Strangers

When my mother closes her eyes at night, she is visited by the faces of strangers. Her mind relaxes and faces appear and slide over, smiling faces; sad faces; all of them new to her. She watches their eyes as they drift by. They watch her back. In the morning, they crowd around her before fading into the deepening red background of her eyelids. The light seeps through her window shades and the strangers laugh, or cry, or turn away. My mother wakes up each day with company. She never faces a day alone.

Mia

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This is Mia, my little niece. She likes to take pictures. At her aunt’s wedding, she begged relatives for their cameras.

Mia’s picture of her cousin.

Mia asked for my camera and climbed up the gazebo to get a her pictures.

Another Mia shot.

Mia.

travel

This Morning

The sky fell down and bumped her knees against the horizon
The blood pooled just under her skin
And spilled
Transforming the deep blue night
Into a violently hued morning

I skewed my mirrors up up toward her
Ignoring the too-bright headlights
Driving too close behind me
I upturned my eyes
I aimed myself at her shins

But she slipped out from behind the hills
Howling in pain
And set the clouds on fire
Before I could reach her
Blue night to blue day

I lowered my eyes and my mirrors
Raised an unfriendly finger to
The headlights behind me
And drove on.

The Last Day of Summer

Gently Down The Stream Of Consciousness

Sunday afternoon driveway roar traffic in bursts, jake brake logging trucks, I hope it isn’t the one I cut off Friday afternoon, I didn’t see the school bus, and I saw the trucker’s chuckle behind his windshield, behind glass, like a painting, breezy Sunday afternoon at the park, but here no lake nor swimmers nor the same lady cast in every female role, no gentlemen in high black hats, just the cars and trucks drifting by, vacationers packed their t-shirts and plastic shoes, while wistful eyes crept to the crisp blue ocean reflecting a perfectly matching sky and now they sadly roll toward the valley,

Tomorrow is a school day.

Me, I sit, tilting back in a red metal chair among the trees just barely singed with the fire of decay. Wispy seeds, like fairies, dance around my shoulder. They kiss my knees and celebrate my unmatching socks. The deer mice watch us from their little holes and the leaves are alive with chipping squirrels and squawking jays the color of twilight. This proportion of breeze and sunshine rival the best of July’s magic. The shadows lie stretched out across the ferny clay. They creep closer to my red chair. But for now, my head is warm and the ants at my feet are doing all the work.

Music and Life

“We thought of life by analogy with a journey; with a pilgrimage, which had a serious purpose at the end. And the thing was to get to that end: success or whatever it is- or maybe heaven, after you’re dead. But we missed the point the whole way along. It was a musical thing and you were supposed to sing or dance while the music was being played.”

For Shye

We’re back from the annual road trip to Northern Wisconsin. Shye, this is for you. (All of our photo’s were taken out of the window while moving. We thought it was a more realistic way of capturing our experience. And we saved time.) Here you are, Shye-girl.

Watching

Dog Toy

The Blue of Far Away

“Where are the blue leaves?” I asked her when we stood in the woods of changing autumn, “If green is yellow mixed with blue, where does the blue go?”

She laughed and the trees shivered. A fleet of yellows, oranges and reds sailed around me and harbored in the dirt. “Blue is only for the Far Away. Everyone knows that.”

“But it had to be here to make green.”

“The plants feed from the Far Away and it lends them their color, as it does to the sea, in reflection. But it is not Here.”

“And the Jays and the Blue Birds; the blue butterflies and the dragonflies?” I listed.

“They are merely singed blue, from flying through the Far Away.”

I thought. “Where is Here?”

She laughed again and the glowing carpet of leaves rose up in a twirling dance. “Here is where you are. It always is. There is only The Here, The Near, The Horizon and The Far Away.”

“What about There, Yonder, Hither and Thither?” I tried.

This time she laughed so hard, whirling leaves left bald spots in the trees. I was standing waist deep.

“Those are funny jokes,” she said as I climbed out the leaves and sat down on top of them, “They are other words for Near.”

“Where is the golden sunset?”

“The Horizon.”

“Where is yesterday?”

“In your mind, of course.”

“Tomorrow?”

A cold silence followed my question. A sudden intake of breath chattered my teeth and constricted my lungs. My ears stung. “That,” her voice, a hailstorm, “is none of your business.”

The sun shone through the cold branches and I moved to a brighter spot. I waited.

“I am Here.” I offered as a sort of apology

“Yes, where you always have been.”

“Yes.” I agreed.

“Well?”

“Well!” I attempted.

“Don’t you think you’d better get started?”

“Huh?” I gave up.

“You’ve been Here. You’ll always be Here. But you must try to get to Near. Why don’t you know any of this yet?” Her words were chiding, but kind.

I looked around me. The fallen leaves had cleared the view of a bit of sky an rising hills at The Horizon. “Will I ever get to Far Away?”

Of course! But don’t get ahead of yourself. You can’t get to Far Away until you leave Here. And you can’t leave Here until you fail to get Near, find yourself Here again, but only long enough for you to reach the Horizon. Then you can follow gold, real gold to The Far Away.”

“Ah. I see.” (Although I didn’t.)

“No you don’t,” she laughed, “now get!” And leaves flew at my back. I walked out of the forest.

I trudged on, rested, and pressed on again. I picked up a staff for walking. I pulled the leaves that were still tangled in my hair and wove them into a crown the color of fire. I cast my eyes forward, just in front of my moving feet. And I watched them walk.