Friday, September 2, 2016
In all the corners
tumbleweeds of tangled fur
black, mingled with grey and dust
I find her dancing across the tile floor
even as I jump to scoop her up
spending a moment before
placing her in the bin.
Sixteen years of such furballs
of tail chasing and doing
the "crazy dog"
sixteen winter snowy romps
summer sprinkler leaps and flips
autumn walks on wooded trails
I see her next to each growing child
our sentry at the window
our pillow, our timekeeper
Sammy just now left us.
Yet, in all my
Wednesday, February 10, 2016
Nights long past remain in mind refreshed
So that I can feel the setting summer sun slanted on my
Permission granted after bath and brush to return to play
In the cool of the day.
It was a delicious feeling, to be out
After the sky’s plum had tempered to silvery grey,
The only witnesses to our clandestine romp were
the Big Dipper, “Look there!”
the North Star, yellow Venus, and Orion’s tri-notched belt
Finally answering the whistle meant for me and my brother
To come inside.
Such a small remembering, really.
But one of those granted me to keep for
perhaps all my nights awake, whether inside
Tuesday, February 2, 2016
The first kiss. That pulsing puckering push out of a warm womb, followed by the cold kiss of light and air and sound, once soft and muted, now so sharp and loud.
Yet familiar is one voice, teased out of many, one smell, one touch and, rooting around, this tiny babe offers her first kiss upon her mother’s breast.
Kisses abound in this round world, up and down, in, out, around. The kiss of first winter’s ice, warm bath, old dog’s tongue, soft words, and then hard ones as time and life tick on. Kisses come with friends, cousins, Nana’s slobbery ones and Aunt Ruth’s puckery red lipstick, Papa’s prickly moustache and brother’s feigned affection.
Kisses continue -- hot ones of fright and shame, but also passion, pleasure and accompanying pain. These kisses are her wild ride and she relishes each, tucking them away for whenever they are wanted and needed.
Passion tempers to peace, clash to comfort. Kisses renew in turn as tumbling wombs kiss out new bundles who learn the tactile ropes of life.
* * *
I have a friend who is in her final days. Surrounded by her three daughters, the circle of kisses returns ‘round, her pale, hairless head covered, no, smothered in kisses as she is pulsed and pushed out of this worldly womb, into a bright warm place -- where Nanas, Papas, Aunt Ruths, and old dogs come kissing . . . once again.
Wednesday, January 20, 2016
I watched my breath heave and billow. Hot stinging tears welled, making it hard to drive. Cold air whooshed in as I opened the car door on First Avenue, a frigid two blocks from the Ortega Funeral Home. As I rounded the corner, I saw people spilling out, some smoking, others just breathing and, in the cold, it was hard to tell the difference.
I went inside. The black sign with removable white letters spelling out her name pointed me left into a room thick with Spanish and cologne. I wrote my name in the book, ending with, “your favorite student,” as if she was ever to read who came and who didn’t. She was lying up front, her normally unruly curls tamed and her burgeoning belly gone. Dionisio, her husband sat to the right, alternately crying and laughing into his hands as the minister spoke, and spoke. “Thank you Professor,” I thought as my semester’s Spanish was put to work listening to the eulogy. Her name, “Ruth,” was spoken over and over. I also heard her husband’s name and “Octavio” more than a few times.
Octavio. Her baby was born only five days ago. She sent us an e-mail canceling class and we all looked forward to hearing the happy news, news which came and left so fast, it whipped us with disbelief. She had even sent us review notes for the final, which we sat for eight days after she died. “Easy as a pie,” she joked in her Dominican accented English, when we fretted about the test. “Piece of a cake.”
Why is it that when one who is loved, is lost, we turn inward to examine ourselves so rigorously? Who am I, really? Who will come to my funeral? What will they say? How many names will be written in my book?
I made my way to the front of the room and knelt beside her still form. I touched her forehead - cold like a refrigerator. Just a moment ago, you were alive, talking, teaching, laboring, giving birth and celebrating your son. Like Mary and Joseph, you and your husband welcomed your Christmas child. But you could not keep a fingerhold on this earth and left them - and us. For them, for us, it was too soon. For you? No sé.
Ciao, mi profesora. Sueños con los ángelitos. Hasta mañana.