Thursday, November 12, 2020

Memory of the Perfect Storm

Winter had arrived, covering the ground in white. The snowstorm hung on the trees, forcing the branches down. They dipped down like waterfalls, leaving the just enough space around the trunk of the trees which opened like wide yawns, dangerous holes ready to suck in unwary skiers and boarders. 

 At the top of the ski lift we disembarked, our helmeted heads topped with frost, our goggles glossy with ice, our gators covering our noses and lips. My hands, wrapped in thick black waterproof mittens, my fingers palming hand warmers that helped keep in the warmth. I stepped onto my board, glided to a stop, and attached my right foot to its harness, having mastered this trick without having to sit on the snow-laden ground. 

I ran with two skiers, and this day belonged to me and my board, that could carve through the as of yet untracked snow easier than my friends with not one, but two sticks attached to their feet. My brother looked at me and nodded, and my friend Monique pointed—we would go straight down headwall, one of my son’s favorite runs, dipping through the trees and cutting through the untarnished snow. 

The snow was thick, not too heavy, and half-way down, in unspoken agreement, we stopped at jumping rock, where once upon a time, my son Niko wowed us with his snowboard tricks, catching the sky in ecstasy and then, landing the jump and carving with a grace that astounded us all down the mountain. 

I had to take off one of my gloves, reached into my pocket for a handful of his ashes, and flung them off the rock. They caught the air as surely as Niko once had, flying as light as snow, the gray sand carried, carving down the mountain with a grace that defied gravity. 

I put my glove back on, and we turned, maneuvered around the rock, slow and steady, dipping back down to the ski lift, which lifted us once again up to the sky. 

I sit in my warm livingroom now, looking at the windows at the snow, the cat cuddled beside me purring. I can no longer snowboard--my knees can no longer take the abuse. But still, I remember those days of yore, snowboarding with my children, my son Niko always in the front, gracefully flying down a mountain of white. I miss you Niko.

Saturday, May 23, 2020

Bleeding Heart

Bleeding Heart

Make room for me, the weeds demand.
Their roots, tangled, deep, like thoughts
That darken the horizon, like the clouds and the wind
Swooping.
A murder of crows commands,
and the red winged general sits
On the scarecrow’s hat, grinning.

He loved rocks, and his garden
Has rock walkways and rock beds to honor his memory.
The weeds conspire, twist in between gaps,
Claiming the black gold as their right.

In the morning, after the first cup of coffee,
After the walking of the dog,
After the gratitude list,
Shovel and hoe in hand,
I battle the weeds, pulling out layers
Inside and out.

Remembering his smile,
And the year we all made green tomato marmalade,
And the chutney he stirred, adding secret ingredients,
Pouring the mix into hot jars,
So we could savor the scent, the love,
The work done together, come winter.

The weeds demand my attention,
Force me into the garden,
Where the daffodils have
Trumpeted in the spring,
Where the strawberries get ready
To deliver the sweet tastes of summer,
And the flowers, lilacs, lilies, lavender,
Irises, peonies, a bleeding heart,
Fill my heart with joy.