Not wanting memories

Not that I have so many

like those who remember it all,

who recall every little detail,

every look, every sound and action

who re-tell every tall tale,

these things that make us who we are,

re-live as if to make us understand

they are real --

I am wishing I had no memories at all.

And yet, I need

to honor the sum of what

I know to be the absolute truth

about myself in order to live.

In the morning, I must open the curtains

and let the sun flow into the room

as I would welcome the blood

into my heart

for another minute, hour, or day.

I listen to silence

wait and am patient

and listen to the silence

in the company of myself

tho’ it is frightful –

I try to remember it is by choice

not abandonment.

I breathe in the air as if

standing on the foundation

of my steadfast principles --

the commandments of my soul --

I know them, I do.

Are they enough

to start the day?

I work with my hands

I spread smiles like seeds

I look up to see the sun

I look down to see

the path I travel

I see, I really see,

the beauty, the possibility

in everything.

I listen.  I imagine

where I can be of service.

Is it enough

to keep me alive?

I have the time now.

I take the time now.

It is my present and my future.

I need to honor the sum of what

I know to be absolutely true

in order to live.

Otherwise, there are tears

of things past
and it is too much to bear.

Biking to the gun emplacement

For this morning:  no yoga

biking in fresh air

cross the crosstown

carefully

when I look up to see an air force jet

dark, dark grey

against a blue, blue sky

the sun flares my glasses

but oh the boats on my right,

at rest, tethered

as I am as well,

yet free wheeling at this moment.

The cotton candy pink

pampas grass

graces the sidewalk

and the marshes

are in full view,

a salt meadow

of dense woven greens

with multitudes

of tiny waving tips

conducting the sparrows’ song.

Singing just for me this morning

sharing their happy hearts.

Now the bend into Coast Guard territory

marked White

and Coast Guard Red

and Coast Guard Blue

with water booms

banding around

some silent activity of the service

looking very much like

a boys playground.

Industrious and not part of my world.

This, flanked on the left,

by the statuesque Sargeant Jasper

a dead shadow

a monument to past persuasions

that will fall soon fall

to another vision.

But, the harbor beckons

I, tilting, pedal the wide sidewalk

so as to be closer to the sea.

The wave action

calls me to my river

north, north, north

to the northern star:

the compass where

awareness began.

Those days and

and many more

made me

and left me here

beached.  Sifting through

the muddy sand

of my tidal thoughts for

the point of it all.

Widowhood has made me

a close observer,

tactile and auditory,

raw.  Willing

and yet afraid.  Weak

and yet determined.

The bike circles me around

South Battery and I

return by the way I came

and find it more treacherous –

the various turns and crossings.

Still there is pink,

there are sails,

there are songs and

visions.

Abiding by my own code.

Dearest Mommie

I can remember you round , but when you left me, you were but a bird.

Like a nestling.

Yesterday I curled up on my bed,

just as you used to do

-- my head on the pillow, the pillow folded on my shoulder,

my knees tucked up and the coverlet I am resting on

snuggled around me -- like a nest.

I remember napping with you

except you were the only one

doing the napping.

I remember doing my homework with you and it was a joy,

you, the ever patient teacher.

I remember you boating with daddy, golfing with daddy, having coffee and donuts -- powdered sugar donuts -- with daddy; just going for a ride with daddy. Ever ready to go with.

And when we went shopping, you preferred to sit in the shoe department

while I went to try on whatever it was I thought I had to have

and then parade it persuasively in the shoe department

for you to see.

And I remember singing hymns on the way to the Lake

and how much you loved being with family

-- how very much you loved your family.

Dearest mommy

I lost you a long time ago

but I remember.

And while you are in heaven, mommy, give daddy a hug from me and kiss my sweetheart and then I expect you will be watching Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy and knowing all the answers OR playing bridge and eating Cheese Nibs and drinking scotch.

At least, I hope so.

Conjoined Twins

Angel, I want to kill my twin;

she is a drain

always moping and sighing

I do not want to shoulder her burdens or

take on her thoughts on as my own.

Angel, we were born together,

with the same blue eyes on the world

but without the same view of its contents.

I do not see why she should have an opinion

she so scared and awkward and shy

she so poorly suited to this dog eat dog life.

Angel, find me a surgeon to separate us

take out half my brain

give her an arm and a leg

let her have the pain and fear

leave me the bright ideas and the courage.

Give her the nagging reminders of “what if” and “I can’t”

and leave me with “I will” and “I can”.

Angel, find a targeted poison I can swallow

that will kill her ugly thoughts

and leave me the saintly ones.

I have been struggling with her my whole life

cut us apart, Angel, but leave me the heart

and make sure she is the one that dies

because there is little time left.

Gravity

as the plane lifts

I am welded to the seat,

my body resisting flight

it prefers being grounded.

I feel the weight

of sinking bone and muscle

and the rise of my breath;

silly really, 100,000 pounds or more

of plastic and aluminum and steel

floating 35,000 feet above the

minutiae of earthly business.

droning on above the clouds

the discordance of cocooned fuselage

and engines and wind

blasting through time and clouds

leave me stoned.

in descent I am upended;

my body falls easily

anxious to return to earth

but not my heart

not my soul

I do not want to come back.

I love it here at Gloria's

The birds are always coming out of the sofa

and the banana ears out of the yard—

the sun out of the sky

and the cold out of the shadows.

It is a stair-master, treadmill of a city—

up and down, thither and yon

The efficiency of the lungs is challenged

and the feet pounded into stumps.

The Boy King is engrossed in work and ideas—

busy cells of creativity and code.

He delivers interesting discoveries and salmon

in equal measure.

The Bride is half CEO of the home

keeping the cable car on the rails

and half her own flagship of resourcefulness

and strength.

The dog loves me: I walk to Billy Goat Hill

and throw the ball in the yard.

Sometimes we share the backseat

on the way to the beach.

Tip-toeing around pre-established routines,

I see new tendrils of connection

ever wary of my role and

deciphering the necessary level of my opacity.

I love it here at Gloria's.

Cooking Guide for Widows

Year one

chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year two

have a salad

every now and then

followed by chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year three

eat out with a book

take half home for dinner tomorrow night.

At bedtime have chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year four

attempt a grocery list

buy salmon and fresh vegetables

like broccoli and spinach

and some chicken.

Prepare salmon and salad.

steam vegetables

freeze the chicken.

Try not to eat chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year five

throw away the frozen chicken

eat out once a week

eat leftovers once a week

eat salmon once a week

drink margarita once  week

(or wine if you prefer)

(or every night if you prefer)

eat peanut butter and jelly sandwich for lunch

every day

Don’t forget the chocolate chip cookies

and milk.

Year six

if you haven’t killed your self by now

decide it is worth eating to live

Begin again.  You know how to do this.

You just don’t want to.

Nightswimming (R.E.M.)

I swim at night resting on my side

left hand to my right shoulder, right to my left

perfectly straight I glide my legs smoothly up to my head

I see myself walking on a village street

houses on my left, rocky waterfront on my right

I know this place

I think I know this place as an amalgam of two:

mountains of NC or hills of the Finger Lakes

the end is before me and I turn back

Jack is waiting for me with the car

Safely parked and glad that I took this road

I feel proud and brave

He makes me feel proud and brave

emboldened I venture out again further around

the sidewalk is broken and chipped away by the lake

soon I am swimming to reach the village

and there I climb out to see a market or café

and Jack is there with someone else known to me

And there he is smiling with someone known to us

I trudge back wet but not minding so much

these night time swims are largely struggles

I must be working something out as I

pull my knees in to my chest, curl my toes
and rest upon my other side, waiting for tomorrow.

Memory (Triolet)

The eye sees only what the mind is prepared to comprehend

- Henri Bergson

The mind is wily in remembrance; storing frozen images of experience

no movie trailers of past events replaying in order, only still life.

Captured as a broken lens would, moments of fractured resemblance,

they should create a resource, but lack clarity and coherence;

they should be useful at reunions and other events of social appearance.

Instead, little carousel slide shows drift willy-nilly across the mind’s eye;

ragged around the edges, in grayscale or sepia tones of diffidence,

they flutter across my closed eyelids, these frozen images of experience.

There is one of me at six or seven sitting upon a pine tree stump just my size

in the warm sun, looking sober and petite, my daddy looking back at me.

We are walking on Little Dry Creek Road pine woods on either side,

between my house and Anna’s, a regular ritual of ours traipsing outside

why does my mind not replay the father-daughter love, the prize

that abides?  A picture not of 1000 words but of sensations of safety,

and comfort, a drug, a shot, a boost of heart, snapshots that bring smiles                   

that touch all the senses and have the power to heal me.

The real work is to rewrite history, to revisit the old fuzzy memories

that haunt or pain the soul and touch them up, color them heroic.

Take back the fears, wash them with courage and print them in a new diary

as happy stories, lessons learned with joy and remembered in giddy reverie.

Let the memories cease their unchanging stillness nor carry sorry worries

into the heart.  Transform the mind, engineer the brain to rage poetic

with brave words, bold thoughts and intrepid plans of adventure and mystery;

newly tattoo the soul with hopeful images; build a new past and love it.