Spring
Behind the Moon
Gone are the days, sixteen years ago, when I was with Jeb’s dad (no Jeb yet). I had a couple hundred dollars in the bank, living in a school bus up on blocks, wondering how far beyond 300,000 miles my Subaru would go.
Now I’m 42 in a Prius (color, “Pure White”). My husband (not Jeb’s dad) and I bought it used, but it looks brand new. It hovers low to the ground, a suburban vehicle, not built for off-road, barely skirting speed bumps.
In the back seat is a twelve-year-old and a Labrador. My pre-teen vies for use of ear buds with his smart phone, but I’ve established a no-headset rule in the car.
I am grateful for a reliable, gas-efficient automobile, a healthy, insightful son, and a sweet-natured, four-legged companion. Each of these is a wish, made realized. But maneuvering us all in the driver’s seat of this scene, I feel as though I’ve been cast in a movie. Given props and a costume for a role I’ve yet to fully embody. Who is this middle-aged lady in the station wagon, with a budding teen, and a dog?
What happened to Jeb’s booster seat, and me, passing back pieces of organic rice cakes, while we both sang, enthusiastically, to the music I loved, and he liked too? When Matt Costa’s “Behind the Moon,” was Jeb’s all-time favorite, and we could crank it over cruddy speakers on the short car ride to pre-school.
Now here I come
To dance around the sun
I’ve been oh so blue
Stuck behind the moon
Now let me in
Back where we begin
And let me hold you like the way
I used to do
Now it’s requests for bad pop music on the radio, or desired ear bud solitude, blocking the chance for conversation.
“Mom, I can still hear you with them in, I just like listening to my music.”
Now let me hold you like the way…
I used to do
I used to do
The Thorn
The Bohemian had already offered his rose cutting a greenhouse-like environment, by covering it with a Mason jar at the kitchen window. So when, on the same day, his tea bag proverb gave a respectful reminder, he took it as confirmation that he was on the right track. Ever-hopeful that this stem from my Valentine’s day rose may actually take root, the Bohemian was eyeing it, continually, for any millimeter of growth, constantly checking the dampness of the soil.
It seemed to me that he was respecting the thorn, and then some.
But then one day the stem darkened. He brought it to my attention, with concern, but I shrugged it off, suggesting that we still just wait and see. The Bohemian was skeptical.
Then one morning, while washing dishes, I glanced up to see an empty pot.
Later that afternoon, he asked “Did you see the pot?”
“Yes. Did you transplant the cutting?”
“No. I put it in the compost. It had that black stem. It just died.”
Our house sits on a steep hillside, shaded by a forest of trees. Anything that grows there survives purely on filtered sunlight and whatever rain falls. We have been surprised to discover young saplings of orange and lemon trees, and plenty of papaya starts, growing two and three feet tall amongst the undergrowth. The reason being, that past inhabitants of our home simply flung their fruit scraps, seeds and all, over the hillside. The young trees are merely volunteers, thriving survivors of a random scattering.
One can dote with full attention and still lose all. And all can arise from one carefree gesture.
Just because the Bohemian’s rose cutting didn’t make it, doesn’t mean he didn’t respect the thorn. It doesn’t signify that our true love won’t live on. In this case, I’d say it’s more about the practicals. Maybe next time he’ll use rooting powder, or try a higher quality cutting.
The poet in me does ponder the proverb and the thorn. That bitter that comes with the sweet. The full spectrum of life experience, which includes deterioration. Death.
We’ll take the thorn of defeat on this cutting. But I’m sure it’s not the last time I’ll see the Bohemian fiddling with plant life by the kitchen window, positioning glass jars, moving close to inspect, then standing back to admire, smiling all the while. Always trying to grow.
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