
loving too
time to time it is again

guess i'm learning
how to breath in and out
real slow

you went away
you didn't say goodbye
you didn't say why

lit a candle
watched the fox dance
golden on the wall

dreamcatcher
four years true
you've got some work to do

take this bad dream from my head
take this bad feeling from my limbs
take it away

you went away
you didn't say goodbye
you didn't say why

something woke me
6 am and
I sat up straight

something woke me
now I know it's name
it'll come round again

the way we live

writing poems on the grocery list
making rhymes in scottish accents
perfecting our pour-over form
dancing to the beat of our own
second-line band

we're happiest when creating
we're smoothest while making
(I'm messiest while baking)
the neighbor's hottest while raking

pick a sofa, stay a while
even if you're busy
honey'll put your worries at ease
c'mon friend, won't you please?

momma

how many times have you prayed for each of us?
a hundred? five hundred?

the neighbor blows his leaves around the yard.

cross -legged with pencil and cafe au lait in hand
my new, unkempt domain stretches out before me

did your prayers send me here?
did mine?


-written end of december 2017

christmas 2017


dixie cups perched by my toothbrush
telltale sign mom was here
tall matches and tiny matches
just because
leftover salmon in the fridge
candies in a camouflage stocking

sometimes you take care of me
sometimes i take care of you

it's good right now
to trade

soon we'll be twenty-great
and seventy strong
I hope we'll be having shakshuka
and challah for christmas supper
all along

different kind of love

hey there friend
I know you have a lot on your mind
I'm writing just in case you need reminding
that I'm here, you can talk if you want
I'll stay real quiet
you might not know,
but shutting up is something
I've been practicing
I can show you, it's true

I think you feel real bad
I think there's pricks of guilt and shame
The thorns get me sometimes too
You don't need permission
But I'm giving it to you all the same
I'm happy to call you by your true name

I don't need anything from you to be well
It's this wanting, that's what I have for you
Doesn't need to be today or tomorrow
I'll dream a little about the someday
until you come around again

It's this quiet knowing you exist
this quiet knowing, it's enough
It's enough for me
Go, be, do
I love to see you
off and out,
being you