What I Hear
Bedside with you in Hospice,
I reach into my bag
retrieve stale pretzels, dog-eared notes,
an essay about you, the gardener.
Three pages long,
I am almost through.
You are blinking, groaning.
Children interrupt.
How much of my writing
did you ever read?
Children now bedside too,
You lift up your hand.
Do you want me to stop?
You mumble. I wrinkle
my forehead, unable to discern.
Children relay, He says,
I love you.
A blanket I love you
encompassing me now,
warmth for my journey.
You always wanted to be
the subject of my words.
And when words
do not turn into writing,
I hear
your whispered plea -
to go on,
go on.
July, 2012
Divergence
Driving
through West Virginia,
the
Appalachian Trail miles from sight.
I am
blinded by blue skies,
do
not see mountains or rest stops.
I
only see you,
or
your side,
while
I sat between
you and
Mom, making trips
through
ranges and rain.
Howard
Johnson's and Days Inn
now
in my rear view mirror,
as are
you.
I
miss the glint of sun
shining
off your watch as the dawn
struck
and woke us all,
the
bitter scent of aftershave,
your
Cuban-dark arms,
Mom
frantic over the wrong turn,
reading
the Triptik,
hieroglyphics
learned.
Necco
wafers had long gone stale,
though
you kept them
like
a treasure trove.
Some
slept, I followed the map,
needed
a path,
the
one you were driving.
Robert
Frost forgive me, for the road less traveled
is
not the one I want to be on.
But
I am. Long stretches,
interspersed
by tunnels, and suffocating silence.
I’m
no expert map reader
but
isn't it better to be lost?
Isn't
that why you drove, to separate
from
the bickering, the snoring, and chewing,
the
curlers, the snacks, the books?
Isn't
better to know who you are, than where?
August, 2012
Running Errands
The girl in me sits by your side.
The road is bumpy.
You curse county commissioners
up and down Tower Boulevard.
We stop in order – shoe store, post office,
Grandpa’s on Chris Avenue, hoping for cannolis.
At last
we arrive at Willow Hardware.
You park the Surburban -
a car rising higher than feet can touch.
I tumble out
and swing the doors to Willow wide open.
You follow me.
But then
we drift
I gravitate towards a buzzing,
the sweet scent of sawdust my nectar.
Someone is building something.
You turn towards the garden supplies, stepping
over green rubber hose.
You are seeking the shelf full
of twine, sentries wrapped in cardboard rolls.
You were raising something too.
The tomatoes, their stalks needed
staking and prodding,
a firm grip to grow
and birth
juicy bulbous fruit.
On our errands, we were building something –
What was it – a treasure chest for your wisdom,
a box to capture the girl in me,
or being of like hearts,
an understanding between us two?
February, 2013
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