let’s pretend time is a line
and I’m standing
right here
upon it
bubble wrapping
antique plates
that were my great grandmother’s
down that line behind me
are other relics
mementos that rise
to the surface
as if god
stirred a pot of stew
letters and postcards
newspaper clippings
slip up
and out
into my hands
photographs of my parents
forty years ago
wedding attire
and full innocent
love
in their smiles
here I am
holding these delicate dishes
they’ve moved down the line
up to me
passed through marriages
and family cupboards
setting places
for hopes and disappointments
now in my hands
they’re leaving California
I’ll meet them in Hawaii
and if time is a line
I’m right here
looking forward
to delivery confirmation
new old dishes
and the Bohemian
at my table
we can play house
pick herbs
and make dinner
by the kitchen window
ahead
behind
on the line of time
here and now
I stand
boxing heirlooms
beside me
my son
the swirl of his father
and myself
all blended in his smiling
eight year old eyes
my living proof
of love embodied
and the reminder
of the brilliant pain
that life will change
but time is not a line
so neat straight and narrow
so the generations
surround me
all those choices
facets on a diamond
simultaneously existing
with plates in my hand
a laugh from my son
a vision of a love
and what’s to come
I guess it doesn’t matter
what shape time takes
I’m just here
breathing
holding relics
visions
my son
now
in the stew
bubbling
in change
In my California mornings, I reinvigorate the fire.
In early light, the sun not yet crested above the surrounding hills, I bundle in layers and follow my breath to the fire pit. The coals from last night’s big Oak round have burned down to a few pulsing cinders.
With cold hands, I gather the small sticks, a toss of Oak leaves, and begin to fan the flames. Sometimes Jeb is with me and we can huddle around the smokey pile, feeding and blowing in delicate attention. Other times he’ll wander off to stand among the dogs that wrestle on the frosted grass, leaving me to stoke alone.
I can pull my hair back with one hand and bend in close to breathe long and full into the orangey-red embers. I’ve been building fires most of my life and there is always a satisfaction felt when my own exhalation makes flame. My breath to fire, wood crackling to catch, a small blaze building.
This warmth gathers us. Family members from three to sixty-three, wander out in the morning with steaming mugs in their hands, big coats and sleepy eyes. The fire wakes us. Even once the sun has cast slants upon the melting lawn, the fire will still hold a steady flame. Spirals of smoke will dance in light throughout the day.
We realized last night that the fire has been burning without pause for three days. A heartbeat pumping, our family’s outdoor hearth is only an ‘h’ away from the love-life source that keeps us living.
We laugh at how I’ve taken to keep it burning in the morning. I love the unending cycle of stoking coals to flame.
“Well, whaddya think? Let’s keep it burning til 2012!” we say as we sit and warm our hands.
We smile in the cold as the knees on our jeans get toasted. My father’s quiet tone
drifts in the swirling smoke, our eyes fixated on the flames.
So, I found myself stretched to capacity when the Bohemian stopped me in my mid-driver’s side entry to my vehicle, with what he thought was a simple question: “Can I drive?”
It was a logical suggestion. We were en route to the airport, where Jeb and I would depart on a trip to California. We had established that the Bohemian would drive my car to pick up Jeb and I upon our return. With us all there together, it made sense for him to suggest he get a trial run behind the wheel.
Little did he know that I’d been silently going through some sort of inner demolition, the proverbial wrecking ball had been busting boundaries all day.
I had entrusted this man to the whereabouts of my keys – home and vehicle. I had granted him the full access pass. Yes, I wanted his airport escort. But this entailed me letting him drive my car. No one drives my car.
It may sound ridiculous to some (maybe even to the Bohemian, though he made not a peep as I walked him through the labyrinth of how he was to actually get the keys to my car in order to drive it. I wanted them stashed inside my house, not kept in his possession while I was away.).
The man was patient and even finished the last few words of my sentence – in an agreeing tone, mind you, of affirming teamwork, not annoyance – when I reminded him about not parking the car too close to the house because the cats (in unison) “jump on the hood.” And, yes, he knew, it’s best to always lock the car with the key from the outside so you don’t accidentally lock your keys in the car. Yep, he was nodding. Smiling. Uh-huh.
courtesy of Caitlinator
Me and my statements of the obvious. So, was it obvious that I gulped and stammered when he asked if he could drive us to the airport? Not only would he be driving my car, but I would become a passenger.
One more swing of the wrecking ball (though let’s not even say the word “wreck” in this circumstance) and there I was buckling up in the passenger seat with squirming knees at the glovebox. I must have been obvious. Jeb felt my discomfort and chimed in from the back seat “I don’t think this is such a good idea.” He’d never seen anyone else drive my car, either.
Uncomfortable, maybe, but I was surrendered. Bring on the rubble.
I tell Jeb the Bohemian is a professional driver (this is true). That he used to drive a semi with big loads through the city of Chicago. And as we ease out on to the road the Bohemian cheerily quips, “Safety first.”
As I said, I’m not a passenger kind of person. So I was left to wonder as he steadily steered us through the night, how it came to be that there was a man escorting me to the airport. That he was driving my car and I was letting him. That I had calmed enough to crack a few jokes and make him laugh, leaving Jeb to exclaim from the backseat “Don’t distract him, Mom!”
But by mid-trip the Bohemian was so smooth that we’d all calmed down. Jeb even admitted, “Hey, he’s pretty good.” And I think the same when I ask him what he wants from California, and without a moment’s thought, just says, “you and Jeb.”
And so it went. A series of surprising views in the aftermath of the wrecking ball.
Instead of dropping us, curbside, in the unloading zone by the ticket counter, he suggests parking and walking us to check in. He wheels the suitcase all the way, ushering it through every attendant we encounter until it finally gets put on the conveyor belt toward our plane.
And once we get to the security check point, our final hugs aren’t the end of his presence. He lingers by the wall to watch us move through the maze of ID check, shoe removal and the emptying of quart-sized ziplocs into baskets.
He stays until the final glance. Our last exchange before the security personnel crowds out the Bohemian from my view. I smile and give a small wave. His left hand is near his heart, or maybe it’s just my imagination.
But I don’t think I’m dreaming. He walked with us as far as possible. And he stayed until he couldn’t see us anymore.
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