March SOLC–Day 27

We took a walk yesterday and the silence hung heavy between us. We left the road, turning onto an unpaved drive, heavily rutted with churned dirt. The drive was some sort of access road, leading into the woods. Thin, endangered icebergs floated within the deeper water-filled ruts. We stepped carefully, unsure where the ground was firm and where it might give way to submerge an unwary foot. We trod on treacherous ground.

In the shady woods, the chilly temperature dropped a bit more. Small patches of snow lingered in the deeper shadows. We walked on, hands stuffed deep in pockets, sniffing from the cold. Separate.  Off to my right I saw a flash of white and two deer bounded through far off trees, their white tails flagging. Look!  We watched them gracefully leap through scrub and brush until they were out of sight.

As we moved further into the woods our steps shuffled through a carpet of dead oak leaves. A distant rush of water translated into a small, but potent waterfall. Sheets of water poured over a smooth rock face then twisted and turned amidst boulders, following the time-carved path of the stream. The turbulent water pulled at me. I yearned to sit on a cold boulder by its side and lose myself in the hypnotism of falling, rushing water and its dull roar.

We walked for a while longer. Over dead leaves, around ruts. Seeing a glint in the grit at my feet, I stopped and picked up a large, clear piece of mica. I ran my fingers over it. It cleaved smoothly in my hands, splitting into layers.  “They used to use mica in stove windows,”  he said. “It wouldn’t shatter like glass would from the extreme temperatures.” I looked at my blurred fingers through its thin, opaque sheets. Shadow fingers. Ghost fingers.

Along the road sections of old stone walls were visible through the winter-bare trees, marking land borders. Whose land were we walking on now in this unfamiliar terrain? I didn’t know. I didn’t ask. We kept moving step by step. Mostly silent.

March SOLC–Day 26

This morning I woke later than usual and walked through the house without flicking on light switches. The world outside was already illuminated and bird song trilled in chilly air. Most mornings these are things I’m anticipating. Walking into the kitchen I looked out and saw the birds already feasting at the feeders, feathers flashing as they moved about. Usually I think of bird watching as similar to viewing fish in an aquarium. This morning I saw a choreographed dance.

Avian Dance

Blue jay swoops in low
And downy woodpecker leaps
to a nearby branch
alert and poised.
With a flash of white
juncos launch into flight
exiting stage left, while
red-breasted robins,
fat as friars,
hop in time on the lawn
Song Sparrows flutter and perch
flutter and perch
And with a flash
of crimson feathers,
cardinal makes his entrance
upstaging the others
with a splashy aerial show.

March SOLC–Day 25 and Poetry Friday Roundup 

With warmer weather here, I’ve been out and about more. Last week I was delighted to see Pussy willows emerging–a sure sign of spring!  My poem does double duty today for the Slice of Life Challenge and Poetry Friday.

Pussy Willow

Pussy willow whispers softly
of motherhood
of water and moon
of dreaming and intuition.

Legend says
a mother cat
wept at water’s edge
as her cloud-gray kittens
swirled within wild currents
and kind Willow
bowed down low
trailing graceful branches
to rescue
those struggling kittens.
And ever since,
soft gray paws adorn
Willow’s supple branches-
furry catkins
to remember clinging kittens.

In the chilly March breeze
Pussy willow bats her soft paws
at the dark edge of winter,
a silken harbinger of spring.

Molly Hogan (2016)

Thanks to Heidi Mordhorst for hosting this week’s Poetry Friday Roundup at My Juicy Little Universe.  Head on over to enjoy some poetry!

March SOLC–Day 24

This is our third Junior Achievement class. The volunteer, mother of one of my students, comes into our classroom once a week for five weeks. She teaches about communities, families, wants and needs, etc. It’s interactive and informative for the kids, and I get to sit back and listen, or even work quietly at my desk. Yesterday during her third visit, she focused on jobs. She guided the students in a game that involved giving clues about jobs and guessing different jobs. She then told the kids that some people start their own business and make their own jobs.

“J,” she said, “How did your mom make her own job? What does she sell?”
“Pizza?” asked L., always the comic.
“No, she doesn’t sell pizza!” giggled J. “She sells honey and she makes soap, too. From goat’s milk.”

The volunteer continued, “There’s a special name for people who start their own businesses, like J’s mom. They’re called entreprenuers.” She wrote the word on the board and asked the children to repeat it with her.
“Entreprenuers.”
Another child piped up, “Is that kind of like ice cream?”
“Um, no,” the volunteer said slowly.
“Well, does it taste like it?” The volunteer looked simultaneously confused and amused.
“No, ” she said finally and firmly, ” It has nothing to do with ice cream.”
“Oh. Ok.”

Well, don’t tell Ben and Jerry that! I thought as I grinned from my safe spot at my desk. Sometimes I wonder what in the world my students are thinking when they make seemingly random comments like this and sometimes I think I may be better off not knowing. For now I was content to listen and observe while someone else was in charge.

March SOLC–Day 23

I wake suddenly. What is that?

I’m curled in a ball beneath a tangle of sheets. My shoulders are raised and tense, my breathing ragged and my fists clenched. Dim memories of rattling, phlegmy Sleestak* breathing, unspoken threats and shuddering fear flicker through my mind. I’m overheated again and push back the covers. Oh, it’s another nightmare. I tend to have bad dreams when I get overheated, but I can’t resist the welcoming weight of a pile of blankets. At this time in my life when my body’s thermometer is a bit wacky, my dreams often drift into the realm of dark and creepy.

This particular dream is hard to shake, though I can’t remember the particulars–just the dreadful inhuman breathing and the threatening atmosphere. Lying here in the dark, still sleepy, I deliberately push my mind into new channels.  The dream lurks, a dark smudge in my brain, insidiously threatening to spread and pull me back in.  What will I write today?

Suddenly I hear it again. That threatening, rattling breathing.  What is it? Where is it coming from? But I’m still awake… Aren’t I?
The thoughts sprint through my mind as tension clenches me again.
And then I realize. That breathing? That awful, rattling breathing from my dream? It came from my husband snoring beside me. My very own Sleestak.

*Note–I’m dating myself with the Sleestak reference but for some reason that’s the description that lingered in my  mind when I woke this early this morning, though I think they hissed instead of rattled. Why Sleestaks? Who knows!  The mind is a funny thing. It’s been close to 40 years since I watched the show Land of the Lost and many decades since I’ve thought of these creatures.  According to Wikipedia, “Sleestaks are devolved, green humanoids with both reptilian and insectoid features; they have scaly skin with frills around the neck, bulbous unblinking eyes, pincer-like hands, stubby tails, and a single blunt horn on top of the head…” Charming, right? And in case you missed the original show or have forgotten–here’s a photo:

March SOLC–Day 22

I don’t know my cousin well, so I don’t know his wife well either. But I’ve followed the Facebook photos through the years and watched their family grow and I’ve visited with them at rare family events. Over time the two of them became three, then four, then five with three beautiful daughters who are just now beginning to make their way into the world.

In the past few months, since I’ve learned of her illness, I’ve been watching her, my cousin’s wife, through pictures on Facebook. I’ve seen her enjoying various family events. I’ve seen her gradually lose her hair. I’ve seen her smiling on a trip to NYC, surrounded by family, Christmas trees and neon lights. Always smiling broadly, no wig to cover her balding head, cancer’s beacon. I don’t know her, but I’ve seen her strength, her determination and the signs of battle on her body.

Last week her daughter posted a new picture. In it my cousin’s wife sits in a hospital gown in a hospital chair in a hospital room with this daughter sitting on the edge of the chair. My cousin’s wife seems folded in upon herself. Her daughter sits slightly behind her, leaning toward her with her arm about her, sheltering her. The contrast between vibrant youthful health and debilitating illness is striking. Heartbreaking. The broad smile is now tentative and there’s a look in her eyes…Oh, that look in her eyes. I think it was then that I realized. But still I hoped. There was talk of eligibility for an experimental treatment. Hope.

The message arrived yesterday. “Cancer all over her body. In her lungs. Not good at all.” So the cancer has spread.  Her body is “riddled” with it–that suggests something to be puzzled over and solved. In this case there is no solution; her options, apparently, are at an end.

Though I don’t know them well, I ache with sadness. I ache for her, facing the ultimate lonely inevitability of it all. For her, as a mother, unimaginably leaving her girls, and for her girls who will soon be left behind, motherless. I look at the photographs of the past few months–those digital battle flags of determined cheer and sweet moments from daily life. I ache for my cousin, fixedly smiling at her side. I look into the eyes of her vivacious, smiling daughters and I ache for them.  I know some of what awaits them. I know what it’s like to be a motherless daughter.  Some of my pain now echoes from my own lingering grief. I weep for this shattering family, reeling in the face of this impending loss that will reshape the bedrock of their lives.

And I wonder. How do you wrap a lifetime, a world of love into words? How do you comfort the one who is departing and those who will be left behind? How do you say goodbye?

March SOLC–Day 21

The Peace of Early Morning

I treasure my mornings
the sweet hush of pre-dawn
when the birds still sleep
and the sun lingers
below the horizon.
The unfolding day
stretches before me
unlimited in its potential.

I treasure my mornings
the coming of light,
a slow deepening blush
on the horizon,
and the gradual birth of
angular tree shadows
striping the lawn,
and the sweet surprise
of the first bird song,
thrilling in the tranquility,
rippling across the morning air.

I treasure my mornings
and the warm gleam
of my solitary light
in this drowsy house
and the muted click clack
of my fingers
on the keyboard,
as I work and wonder with words,
embraced by the growing light
and the peace of the dawning day.

I treasure my mornings.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

March SOLC–Day 20

Hiss! Sizzle! Woosh!  Flame leaps off the grill and the nearby diners gasp and applaud. Two of our three children, Connor and Lydia, are heading back to school tomorrow and we wanted to spend the last evening together. We opted for Hibachi–a delicious, sensory explosion.  Flaming grills, juggled eggs, flashing blades, volcanic onions and vegetable missiles equal guaranteed fun.

The downside of hibachi is the noise of the grill and the potentially encroaching volume of the conversations of the assorted groups seated around it.  On the periphery of our group, I tried hard to focus, not wanting to hear the admiring Trump comments on my left (especially with sharp implements close at hand), and unable to fully hear our group’s conversations. With my son’s girlfriend with us, we were a group of 5. That seemed odd to me.  5 is our family number. Countless reservations, tickets, and orders for 5 at countless places over countless years. How can we be 5 when Adeline (my older daughter) isn’t here? She’s been studying in England since January and to me, her absence is palpable. Our group is incomplete: tonight 5 doesn’t equal 5.

“I miss Addie right now,” I said to Lydia, then paused. “Actually I miss her whenever I breathe,” I added, somewhat melodramatically.
“Well, then, don’t breathe,” suggested Lydia, helpfully. We both laughed and a quiet moment passed.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I said.
“I know,” she said, “I don’t feel like I’ve had much time off.” She rested her head on my shoulder and tucked her arms around me. I leaned into her and kissed her forehead, relishing her affection, her proximity. I looked across the grill at my son, sitting between his girlfriend and his father. I couldn’t hear what was said but I watched him as they chatted, saw the expressions flit across his face. This was his final spring break. He’s graduating in May and won’t be living at home this summer. Possibly not ever again.

Hiss! Sizzle! Woosh!  The flames leapt into the air again, a bit blurry now. I blinked and deliberately shook off the mood, the melancholy. I leaned back into Lydia, into the conversation, determined to enjoy the time I had right now and count each moment as precious.

There will be plenty of time for missing later.

March SOLC– Day 19

My daughter took this photo of our home recently and showed it to me yesterday. I was struck by the  mood of the scene, the timelessness of it. I asked her to send it to me because I knew I wanted to write about it–something, sometime. I woke early this morning, remembering a chance encounter with a man who had a story to tell about our house.

Our house,
two hundred plus years old,
steeped in history,
sits at the top of a hill
in a small town
in Maine.

Once we met a man
who told us a story.
Many years ago,
long before it was ours,
he took a picture
of the house,
and he carried it with him
to fight in steamy jungles
in a gritty, thankless war.
Far across the sea,
he would grip the photo,
tightly,
stare at it,
and think,
“When I get home,
I’m gonna buy that house.”
It became a talisman,
the house.
The man survived
and he returned.
Though he never bought our house,
it carried him through
and it brought him home.

Sometimes when the mist curls
about the foundation,
our house shimmers,
auraed in a timeless light,
suffused with a soft glow
of stories,
of history.

And sometimes
I think of that man,
fighting for his life
in heavy, humid air
and tangles of vegetation,
dreaming of a house
two hundred plus years old
at the top of a hill
in a small town
in Maine.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

March SOLC–Day 18 and Poetry Friday Roundup

Every night I find my attention drawn away from whatever work I’m attempting to do toward the book waiting in my bedroom. I hear so many people say “Oh, I don’t have any time to read!” and I can’t fathom it. Reading is a deeply entrenched part of my nightly routine. Any time I’ve ever shared a bedroom, I’ve been besieged by whiney complaints. “Turn off the lights!” “Aren’t you done reading yet?” “I can’t sleep with the lights on.” Bravely I’ve soldiered on, through the missiles of discontent and annoyance. I have managed to acquire a number of book lights through the years and am now a bit more considerate about my light needs. But still, every night, I read. It may be for only a few minutes or it may be for hours.

And every night as I’m trying to work, before heading to bed, time seems to move faster. I get a bit anxious–The work is cutting into my potential reading time! I try to focus on grading or planning, but the clock is ticking (It may be digital but I swear it ticks!) and I know there is a finite amount of time. Tick. Tock. The more I work, the less time I have to read. I feel the tug of my book, pulling me away from work and toward the bedroom. It’s an ongoing nightly struggle!

The Nightly Struggle

Every evening
the struggle
commences.
My bag bulges reproachfully
with should-do’s and must-do’s
and Oh-wow-that’s-almost-overdue’s.
I dash off a few e-mails,
fine-tune some lesson plans.
I glance at the clock
then refocus on rewording
an e-mail that must be sent
tonight.
But, wait!
What’s that?
Is that a faint whisper
wafting from my bedroom
where my book lies
nestled
in a tangle of blankets
in my never-made bed?
Perhaps a soft rustling of pages?
I envision my book,
resting where it fell last night,
as my hands lost their grip
and my eyelids their battle
with sleep,
waiting,
dog-eared and patient,
reliable and inviting,
next to my pillow.
I could go to bed now
slide in between the covers
tuck the cat by my side
and the blankets about my neck
and open that book.
Early tomorrow I could
tackle the must-do’s
should-do’s and almost-overdue’s.
I glance at my Inbox.
I glance at the clock.
Tick.
Tock.
I glance at my bulging bag,
my mind already
halfway down the hall,
reaching toward the world
waiting enticingly
inside my book.
I head to bed,
abandoning the battlefield.
Victor or vanquished?
Who cares?
It’s early still and
I can read for hours.

Molly Hogan (c) 2016

For more poetry today, head to the Poetry Friday Roundup hosted by Robyn Hood Black at Life on the Deckle Edge.