Quiet omens in the night. A gate left open. The bone we found in the graveyard. A flag flapping against wrought iron.
Oh, Molly!
While they are talking I am thinking of you.
Tuesday, February 27
It is Tuesday morning. Tuesday morning always comes. Today when it comes I admit defeat.
This morning came with cold and sun. The house smelling like winter needs to end. Everyhere I look there are more things. More decisions. Apples in a bag left in the car for too long. Frozen and pock-marked. Paper on the floor from hours spent drawing and painting. Mustard-wine sauce in a pan on the stove.
Tuesday morning is a time for reckoning.
The man came a little after ten o'clock. He looked at the heating system. Asked if we had a dishwasher, a garbage disposal. Looked at the box in the basement. I told him the house had won. I admitted defeat. He said it was none of his business.
It is Tuesday morning. In a little whle I will try to get the kids out of the house to face Tuesday afternoon. But for now it is still morning. It is Tuesday morning and I admit defeat.
This morning came with cold and sun. The house smelling like winter needs to end. Everyhere I look there are more things. More decisions. Apples in a bag left in the car for too long. Frozen and pock-marked. Paper on the floor from hours spent drawing and painting. Mustard-wine sauce in a pan on the stove.
Tuesday morning is a time for reckoning.
The man came a little after ten o'clock. He looked at the heating system. Asked if we had a dishwasher, a garbage disposal. Looked at the box in the basement. I told him the house had won. I admitted defeat. He said it was none of his business.
It is Tuesday morning. In a little whle I will try to get the kids out of the house to face Tuesday afternoon. But for now it is still morning. It is Tuesday morning and I admit defeat.
Thursday, February 22
Recession
He's taken her off of one of her medications. I come home to this. He has told one doctor. Not the one that matters.
There is always laundry when you get home. And things to unpack. The mail keeps coming and trash day comes too. There is ice in the driveway and the sky is gray.
She thinks she has bugs in her fingers and she is picking them out. She is angry. Angry. He's taken her off one of her medications. She is picking them out. I am doing laundry and opening mail.
Sunday, January 28
Trying to figure what it means to be remembered, why it matters. A cold morning. I remember that. A boarding pass to Shannon. A present never mailed.
Cleaning my desk, finding things I may have forgotten. A string of beads. An old violin. Letters written and not mailed. Letters recieved and not returned.
Trying to think of why it matters to be remembered. Graveyards full, full of people. Graveyards full of people I know. People I knew. People I remember. Graveyards full of forgotten people.
Smiles of a summer night. My grandmother, feet on the coffee table, drinking coffee out of a small white mug and watching old movies. I remember the swans swimming, candles growing long tails. What of this remembering? Red velveteen. Smoking on walks around the block, then only in the bathroom, then not at all. Cherries soaked in her Manhattans. Eating oranges before bed.
I tried this morning to remember my father's voice. How he answered the phone. Gave advice. I'm not sure I got it but I remembered the way he looked when there was nothing he could do. I remember his look. Sympathy. Empathy.
Looking down at my son at my breast. What does it matter more than this? Ice on the inside of the window, his body warm against mine. What does it matter to be remembered? His looking up at me, his eyes. He won't remember. But that moment will do.
Cleaning my desk of ways to be remembered. Yarn to knit a sweater. Pictures of my babies. Beads and silver. Fabric for quilts. Letters and bills and bills and bills.
The rug by the door is stained black from the shoes of the man who repaired the boiler.
Cleaning my desk, finding things I may have forgotten. A string of beads. An old violin. Letters written and not mailed. Letters recieved and not returned.
Trying to think of why it matters to be remembered. Graveyards full, full of people. Graveyards full of people I know. People I knew. People I remember. Graveyards full of forgotten people.
Smiles of a summer night. My grandmother, feet on the coffee table, drinking coffee out of a small white mug and watching old movies. I remember the swans swimming, candles growing long tails. What of this remembering? Red velveteen. Smoking on walks around the block, then only in the bathroom, then not at all. Cherries soaked in her Manhattans. Eating oranges before bed.
I tried this morning to remember my father's voice. How he answered the phone. Gave advice. I'm not sure I got it but I remembered the way he looked when there was nothing he could do. I remember his look. Sympathy. Empathy.
Looking down at my son at my breast. What does it matter more than this? Ice on the inside of the window, his body warm against mine. What does it matter to be remembered? His looking up at me, his eyes. He won't remember. But that moment will do.
Cleaning my desk of ways to be remembered. Yarn to knit a sweater. Pictures of my babies. Beads and silver. Fabric for quilts. Letters and bills and bills and bills.
The rug by the door is stained black from the shoes of the man who repaired the boiler.
Saturday, January 20
Knitting a lace shawl for a friend, for her wedding. Hours and hours of sleepless nights, minutes caught between daily routines. Ten minutes here when I should be holding Abby. Ten minutes there when I should be holding Sam.
At the market tonight Abby and I put cans in the machine. Abby standing in pig slippers in the carriage dropping them in one by one, the machine gobbling them like a snake eats mice. Fifteen cans. The machine spits out a paper.
Bug-eyes has new glasses and I nearly miss him, nearly walk right into a conversation. But I hear his voice and turn away. Something about a letter to the editor. Some woman trying hard to break out of the converstaion. Trying not to be caught. The last thing I need is for him to talk to me, to talk about poetry. That was years ago, nearly eleven. I haven't kept up.
Rows taking half an hour at the end. 178 rows of easy knitting. Then 60 or so rows at half and hour each. Making holes and more holes. Making points.
The wind is howling outside. Abigail and James are asleep. Sam is asleep. I am going to have to talk to a lawyer soon. I am going to have to make decisions for her. I am going to have to talk to a lawyer to make decisions for her. The wind is coming in at the windows and the doors. The house is cold.
This binding off is taking forever. Thirteen stitches and a lace point falls off the needles. Another thirteen stitches. Another point. I am drinking red wine that should have been dumped. My breasts are full and the baby is asleep. I have eight points bound off and dozens more to go. Purl two, slip stitches back to the left needle, purl two together. Purl one. Slip stitches. Purl two together. Binding off the holes.
At the market tonight Abby and I put cans in the machine. Abby standing in pig slippers in the carriage dropping them in one by one, the machine gobbling them like a snake eats mice. Fifteen cans. The machine spits out a paper.
Bug-eyes has new glasses and I nearly miss him, nearly walk right into a conversation. But I hear his voice and turn away. Something about a letter to the editor. Some woman trying hard to break out of the converstaion. Trying not to be caught. The last thing I need is for him to talk to me, to talk about poetry. That was years ago, nearly eleven. I haven't kept up.
Rows taking half an hour at the end. 178 rows of easy knitting. Then 60 or so rows at half and hour each. Making holes and more holes. Making points.
The wind is howling outside. Abigail and James are asleep. Sam is asleep. I am going to have to talk to a lawyer soon. I am going to have to make decisions for her. I am going to have to talk to a lawyer to make decisions for her. The wind is coming in at the windows and the doors. The house is cold.
This binding off is taking forever. Thirteen stitches and a lace point falls off the needles. Another thirteen stitches. Another point. I am drinking red wine that should have been dumped. My breasts are full and the baby is asleep. I have eight points bound off and dozens more to go. Purl two, slip stitches back to the left needle, purl two together. Purl one. Slip stitches. Purl two together. Binding off the holes.
Saturday, December 30
It is depressing to shop at that market. A girl from high school talking about Nascar. A fat woman crouched in the aisle looking at stuffing bread. Chatter at the lottery counter.
I didn't tell you about the dream I had a few weeks back. Pinochet's brain became part of my head, at the back, and a mob was leading me around the city looking for the right place to execute Pinochet. When they had me up at Willowrest I saw my sister in the crowd. I could feel his brain mixing with mine at the edges and I wanted to see him dead. All I could do was let the crowd lead me.
Candies fruit and Jewish foods are on sale. I buy chips for the party. Cream to make more egg nog. At the checkout I see a can I thought was artichokes is chick peas. The girl double-bags glass bottles of pear juice. The boy puts them in more bags before putting them in my cart.
Driving home it is still snowing. This is what it will be like for her-- white covering things she knows are there, covering them until she questions what is there, until she forgets what was there altogether and then that anything was there at all.
At home Sam is coughing like a seal. Abigail is walking in circles looking for chocolate, saying I am so lucky. I am so lucky.
I didn't tell you about the dream I had a few weeks back. Pinochet's brain became part of my head, at the back, and a mob was leading me around the city looking for the right place to execute Pinochet. When they had me up at Willowrest I saw my sister in the crowd. I could feel his brain mixing with mine at the edges and I wanted to see him dead. All I could do was let the crowd lead me.
Candies fruit and Jewish foods are on sale. I buy chips for the party. Cream to make more egg nog. At the checkout I see a can I thought was artichokes is chick peas. The girl double-bags glass bottles of pear juice. The boy puts them in more bags before putting them in my cart.
Driving home it is still snowing. This is what it will be like for her-- white covering things she knows are there, covering them until she questions what is there, until she forgets what was there altogether and then that anything was there at all.
At home Sam is coughing like a seal. Abigail is walking in circles looking for chocolate, saying I am so lucky. I am so lucky.
Sunday, November 19
She is lying on the table in a fetal position facing the wall. She looks younger this way, her skin smooth and her fancy underwear with a bow on the back. I stand at her head with my hand on the side of her face.
He feels her back, finds her spine. An inch out of place and nobody ever notices. Presses firmly here, and there, looking for the right place. He paints her back with an antiseptic sponge. Frames her spine with paper.
A shot to mask the pain. She doesn't flinch, she is sedated. The next needle shudders as it hits bone, stops and starts as it looks for a way through. I rub her cheek as she moans. It hurts, it hurts. Out and in again. Prodding.
He stops and looks for something else to stop the pain. I help him get the bottle out of the cabinet, hold it at an angle so he can fill the syringe. I was my hands afterward thinking I should have washed them first. I hold her head as he pricks her again.
The baby starts crying. We trade places, R. and I. The needle goes in again. She cries. The baby cries. Pain down her leg, her hip, her knees. I start to nurse. Blood trickles down her back. R. holds her head as she cries out, whimpers, moans. He ankles hurt. Her left leg jerks. She cries out in pain.
The baby is quiet. The needle moves in and out. R. is holding her head. She is crying. Nearly the right spot. Her legs kick. R. is holding her head. He tells her to be strong. Be strong for the babies. She is crying. Blood is trickling down her back.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Nearly an hour gone and finally it comes down the needle: clear fluid, like water dripping from a leaf. She is quiet as we watch it fall, drip by drip, into the vial. One vial. He turns the needle to see if it will flow faster. Two vials. She mutters and her body starts to unfold. Three vials. Four vials full from the needle in her spine. He takes out the needle. She is still as he washes her back. Puts a bandaid on.
I want to remember this so I don't judge her too harshly.
He feels her back, finds her spine. An inch out of place and nobody ever notices. Presses firmly here, and there, looking for the right place. He paints her back with an antiseptic sponge. Frames her spine with paper.
A shot to mask the pain. She doesn't flinch, she is sedated. The next needle shudders as it hits bone, stops and starts as it looks for a way through. I rub her cheek as she moans. It hurts, it hurts. Out and in again. Prodding.
He stops and looks for something else to stop the pain. I help him get the bottle out of the cabinet, hold it at an angle so he can fill the syringe. I was my hands afterward thinking I should have washed them first. I hold her head as he pricks her again.
The baby starts crying. We trade places, R. and I. The needle goes in again. She cries. The baby cries. Pain down her leg, her hip, her knees. I start to nurse. Blood trickles down her back. R. holds her head as she cries out, whimpers, moans. He ankles hurt. Her left leg jerks. She cries out in pain.
The baby is quiet. The needle moves in and out. R. is holding her head. She is crying. Nearly the right spot. Her legs kick. R. is holding her head. He tells her to be strong. Be strong for the babies. She is crying. Blood is trickling down her back.
Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Thirty minutes. Nearly an hour gone and finally it comes down the needle: clear fluid, like water dripping from a leaf. She is quiet as we watch it fall, drip by drip, into the vial. One vial. He turns the needle to see if it will flow faster. Two vials. She mutters and her body starts to unfold. Three vials. Four vials full from the needle in her spine. He takes out the needle. She is still as he washes her back. Puts a bandaid on.
I want to remember this so I don't judge her too harshly.
Wednesday, September 20
Quiet night, reading in bed when it comes in through the window like an anthem - the theme song for M*A*S*H. Almost every day for five years after Marnie got sick it came up the stairwell to our place. Almost every night growing up it came through the wall from my mother's room. For at least half of my life, one of the steadiest things I knew.
This morning cleaning like the Queen is coming. Sam nursing and crying and sleeping, nursing and sleeping and crying. Abby walking around with her doll singing a song to herself: Don't cry, Mommy, don't cry. Kitchen and bathroom mopped, chairs scrubbed, counters clean. Soup on the stove, soup on the stove. By six o'clock the three of us are sitting in the middle of a pile of laundry to fold, one of us crying. By nine I am the only one awake and not much of the day's work shows. By ten thirty the kitchen is clean again and I am done.
This morning cleaning like the Queen is coming. Sam nursing and crying and sleeping, nursing and sleeping and crying. Abby walking around with her doll singing a song to herself: Don't cry, Mommy, don't cry. Kitchen and bathroom mopped, chairs scrubbed, counters clean. Soup on the stove, soup on the stove. By six o'clock the three of us are sitting in the middle of a pile of laundry to fold, one of us crying. By nine I am the only one awake and not much of the day's work shows. By ten thirty the kitchen is clean again and I am done.
Sunday, September 17
To think about it wakes me up at night.
When Judy got sick they flew her east. They gave her the bedroom we had slept in and the tv room on the second floor. They scoffed at her diet of whole grains and raw vegetables.
When she got sicker they wheeled her out into the sun on a new wrought-iron chaise lounge. She sat in the sun and tanned. She sat in the sun and grew new hair as her baby girl walked on the grass of the hill. She sat in the sun while her eyes got empty. After I saw her for the last time I watched the parade from the corner in front of the art store. Two days later she was dead.
I know a man who kept his toenail clippings in a decorated pill box next to the bed. He slept under a print of two men sleeping next to eachother. His lover's daughter thought it was a picture of her father twice.
When Judy got sick they flew her east. They gave her the bedroom we had slept in and the tv room on the second floor. They scoffed at her diet of whole grains and raw vegetables.
When she got sicker they wheeled her out into the sun on a new wrought-iron chaise lounge. She sat in the sun and tanned. She sat in the sun and grew new hair as her baby girl walked on the grass of the hill. She sat in the sun while her eyes got empty. After I saw her for the last time I watched the parade from the corner in front of the art store. Two days later she was dead.
I know a man who kept his toenail clippings in a decorated pill box next to the bed. He slept under a print of two men sleeping next to eachother. His lover's daughter thought it was a picture of her father twice.
Saturday, September 16
Coming home from the orchard, a car burnt out just south of exit 15. Vermont plates, fire engine, ambulance, police cars. Trees turning red around us. Coming up on October, it'll be here soon, then November and December. Months get cold and colder.
On the second floor in the tv room we sat and ate oranges before bed. Marnie would peel them and split them between us. Elizabeth in her red and white pajamas. Robert in his velour tiger suit. A hug and a bug and a love and a kiss before bed. Us in the big house with our grandparents, her home alone in an empty room that would be mine. Crying.
When she was little she would climb into the bread oven beside the fireplace in the tv room and close the door. As he was emptying the house she climbed in again, in with old postcards and lost scrabble letters, the snakeskin from Peter's move west. The room almost empty but for the pictures on the mantle and my grandfather's grandfather's cradle. Pictures cut out and glued to a board, kids in turtlenecks. Judy smiling.
On the second floor in the tv room we sat and ate oranges before bed. Marnie would peel them and split them between us. Elizabeth in her red and white pajamas. Robert in his velour tiger suit. A hug and a bug and a love and a kiss before bed. Us in the big house with our grandparents, her home alone in an empty room that would be mine. Crying.
When she was little she would climb into the bread oven beside the fireplace in the tv room and close the door. As he was emptying the house she climbed in again, in with old postcards and lost scrabble letters, the snakeskin from Peter's move west. The room almost empty but for the pictures on the mantle and my grandfather's grandfather's cradle. Pictures cut out and glued to a board, kids in turtlenecks. Judy smiling.
Wednesday, August 30
Saturday, August 19
Thank goodness there's a cop at Tony's Porn and Lotto Mart. Me with my pram and the guy in the wheelchair playing Keno, barely enough room for one of us never mind two vehicles. Talking with the guy who collects scrap metal about those immigrants. They're workaholics. Take $10 an hour even if the going rate is $23. And the Americans are so lazy-- they win a few bucks on a scratch ticket, go out and get drunk, don't show up the next day. The cop directs me to the ramp, exit 12, he says, Seabrook, New Hampshire. Crosses his fingers in prayer for Samuel's health. Calls me Good Girl for my Moxie.
Sunday, July 2
Heat everywhere. Cars dive by with radios blaring. Kids light fireworks in the park. It is summer no matter how I try to deny it.
These are things I have meant to say:
The perfect tree on my street blossomed and then lost all of its blossoms. The little girl in the back yard has been stealing my peas. I saw the guy who looks like Jim at the market again. Small strokes.
The drive to Lynn was less rewarding than I had hoped.
Strawberres and rhubard, heavy cream. Peas with ginger and garlic. Morning sickness all over again. Tired, tired, tired. Belly big and ankles swollen. Counting down in weeks.
Baby sleeping. She's not so baby anymore, with letters and please and nipple and coffee. Trying to make this last month of just her count. Cddle, read, kiss and tickle.
World Cup fever.
These are things I have meant to say:
The perfect tree on my street blossomed and then lost all of its blossoms. The little girl in the back yard has been stealing my peas. I saw the guy who looks like Jim at the market again. Small strokes.
The drive to Lynn was less rewarding than I had hoped.
Strawberres and rhubard, heavy cream. Peas with ginger and garlic. Morning sickness all over again. Tired, tired, tired. Belly big and ankles swollen. Counting down in weeks.
Baby sleeping. She's not so baby anymore, with letters and please and nipple and coffee. Trying to make this last month of just her count. Cddle, read, kiss and tickle.
World Cup fever.
Monday, June 5
Feeling like an orphan. Tired, worn out, coffee in bed, slow waking. Trying hard not to avoid things. People. Phone calls.
Mother quiet today, not hearing and not talking. The same questions again and again. I'm tired and I don't know what to do. We drive, around and around. She isn't hungry. She's starving. Just a soda. Coffee. Salad would be good. I default and spend more than I should on lunch to have an easy place, a place she knows. For the third time this year this is the first time we've gone.
Dropping her off she is tired and thankful. No words but thank you, thank you for coming. Abby says her name. I say her name. Across the street the near-blind and the drunk are waiting to catch the bus.
Mother quiet today, not hearing and not talking. The same questions again and again. I'm tired and I don't know what to do. We drive, around and around. She isn't hungry. She's starving. Just a soda. Coffee. Salad would be good. I default and spend more than I should on lunch to have an easy place, a place she knows. For the third time this year this is the first time we've gone.
Dropping her off she is tired and thankful. No words but thank you, thank you for coming. Abby says her name. I say her name. Across the street the near-blind and the drunk are waiting to catch the bus.
Wednesday, May 10
Wake up thirty. Cuddle in bed with the baby girl, tickle tickle wee.
Decide to take the day slowly. Sister calls, coffee then off to renew my liscence. No line no hassle. Something at the yarn store but not too much-- wool and cotton for the baby in my belly. Sister's again, a box of color, and home with the decision to do what I want. Email from Amanda and note from Zac. Father-in-law and brother-in-law. Flowers and Hamlet Machine when James gets home. Abby to Tad and Jane's, us off to sushi. Coffee.
Back to pick up Abby. Knit sushi from Jane! Home now, baby in bed, James asleep. Two messages. Birthday wishes from my brother. Stepmother calling to see if we will see her on Mother's Day.
Chuckle to myself, chuckle here. Happy to be thirty, happy to be me. Happy I can giggle thinking of who remembers and who doesn't. Happy to know what matters.
Decide to take the day slowly. Sister calls, coffee then off to renew my liscence. No line no hassle. Something at the yarn store but not too much-- wool and cotton for the baby in my belly. Sister's again, a box of color, and home with the decision to do what I want. Email from Amanda and note from Zac. Father-in-law and brother-in-law. Flowers and Hamlet Machine when James gets home. Abby to Tad and Jane's, us off to sushi. Coffee.
Back to pick up Abby. Knit sushi from Jane! Home now, baby in bed, James asleep. Two messages. Birthday wishes from my brother. Stepmother calling to see if we will see her on Mother's Day.
Chuckle to myself, chuckle here. Happy to be thirty, happy to be me. Happy I can giggle thinking of who remembers and who doesn't. Happy to know what matters.
Friday, May 5
Wednesday, April 19
Trash out from the back when the white truck moves. Recycling out but not the paper. Not the cardboard. Toilet broken and fixed.
Baby crying in gasps on the telephone. Cat walking on the keyboard. Laundry on the floor and dishes in the sink. Stomach upset from chemical drinks and leftover ham.
Husband away. Peas coming up. Llama in the living room and pansies in the car. Letters photocopied. Baseball game on.
List of things to do. Seeds to plant. Curtains to fix. Rooms to clean and checkbooks to balance. Lonely, lonesome or alone?
Baby crying in gasps on the telephone. Cat walking on the keyboard. Laundry on the floor and dishes in the sink. Stomach upset from chemical drinks and leftover ham.
Husband away. Peas coming up. Llama in the living room and pansies in the car. Letters photocopied. Baseball game on.
List of things to do. Seeds to plant. Curtains to fix. Rooms to clean and checkbooks to balance. Lonely, lonesome or alone?
Wednesday, April 5
Monday, April 3
Play Ball
Opening Day. 1:25, Abby down for a nap. All day preparing. Buy seeds, pansies, gloves and a trowel. Borrow wagon. Buy potting soil, composted manure.
Find extension cord. Radio outside. Batteries for the monitor. Glass of water.
Last year's tomoatoes, vines pale and dead, pull them out. Sweep sand from the top of the soil. Litter and leaves. Bamboo stakes.
Add peat moss. Add manure. Turn over, turn under. Gather seeds. Sugar Snap and Dwarf Gray Sugar peas. Bloomsdale spinach. Mesclun and mustard greens. Early Wonder beet and Cherry Belle radish. Bunching onion and Danvers Half Long carrot.
Bending over. Heart burn. Mark rows with broken stakes. Peas down the middle. Red Sox up by two. Sun gone, skin cold. Plant pansies on the stairs. Big Papi. Inside, dirty clothes off, jammies on. There's a lot to like about Lowell. Knit in bed next to a sleeping baby. Thank goodness for Coco Crisp.
Find extension cord. Radio outside. Batteries for the monitor. Glass of water.
Last year's tomoatoes, vines pale and dead, pull them out. Sweep sand from the top of the soil. Litter and leaves. Bamboo stakes.
Add peat moss. Add manure. Turn over, turn under. Gather seeds. Sugar Snap and Dwarf Gray Sugar peas. Bloomsdale spinach. Mesclun and mustard greens. Early Wonder beet and Cherry Belle radish. Bunching onion and Danvers Half Long carrot.
Bending over. Heart burn. Mark rows with broken stakes. Peas down the middle. Red Sox up by two. Sun gone, skin cold. Plant pansies on the stairs. Big Papi. Inside, dirty clothes off, jammies on. There's a lot to like about Lowell. Knit in bed next to a sleeping baby. Thank goodness for Coco Crisp.
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