Once there was a woman who was really a crow, or perhaps a jackdaw. She knew where you hid your gold rings, your freshly baked bread. Darkling, darling, darkwing. On bad days, she was all beak: sharp and full of worms. What of avian games? The balancing of sticks and sliding down on slick branches? If she lost all her blue-black feathers, would she be trapped in human form? Her bones remain, simultaneously hollow and heavy. There is a story hidden in her joints and tendons, one of flight and lodestone and shiny red berries.
She will never be content to carry your messages.
Friday, September 16, 2016
Thursday, September 8, 2016
Vignette
There is a certain scent to these places: warm juice, overheated rooms, baby powder and urine. I often see a woman--her back perfectly straight, her gait surprisingly solid, just a hint of shuffle. She carries a baby doll. She diapers and changes it in the corners of the hallways, on the tables and bookshelves. Sometimes she asks for help but cannot explain what kind of help she might need. There aren't very many men here. My dad is one the few. He is still tall and handsome at 76, but mildly disheveled. He often looks just a little bit lost. He used to love to dress for things: he had tartan vests, J. Peterman shirts, white wing tip shoes. Now he wears only athletic pants and t-shirts. They don't always match.
"It's good to see you," he will say. Or sometimes (when I bring my husband) "look at all the people."
He is afraid of mirrors. He believes there lurks within them an imposter. A man who looks like him, who follows him everywhere and steals his shoes.
Once he took off his shoe and tried to beat his reflection with it, leaving herringbone track marks on the glass. He throws rabbit punches at his image, saying "I hate that guy."
My mother is hunched, her head parallel to the floor, circling the hallways with her walker. Muttering to herself that she's going to die. She's wearing a black blouse with tiny white pin-dots, black pants, clunky black maryjanes. It's hard to get used to, seeing her like this, her mind a flock of ravens, shattering into diaspora.
"They leave me pictures of amputated fingers," she tells me.
"Who?" I ask.
"The STAFF!"
"I'm pretty sure that's not happening." I tell her.
"Your father believes me." she says.
She has Parkinson's Disease, with psychosis and hallucinations.
I see myself, or perhaps my sister, 30 years from now. We all have the same auburn hair, fair complexions, delicate bones, although their eyes are blue, and mine are hazel. I ask my sister: will we shrink like those folk dolls, made from dried apples? Will we cling so desperately to who we were that we can't be trusted on our own, believing we can drive our cars while blind, manage the bills and the checkbook when we can't remember what they mean? Will our minds change in some fundamental way, lewy bodies, amyloid plaques, the broken synapses a foregone conclusion, written in our genome, a countdown clock, ticking away?
Sometimes I picture them when they were younger: Dad cooking a Thanksgiving turkey, Mom with her hair set in giant rollers to straighten it. They used to have cocktail parties, play bridge. They traveled to Europe, twice. My dad used to mow the lawn every week, until he began to believe he kept breaking the lawn mowers because he couldn't remember how they worked. We found four fully functioning mowers in the garage when we cleaned out their house.
We found a drawer full of fingernail clippings.
We found over a thousand twist ties--the green ones you get in the produce department at the supermarket--stashed all over the house.
We found cereal in the freezer.
We found bugs in the pantry and poison ivy all over the yard.
We found ourselves completely unprepared for this.
"It's good to see you," he will say. Or sometimes (when I bring my husband) "look at all the people."
He is afraid of mirrors. He believes there lurks within them an imposter. A man who looks like him, who follows him everywhere and steals his shoes.
Once he took off his shoe and tried to beat his reflection with it, leaving herringbone track marks on the glass. He throws rabbit punches at his image, saying "I hate that guy."
My mother is hunched, her head parallel to the floor, circling the hallways with her walker. Muttering to herself that she's going to die. She's wearing a black blouse with tiny white pin-dots, black pants, clunky black maryjanes. It's hard to get used to, seeing her like this, her mind a flock of ravens, shattering into diaspora.
"They leave me pictures of amputated fingers," she tells me.
"Who?" I ask.
"The STAFF!"
"I'm pretty sure that's not happening." I tell her.
"Your father believes me." she says.
She has Parkinson's Disease, with psychosis and hallucinations.
I see myself, or perhaps my sister, 30 years from now. We all have the same auburn hair, fair complexions, delicate bones, although their eyes are blue, and mine are hazel. I ask my sister: will we shrink like those folk dolls, made from dried apples? Will we cling so desperately to who we were that we can't be trusted on our own, believing we can drive our cars while blind, manage the bills and the checkbook when we can't remember what they mean? Will our minds change in some fundamental way, lewy bodies, amyloid plaques, the broken synapses a foregone conclusion, written in our genome, a countdown clock, ticking away?
Sometimes I picture them when they were younger: Dad cooking a Thanksgiving turkey, Mom with her hair set in giant rollers to straighten it. They used to have cocktail parties, play bridge. They traveled to Europe, twice. My dad used to mow the lawn every week, until he began to believe he kept breaking the lawn mowers because he couldn't remember how they worked. We found four fully functioning mowers in the garage when we cleaned out their house.
We found a drawer full of fingernail clippings.
We found over a thousand twist ties--the green ones you get in the produce department at the supermarket--stashed all over the house.
We found cereal in the freezer.
We found bugs in the pantry and poison ivy all over the yard.
We found ourselves completely unprepared for this.
Wednesday, September 7, 2016
Saturday, September 3, 2016
99 Things
I Love:
99. loose leaf tea
98. thunderstorms
97. swing dresses
96. heated blankets
95. covered porches
94. lemonade
93. bunnies
92. blue and white china
91. horror movies
90. red velvet cupcakes
89. silly cat memes
88. coloring books and colored pencils
87. red lipstick
86. evening walks
85. hot baths
84. lemon meringue pie
83. unexpected gifts
82. romantic dinner dates
81. vintage cars
80. brand new notebooks and journals to write in
79. backyard cookouts
78. christmas lights
77. striped pajamas
76. novelty t-shirts
75. anything plaid
74. comfortable silences
73. days off
72. sleeping in
71. diner breakfasts
70. solitude
69. reading poetry
68. writing poetry
67. going to the theater
66. Alfred Hitchcock movies
65. clean bathrooms
64. making soup
63. fireflies
62. snowfall
61. science fiction
60. clean, folded laundry
59. lamplight
58. reading all day
57. dark chocolate
56. cara cara oranges
55. tarot cards
54. antique furniture
53. tiny houses
52. semi precious stones
51. teapots
50. birthdays
49. spaghetti dinners
48. good hair days
47. lavender scented skin creme
46. eyeliner
45. chai
44. old photographs
43. Nicolas Cage movies
42. getting packages in the mail
41. beautiful hats
40. airstream travel trailers
39. road trips
38. comfy reading chairs
37. mint green
36. old lockets
35. jeans that fit
34. flannel shirts
33. hibiscus flowers
32. swimming
31. porch sitting
30. caramel sundaes
29. hotel rooms
28. buttered noodles
27. museums
26. libraries
25. candles
24. Thanksgiving dinner
23. brand new sheets
22. stained glass
21. footed cake plates
20. the scent of vanilla
19. original artwork
18. brand new pens
17. roasted pears
16. lots of pillows
15. mystery novels
14. rocking chairs
13. 90's dance party!
12. robots
11. tall stacks of unread books
10. gingerbread
9. opals
8. cat's eye glasses
7. cardigan sweaters
6. old maps with sea monsters lurking in the oceans
5. afternoon naps
4. depression glass
3. skirts with pockets
2. messy updos
1. chocolate chip cookies topped with coarse salt
99. loose leaf tea
98. thunderstorms
97. swing dresses
96. heated blankets
95. covered porches
94. lemonade
93. bunnies
92. blue and white china
91. horror movies
90. red velvet cupcakes
89. silly cat memes
88. coloring books and colored pencils
87. red lipstick
86. evening walks
85. hot baths
84. lemon meringue pie
83. unexpected gifts
82. romantic dinner dates
81. vintage cars
80. brand new notebooks and journals to write in
79. backyard cookouts
78. christmas lights
77. striped pajamas
76. novelty t-shirts
75. anything plaid
74. comfortable silences
73. days off
72. sleeping in
71. diner breakfasts
70. solitude
69. reading poetry
68. writing poetry
67. going to the theater
66. Alfred Hitchcock movies
65. clean bathrooms
64. making soup
63. fireflies
62. snowfall
61. science fiction
60. clean, folded laundry
59. lamplight
58. reading all day
57. dark chocolate
56. cara cara oranges
55. tarot cards
54. antique furniture
53. tiny houses
52. semi precious stones
51. teapots
50. birthdays
49. spaghetti dinners
48. good hair days
47. lavender scented skin creme
46. eyeliner
45. chai
44. old photographs
43. Nicolas Cage movies
42. getting packages in the mail
41. beautiful hats
40. airstream travel trailers
39. road trips
38. comfy reading chairs
37. mint green
36. old lockets
35. jeans that fit
34. flannel shirts
33. hibiscus flowers
32. swimming
31. porch sitting
30. caramel sundaes
29. hotel rooms
28. buttered noodles
27. museums
26. libraries
25. candles
24. Thanksgiving dinner
23. brand new sheets
22. stained glass
21. footed cake plates
20. the scent of vanilla
19. original artwork
18. brand new pens
17. roasted pears
16. lots of pillows
15. mystery novels
14. rocking chairs
13. 90's dance party!
12. robots
11. tall stacks of unread books
10. gingerbread
9. opals
8. cat's eye glasses
7. cardigan sweaters
6. old maps with sea monsters lurking in the oceans
5. afternoon naps
4. depression glass
3. skirts with pockets
2. messy updos
1. chocolate chip cookies topped with coarse salt
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
