When I was.


When I was a grassy slope I went on forever, down to the airstrip at the toy-car-sized bottom of the hill, burning to sharp hard grass stalks along the way.


When I was the burnt grass, I held still and stiff, unable to wave, unable to bend, only marching and marching till I had to stop at the edge of the road.

When I was a packed-dirt road I never went very far, only just down to the hostel and back, covered in little girls skipping and scheming.

When I was a little girl, I climbed and climbed and climbed to get home to the top of the two-story house.

When I was the two-story house, I crumbled my old stone steps and banged my big new wooden door and confused the visitors, so that someone leaving a cello lesson in the living room might open a door onto a woman in a tub. 

When I was a woman in a tub, I closed my eyes to think of nothing, covered in suds, quiet for once, out of hearing of my family.

When I was a family, I sang in all the voices and told the stories in back and forth directions, tumbling and tripping, kissing and hugging and passing the salt, banging elbows, sleeping in all the beds with mumps and dysentery and malaria, every kind of fever.

When I was a fever I made up the family stories, one hot pillow, one long night and day, one delirious little girl, one frightened father at a time.

When I was a frightened father I couldn’t think, I couldn’t sleep, I had to drive to the hospital, hold the vigils, remember and worry and pray and comfort and be there to tell the stories.

When I was the stories, I was larger than roosters, older than houses, wilier than crocodiles. I was the slope, the grass, the road, the girl. I was the hot soapy tub, the nightmare dysentery, the rows of glass bottles waiting for water boiled and filtered through handkerchiefs in a little tin funnel. I was every verse of the Bible, every hymn in the book, every scratched knee and early breakfast and Wednesday night potluck. Every useless telephone. Every little girl, looking down across the grassy slope that went on forever.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

April 21–22. How long? How long?

My headskin hurts. The tightness of drums, the noise of pain. Where I used to think, there is wrongness. Where I used to be quiet, the world is flooding in. Monday’s child plays me tricks, bringing fire where I asked for water. I am not the little girl, but I have her headache. Why do I flee the pain? How do I flee the ache? How can I shed this skin? Tuesday’s child mocks me, laying traps, banging cymbals. I was myself and I knew where I ended. I could carry my stillness anywhere. Now I cannot keep out the marching band, it is me. Wednesday’s child waits out of sight for me, collecting sharp sticks. I stand in the yard holding out my apron, waiting for the next word to fall from the sky. How long, how long? Is this why it aches, my drumskin skull? Thursday’s child has the patience of angels, teasing me. I feel my way forward. I am in the dark. I offer my arm, my foot, my belly. Anything to hurt, just not this brainpan, this central committee. Friday’s child taunts: the weekend, the wee
Read more

The same road

Strangely, it seems as though this is the same road I have been walking down all my life. It has branched, and forked, and turned. It has developed deep bumpy ruts, it has flooded, it has been dirt-packed and weed-overgrown and it has been paved. Sometimes I have had to jump from paving stone to paving stone, sometimes I have padded forward smooth as you please. I have skipped along barefoot, I have worn a colorful menagerie of shoes, I have tripped and fallen, tripped and caught myself, tripped and gone down hard, twisted more ankles than a person ought reasonably to be able to twist. I have walked light and heavy, hot and chilly, through deep sand, across sharp stones, alone reading a book, alone reading a phone, holding hands with my mother, my father, my sister, my Marjy and Linda best friends, with my lover, my runaway babies with my pinky in their little fists. I have walked with my posse, always and forever on down the road. And do you know, as the road goes along, sometimes it
Read more

Lonely

Lonely is just a moment’s hitch in the air, one conversation missing out of the dozens ongoing, a breath’s pause. Lonely is the sneakers not tied - not just yet. Soon enough the feet will go, there will be people and music. Soon enough. But not just yet. Lonely is so tiny you can’t see it in all the deadlines, chatter, work to do. But there. Just there. In between the minute hands, straight through the clusters of people. Just one conversation missing.
Read more