A Memory

I heard a violin playing a foreign, sort of oriental melody. The up and down and in and out notes drew me first into another world then into another time. My mind wandered off into familiar places and I was 16 again. I was in my childhood home. I was young and still under the wing of my mom. I closed my eyes and heard the clackety-clack of an old, well used and tenderly cared for sewing machine. The rythmic pitter patter is interrupted periodically by a squeaky wheel on an ancient green office chair - the kind used in government offices of times gone by. The arms of the chair are held together with duck tape - a similar, but not identical color of green. There is a rainbow of thread caught in the wheel, which causes the squeak. If I try hard enough, I can almost smell fabric. Fabric, like most things has its own unique smell - it is part organic matter, part manufacture and part dye. I love that smell. I see my mom's beautiful hands and long fingers methodically moving yards of fabric forward under the sewing machine's needle, which is moving at a breakneck speed. I walk down stairs past closely-hung-together masterpieces of artwork which have been painted, drawn or woven by my sister, my mom and me. A collection of the whole of our lifetimes. I smile. She loves us and it's in everything she does and everything we see, touch, feel and smell. We don't know this til we're grown at which time it seems too late to say "thank you" and "thank you" doesn't seem to say enough for those endless nights of endless sewing of endless, endless yards of beautiful fabric. I head back up the stairs past the gallery of fine art. The clackety-clack of an old, well used and tenderly cared for sewing machine continuing steady behind me down below - a clackety-clack with a beautiful violin melody with an oriental theme playing as its soundtrack.

Overnight

Someone watered down the brilliant colors of Autumn.
It happened overnight.
The yellow and crimson trees of yesterday
have put on muted hues of ochre and rust.
Everything is crunchy and sharp.
The sun is distant but bright.

I notice the shadows running long across the road,
like bare thread-work on a loom.
A tangled web of strings stretching to reach everything.
This is the forgotten phase between life and death.
The respite before winter, long winter.
The sun is bright but delivers little warmth.

Circus School

This morning I watched leaves chasing a school bus. They must have overslept and missed it. Yellow, orange, and even a green one were skipping along the paved road behind it - jumping over and under one another, cartwheel-ing and roundoff-ing, like brilliantly outfitted acrobats headed to circus school. The bus driver, who was most likely a clown with over-sized shoes, suspenders, and a smart hat, must not have seen them, or surely he would have stopped and let them on. I ran over a couple with my car.

Bliss

It is Saturday in the late morning. The work of the week at home and in the office is done. I am dressed somewhere between pajamas and day clothes...closer to pajamas. There is no agenda set for the day. In the corner of the kitchen, the coffee pot quietly percolates a morning song I hear every day, though usually much earlier than this. Today I can really appreciate its song. Ah, the smell of fresh brewed coffee - strong and bitter and sweet all at once. I have no place to be but home. There is bacon cooking slowly in a skillet on the stove top. Blue flames gently lick the bottom of the well used pan. "Sizzle, sizzle, pop," says the pan. The bacon's salty aroma perfectly joins the coffee smell. Their duet permeates the whole house. I drink the fresh hot coffee, a perfect balance of bitter and sweet, and it shocks me awake. My eyes open full now. I see a day full of promise. From a distant room, I hear the old well-used kitchen cabinets gently opening and closing. The house is otherwise resting and is still. It prepares for the raucous that will come later in the day. My love calls to me with an endearment from the kitchen, spatula in hand. He asks if I'd like toast. Bliss.

Disrobed

Dark bare branches peeking out and over and through golden leaves,
as skeleton fingers and arms freeing themselves from brilliantly colored clothes.

Pieces of disrobed golden raiment float and fall and land on the ground,
soundless, but for the struggle of liberation.

The dying writhe and twist to be free,
the living cling on.

The cold damp ground becomes cloaked in warmth and gold,
while the naked body dies and becomes still.

The Death of Society

I saw the death of society yesterday.
I was at Walmart.
Great values.
One stop.
Bells.
Bargains.
Lower prices.
Better living.
Girls, not women, wheeling around babies in carts.
TV tells them what to buy, what to eat, how to care, how to cope.
Baskets full of Mt. Dew, frozen food, diapers, formula and baby clothes.
Bargain bins of leftovers.
Old men and women standing in line.
Old clothes.
New car.
Counting crumpled bills and pocket change.
Nothing wasted.
Young men text-messaging on phones.
Thumbs busy.
Minds busy.
Two steps behind their wives.
Kids crying and no one paying attention.
Kids crying and parents yelling.
Profanity-laced encouragements to shut up or else…
Kids misbehaving and no one paying attention.
Kids saying, “I want that!”
Parents saying, “No!” too many times.
Kids taking what they want.
Parents letting them.
Buying.
Taking home.
Forgetting.
Tally: Kid-1, Parent-0
Or is it really: Kid-0, Parent-0?
No winner.
No boundaries.
No values.
Anything goes and it will – it does.
Goodbye Parent.
I’ll miss you Child.
Innocence, life just won’t be the same without you.

My closet.

My closet is organized by color with sweaters on top and shoes down below. Most of the clothes in my closet were carefully selected, scrutinized and tried-on at the store. A few items were rash purchases, thrown into a cart or grabbed while walking by in search of something else because the price was right and the whatever-it-was seemed cute on the hanger at a glance.

This morning I stood in front of my closet, looking left to right like I was reading a magazine article. I started first at green, then flicked through purple, pink, red, blue, orange, brown, white, ending with black. I laid my eyes on and touched dozens of shirts appropriate for every temperature, pants – plaids and plains, skirts – short and long, jackets – indoor and out.

I have worn half of these clothes, it seems, like a million times. The other half never leave their space on the rack, hanging there like little corpses of styles-gone-by. All have been washed and rewashed over and over and have been paired in a thousand combinations for every imaginable occasion.

This morning I stared at my closet organized by color, those living items hanging among the dead, and decided that I had absolutely nothing to wear.