I smiled to myself all spring. I hugged the thought to myself month after month. As the time approached I felt like I was holding a secret close–a delicious secret. Whenever I thought about it, I felt buoyed, lifted with excitement. I savored the waves of pure, sweet anticipation.

It all started last fall, when one of my best friends from college called and proposed that some of us get together to celebrate our 50th birthday year. Over the next few months, she found a house to rent on the coast of Maine, and after a flurry of e-mails, texts and phone calls, and plane and car reservations, six of us committed to be there.

In 1985 we arrived wide-eyed at college, coming from Ohio, New York, Maryland and Kentucky. Most of us met our freshmen year: In fact, 5 of the 6 of us were in the same freshman dorm–4 of us on the same floor. Bashford Hall. 2nd floor. Over the years some of us have stayed in touch, while others drifted off in different directions. In some instances, we hadn’t seen each other in 28 years! (How is that even possible?)

Now, in 2017, we were coming to Maine from Oregon, Ohio, Maine, and Kentucky. Between us, we have 12 children. The youngest is 12 and two have already graduated from college. We all have turned or will turn 50 this year. (How is that even possible!?) We were all excited to reunite and perhaps slightly nervous. How would this be? A whole week together after so many years apart…

On Friday, July 22nd, the first three arrived at my house–Long hugs, tears and exclamations of “OMG, you look just the same!” The years simply fell away and as one friend later noted, “we didn’t miss a beat.” That night we looked through an old photo album and a scrap book. (Ok. Maybe we don’t look exactly the same.)

“Oh! Remember that?”
“Who is that?”
“What was I wearing?”
“What was I doing??”
We laughed and laughed and talked and talked late into the night. The next day we drove to our “tree house” retreat and reunited with another friend there. More happy tears and long heartfelt hugs.

Over the course of the week, we adventured in the daytime and then after dinner, sat around the kitchen table talking late into the night. Our sixth friend joined us and some of us had to depart early. We reminisced and we shared our stories from the past oh-so-many years. I was repeatedly astonished and moved by how connected I felt with these women and by how openly and easily we shared. Heartaches and triumphs. Births and deaths. Hopes and dreams. Fears and concerns. The years fell away. Past and present merged.

Now that our week has ended and we’ve all returned to our homes, I look again at those college pictures. We were so young. So fresh. So new. We met at such a pivotal time in our lives. The ties that bound us then were clearly stronger than the passage of years, for neglected as they were in some cases, they never broke. I’m still trying to process our week together–to make sense of the intensity of our connection. But mostly, I’m smiling to myself through the lingering goodbye tears and hugging the thought close to me. I have a delicious secret–a renewed connection to five fabulous women who knew me back when I was getting to know myself. In the words of the Kahlil Gibran, my heart has found “its morning and is refreshed.”

My daughter, Adeline, graduated in May. Today, she flies to Nicaragua to do field research with a graduate student for a couple of weeks. When she returns in August, she’s decided to move to Philadelphia. Like she texted to me recently, it kind of feels like the beginning of the end. Of college. Of summer. Of her life at home with us. I know what she means. I’m excited for her but quite nervous as well. It’s that whole “your children are your heart traveling outside your chest” thing.

Last night I returned for a few hours from up the coast where I’m having a week long reunion with college friends. I wanted to help Addie pack and get organized. I wanted to hug her close and say in person, “I love you. Have fun and make good choices.

After I got back, we went out to the store to pick up some last minute items for her journey. As we walked out, bags in hand, it was raining. Addie took off, racing toward the car. She ran across the parking lot through the drizzle, and as I watched her, a lifetime of moments coalesced into that one single moment. I saw her taking her first steps. I saw her little feet in shoes on the wrong feet (her unintentional and for a time concerning default choice). I saw her running as a young child and more often than not falling, picking herself up and running onward, eager to be a part of whatever was going on. I saw her running on the soccer field with her distinctive bent-way-forward stance. And now on this rainy July evening, she was running toward the car, ready to get home and finish packing. Ready to head out on a new adventure and into a new stage of her life.

I stood outside Target, the light rain falling on me, chilly on my skin, polka dotting my shirt,and I simply watched her run.

...This cold you wave away as naught
Is the damnedest cold man ever caught!
Give ear, you scientific fossil!
Here is the genuine Cold Colossal;
The Cold of which researchers dream,
The Perfect Cold, the Cold Supreme.
This honored system humbly holds
The Super-cold to end all colds;
The Cold Crusading for Democracy;
The Führer of the Streptococcracy.
...

By the way, if you’re not familiar with Merchant’s album Leave Your Sleep, you really should check it out. In this 7-year project she selected 19th and 20th century children’s poems and set them to music. She collaborated with 130 musicians in a wide variety of musical styles. It’s a rare treat!

This week’s Poetry Friday Roundup is hosted by Katie at The Logonauts . Click on the link to enjoy even more poetry there!

We walked companionably along the bog boardwalk, admiring the vegetation and simply enjoying the day. Paula, who had wandered up ahead, walked back toward us.

“I just wanted to let you know,” she said, “There’s a snake up ahead.”

“What!?!” several of us chorused.

“Is it blocking the path?” someone asked.

“No,” Paula said, “It’s on the path by one of the benches. Off to the side.”

“Well, what’s it doing?”

“It’s just kind of flicking its tongue at me, ” she said. “I came back to tell you because I didn’t want you to come around the corner and be startled.”

We walked forward, some of us more tentatively than others, rounding a bend in the walkway. Then… there it was! About 10 feet  2-3 feet long. It wasn’t on the path, but it was facing it. In primo launch position!

Photo credit to the valiant S. Koenig

I looked at it skeptically, eyeballing the path around it. There was certainly room to walk around it, but it would put me within range. Why was the snake just sitting there, still facing the path, flicking its tongue? Was it smelling us and considering how good we’d taste? That flicking tongue sure looked a lot like someone licking their lips…anticipating! Whatever it was doing, it clearly was up to no good. An innocent snake would have moved along by now.

“Ugh! I hate snakes!” I shuddered.

“Take a picture,” someone suggested.

“You take a picture!” I responded in my most mature manner.

That’s when it happened. A few yards past the snake, two of my friends had stopped and were looking back at the snake and at us. A movement caught my eye. I froze. As horror rendered me mute, I watched another snake wriggle up and through an opening between wooden slates in the walkway, right between my friends, and then slither over the edge and into the bog.

My mind was immediately filled with Indiana Jones-like scenes of slithering snakes swarming in massive colonies beneath us. I could imagine them squeezing through the wooden slats all around us, up and onto the walkway, to form great writhing piles of snakes. How many of them might be under there???

“Oh MY GOD! Did you see that???” I whispered ( or maybe screeched).

“What?” they all asked.

I didn’t stop to answer. I hightailed it around the first snake and all of them, moving rapidly down the path, stomping my feet down dramatically as I went, hoping to stave off any impending reptile offensive.

Further down the path, after my friends had caught up, I explained what I’d seen.

“Are you sure?” they asked me.

Sure!?  The image had blazed into my retinas! Yes, I was sure! But, it turned out, no one else had seen the snake. Not one of them. They looked at me skeptically.

“Maybe you imagined it, ” one fine, supportive friend suggested.

I shuddered again, replaying the reel in my mind. That smooth reptilian body squeezing up and over the boardwalk. Imagine that?

I wish.

I first saw the dress on Wednesday afternoon while browsing through the racks in a street stall on Broadway. I immediately loved both the style and the print. “I might just have to get this,” I commented to my co-worker, showing her the dress. “I wonder how much it is.”

With the dress in hand, anticipating a bargain, I approached a nearby vendor. “Excuse me. How much is this?” I asked.

“Oh, it’s $20,” he said, “But it’s not mine. It’s his.” He pointed to another man and then ducked under a divider to return to his own stall.

I admired the dress some more. As a Salvation Army devotee, $20 is at the high end of my spending range. But… the dress was really cute and, I reminded myself, $20 is NOT a lot to pay for a dress. With a cardigan, I’d even be able to wear it to work. Having quickly convinced myself and with encouragement from my colleague (who astutely recognized both the aforementioned cuteness factor and the reasonable price), I walked over to the second man.

“I’d like to buy this,” I said, holding up the dress.

“Ok,” he said. “It’s $29.”

“Oh,” I stammered, “$29? The other man said it was $20.”

“What man?” he asked, and I pointed to the misinforming individual. They exchanged a few brisk words in a language I couldn’t understand.

“No,” he replied, turning back to me, “$29.”

“Is there any chance you could go down on the price?” I asked.

“No,” he repeated firmly, “$29.” Reluctantly, I returned the dress to the rack. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be.

But I kept thinking about the dress. It really was so cute and I could dress it up or dress it down. Very versatile! Also, $29 isn’t  unreasonable. It’s only $9 more than I’d been prepared to spend. That’s just two coffees at Starbucks!

So, on my last day in the city, after two days of internal debate, I realized I still had some spending money in my pocket. (We’ll ignore the entirely unrelated decision to use my credit card for some small purchases.) I decided to splurge and buy myself the dress as a New York City memento. I returned to the vendor, hoping the dress was still there. And luckily, it was! There was no place to try it on, but a S/M should fit. I’d just have to buy it on faith. I pulled it off the rack and happily paid my $29.

The next day, back in Maine, I was eager to try on the dress. After untying the wrap, I realized that the dress was sewn together in the interior–a sort of fake wrap. Hmmm…I guess I must put it on over my head. Diving into the dress, I realized quickly that this wasn’t going to be a smooth operation. I wiggled and contorted, keeping an ear out for any sound of fabric ripping. Finally, after a fair amount of exertion, I got the dress on—and it fit! I untied the wrap and examined the interior waist again–no button…sewn tight. Hmmmm. After another bout of gymnastics, I was able to pull it off over my head. Phew!

The following day was warm and sunny–Perfect inaugural sundress weather! But this time the dress seemed even harder to get on. I guess this is what I get for buying a dress off the streets of New York without trying it on, I thought. I tugged, pulled and wriggled. Who was this dress intended for anyway? Determined, knowing it would fit if I could only get it on, I persevered. It felt like a birth scene! Finally, my shoulders emerged from the tight waist and I could easily pull the dress down, where it settled nicely into place. Once on, there was nothing to indicate my battle.

“Cute!” my daughter commented when I emerged from my room.

“You wouldn’t believe how hard it was to get on,” I exclaimed.

Later that day, my hand brushed across my side. Huh? What was that ridge? My fingers lingered, following a raised line under the fabric. It ran right along the seam, up the side of the dress. What could it be? Oh….Understanding quickly blossomed, along with chagrin. It was… a zipper!  All this time, I’d been battling with the dress and the answer was only a quick, albeit well-concealed, zip away. That night I smoothly pulled the zipper down and easily stepped out of the dress. How many times before, I wondered, have I missed such a simple solution?

New York City fascinates me. There’s such energy there. I’m convinced that even if you took away all the sounds, the city would vibrate or hum. Both times that I’ve attended TC Summer Institutes at Columbia, I have stayed on 77th Street. One of the highlights of my visit is to walk up and back Broadway to 120th every day. I especially love the morning commute. The dog walkers are out in force, and merchants are opening their stores, unloading carts, carefully wrapping bouquets in sleeves, and stacking fruit and vegetables into rainbows of produce. The passing cars hum. Small groups of pigeons and sparrows feast on offerings of bread. Sunlight glints off the top of buildings and dew drops still cling to the blossoms in planters and parks. Although they say NYC is the city that never sleeps, to me, those early morning sights and sounds are the city waking and preparing for the upcoming performance of the day.

New York Symphony

In New York City
day dawns
the quickening air pulses
with vibrations
the deep heavy rumble of delivery trucks
the click clack of carts
crossing sidewalks with a rhythmic
ka-thunk, ka-thunk, ka-thunk
the contented coo of feasting pigeons
a burst of beating wings
as a startled flock takes flight
evading the percussive
thump-thump-thump
of approaching runners
or the staccato clicks of high heels
the punctuating steamy exhale of the buses
a crescendo of trumpeting car horns
a blazing siren
and the steady swish of tires
and humming engines
threaded through with
the cheerful calls
of vendors and passersby
and the sweet strains of bird song
All tuning up
for a day in the city
a New York City symphony

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

Check out this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Carol Varsalona’s blog, Beyond Literacy Link. She has a bounty of poetic offerings this week: her Springsations gallery unveiling, a sonnet to read aloud, a poem about fried chicken and an invitation to write about mac ‘n cheese at next week’s Roundup in honor of National Mac and Cheese Day .

I step out of our comfortable New York city hotel, grimacing slightly when my feet hit the pavement after yesterday’s touristy 27,000+ steps. Walking up to Starbucks for my morning Americano, I look up, admiring the light glinting off the tops of the buildings, noticing new stonework details, enjoying the early morning pulse of the city. 

I turn after crossing the street and notice two feet, peeking out from beneath a blue blanket. A man sleeps against a building at the edge of the sidewalk. His two feet are clearly visible…pale and clean…surprisingly clean. Where are his shoes? Does he have shoes? I imagine them clutched to his chest, held safely, though I can’t see beneath his blanket.

Two feet. That’s all I can see. In my mind I frame them, those two feet swaddled in blue, and snap a picture. I think of baby pictures, those sweet shots that zoom in on tiny hands or feet nestled in the folds of a blanket. I wonder who once washed these feet. When did this man’s path go astray? What steps has he taken to arrive in this place? Are there loved ones who worry for him? Who tried their best? Or did their worst?

Two feet. A blue blanket. A New York sidewalk.

And then I walk by him and continue on my way.
How many others will do the same today?

I’ve had a tough time slicing lately. Somehow Tuesday comes along before I know it and once again, I’m floundering. Last night I was determined to have a slice to share today, so I fell back on the tried and true “Currently” structure. Please bear in mind that I wrote this last night. (My morning beverage of choice is a more acceptable orange juice with a splash of cranberry.)

Currently I am…

Wishing… for a nice cool breeze. The temps hit the low 90s today and it’s still sticky. I finally took the flannel sheets off the bed. (I hope I wasn’t too optimistic and that I don’t regret it in a few days!)

Looking at…the flowers blooming in my garden. The first of the rugosa roses have made an appearance and “…the green fists of the peonies are getting ready/ to break my heart…” (Mary Oliver—I recently read her poem Peonies for the first time (Thanks, Tara!) and then read it again…and again…and again…)

Planning… for the final two weeks of school. These may be the longest or the shortest two weeks in the history of the world.

Reading… my e-mail from TC about the June Reading Institute. Is anyone else going?

Writing… comments for report cards and trying not to repeat what I wrote in the last two trimesters. Searching for the perfect phrase…

Watching… the wine level in my glass go down.

Listening… to the evening chorus of the birds and to the far off sound of some motivated (or irate?) neighbor who is chopping or banging something.

Drinking…I’ll give you one guess 🙂 (Hint: see Watching…) I’m pretty convinced there’s some major evaporation going on here as well!

Eating…pretzels. I have a major pretzel problem—not just any old pretzels though. It’s Snyder’s Snaps all the way for me!

Mood…vacillating –so much to do, so much to reflect upon, so much to anticipate, so much to regret, so much to enjoy.  So much!

If you haven’t yet read Elaine Magliero’s book “Things to Do”, I strongly encourage you to do so.  I owe a big shout out to Jama Rattigan for her delightful interview with Elaine Magliero, which inspired me to pick up this enchanting book.  I shared some of the poems with my class, and they were eager to try out this form. So was I! It’s a wonderful entryway into persona or mask poem writing. Ever since reading it, I’ve found myself thinking differently. What might I do if I was…moss? a cat? a house? Thinking this way, I looked at my favorite birch tree in a new light. It now seemed like the perfect subject for a Things to Do poem.

Things to do if you’re a birch tree

Greet the rising sun
Sparkle with dew
Wave au revoir to the morning star
as each day starts anew

Shelter singing birds
Dangle a swing
Spread your skirt of dappled shade
Jewel your core with rings

Stretch your pale limbs wide
and reach up high
Create a crackled quilt of color
in azure summer skies

Sway with the breezes
Rustle your leaves
Cradle the full moon in your branches
on a soft and sultry eve

Molly Hogan (c) 2017

To enjoy more poetry, make sure to visit this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at Buffy Silverman’s blog, Buffy’s Blog.