What stories can she can tell

I only remember her later years, of spreading shade over a grassy lawn,

her lower trunk still wet in the morning from the sprinklers. 

Day by day, I never noticed her change, over the years that I walked

by with the dogs, first Buddy and Portia,  then Bella, frolicking, her fur

jet black, now white around the snout.

She was a presence, a giver, this tree, that was one of several who were just

there.

Until she was not, the victim of roaring chainsaws, she came down in large 

pieces, death on the ground, and no sign of illness, the fallen victim of 

a distant bureaucrat who decided that she might fall one day, given her 

advanced age.

now, in her shrunken state, she can still offer of herself, a seat for a 

visitor from Texas, on a sunny day.

what stories can he tell?

 

Chapter Books - oh my!

we kept revisiting the page with the tiger, his paw caught in a wicked trap,

the children releasing him back to the wild, but why, she asks.

The Emperor, Haille Silassie, threw pennies to the peasants, while the Rastas

worshiped him as their Messiah, a man who lived thousands of miles away,

I asked, why, we both asked why as we turned the pages of our respective books.

These days, we ask why, when our eyes are wide open, and our ears can hear

she is wrapped up warm in her handmade nightgown, of the fuzzy rainbow fabric

I unwound from a cardboard bolt in the fabric store by my house.

I was surprised to learn that her father had handsewn her nightgown, and I admired

the uniform stitches, the precisely cut arm holes, and I wondered what had inspired

him to do this loving task, one so often done by a woman.

we shall always be asking why.  

 

A fall day with a dog

The dog wasn't ours.

She belonged to another couple that lived in the area, the man

happening to be my son, the woman, his wife, the ones who lost their son three years ago.

so they ran away from that place where their baby never went home to, where the crib

stood empty, the room deadly silent, where there was too much grief to hold.

So, we are here, in this brilliant autumn sunshine, where they are, with their dog,

who is the surrogate for the moment, until a baby arrives, hopefully this year.

It's truly spectacular, and so far away, and I miss this man and this woman.

The yellow leaves of the aspen trees litter the trail, the sky is brilliant blue 

we are missing a small baby boy.  

He lingers in the air. 

 

The Closing of his eyes

His eyes are closed now, the dappled sun no longer fills our eyes

like it did that October 18 when his son and I joined hands in front of 

friends and family.

It was Fall Equinox where the day and night approach each other, where

nighttime comes sooner every evening, and, in that moment, I should have known that 

night would eventually fall, and day would no longer arrive.

his days have ended, even as ours will continue through this Fall Equinox

and back towards Spring, where the sun will arrive a little earlier and 

leave a little later.

perhaps this is what we should remember in this current moment of darkness and loss.

but, wait for that moment to arrive naturally, as the weeks pass by and we

spend weeks of winter and cold, long nights as there

is no way to rush into Spring, the shallow joy of forever Spring

does not appeal as one would miss the gradual swelling of brown buds

into the pale green that promises Spring.  

Let his eyes rest in darkness, as ours swell with occasional tears.

Do not rush towards happiness, but rest quietly in appreciation of

what was, and what was lost.  

RIP, Big Papa.  

 

Bella World

all she has to do is look pretty, cock her ears a bit

and little girls will come, even tall blonde women, 

they know that Bella loves them.

In living rooms, on the street, she walks boldly towards

them, tail high and wagging, eager and they stop,

smile, and ask

"Can I pet her?"

This is Bella World, where oxytocin flows in dog

and human alike, where homework is put aside,

dishes are left undone and dog hair abides 

on kitchen floors and couches, alike.  

When will Bella be invited again to your house?

 

Cutest mailbox ever

I'd call it the pneumonia mailbox, in honor of feeling sluggish, yet still alive,

enough to be bored, to cast about for something to do, that is not

too demanding.

The mailbox.

Five years ago, leaning dangerously off a shattered pole

(ah the destructiveness of youth), then righted, but

unhappy.

Ugly, every day.

And me, unable to muster the discipline of taping lines,

complex, fussy designs, inspired by sunflowers 

I painted her yellow, then considered the beauty of nature

where there are no straight lines and all are welcome (!)

The colors of our house.

I coughed and sputtered, and painted a beautiful mailbox.

Memories of pneumonia.  

 

Best friends for now

Hard to imagine that it's only been four and a half years

when she arrived in this world, with no idea about

friendship or love, about holding hands and walking

down a street with her bestie.

We don't know if this particular friend will endure

next year or next week, even, as friends seem to flow through

our lives like sand through fingers that open under a 

different sun, on a different day, but this day,

their hands embraced, no doubt shared secrets 

and whispers, little girls on a walk in the neighborhood,

mom or dad close behind, but out of earshot.