One Night Stand, But Brief

December 30, 2015

Blue, come on by and take a seat.
I’m lonely, and I want to be left alone.
I’m sad and I wanna be sad.
I want to wallow long enough to carve a curve in the sofa from the night julie went blue,
Cause that’s all I’m giving up to you, the night, this night.

By 930, I’ll be brushing my teeth.
931, I’ll remember to floss.
10:00 pm, Ill be in bed, next to the most beautiful dog, the Princess Sophia.
(She hangs with you sometimes, I think,
When I leave for work or when the rain falls cold.)

We’ll be together, Sophie and me,
Soon enough.
No room for you.

Don’t leave just yet.
It’s nice, sinking a little.
It hurts, but this body of mine is finally relaxed.
I’m not holding anything back or anything up.
I’m not holding anything back or anything up or anything in.

Good night, my friend.
It might be a good idea to learn how to let things go,
Without leaning, or falling, or weeping, on you.

It’s worth a little time on cold Tuesday night,
It’s not time to brush, or walk, or wander about to look for whatever I’ve lost in the course of this particular day.
It’s still early.

 

The Day After Winter

April 19, 2015

Sunday April morning in New England, I am at Houghton’s Pond, in Canton, Massachusetts.

Even though only it’s fifty degrees, (in reality it’s maybe fifty degrees in direct sun, probably more like forty if you actually checked on a thermometer, I don’t have that app on my phone yet,) people wear shorts, or tank tops, or flip flops.

Everywhere I look, there are shivering shoulders and chalk white thighs, pale feet, curled toes, owned by faces pointed upwards towards the sun.

While I take Sophie the Sun Starved round the water, I find myself squinting. I’m not used to all this light. I get warm fast, and tie my sweatshirt around my shoulders.

On the way home, I will pick up lawn bags, bulbs, dirt, stuff to feed the dirt, maybe a book about what to do with the bulbs and dirt, and I will celebrate the way Home Depot intended.

Or at least until I’ve gotten the yard cleared of Sophie’s leftovers, mysterious shards of plastic, and sweet musty piles of leaves. There is no snow left in our back yard.


I can handle the leftovers.

My feet are cold. They are still stuck inside the long, brown, polka dotted boots I wear for shoveling. The socks are a little wet, and the jeans I tucked inside the boots are also a little wet.  This explains why my feet are cold, but not why I’m still wearing the damn boots.

It is the tail end of another “snow event”. In other words, it’s still snowing. In about twenty minutes, I will head back outside in my quest to clear a path along our thirty feet of sidewalk. It snowed a lot, two feet I think, so the walls of white along the path are about three feet high. I am proud to be the one that built those walls of snow, me and my shovel make a helluva team.

Colin and Katy started their snow day out in the kitchen, making pancakes. Katy is nine, Colin is twelve. This was their first attempt at creating a breakfast that didn’t come out of a box or a bag of bread. I chose to stay out of the kitchen,  I stayed on the sofa and listened to the process.  

“I don’t know Colin, do you really think we should add two eggs? The box says to add one.”  “Katy, what did you DO with the spatula?” “Why do you think I did something to the spatula. I don’t even know where mom keeps the spatula, I don’t even know what COLOR the spatula is… Sophie!!!! Put that down!!!”

For about 2 minutes I listen to both of my children chase Sophie the Wonder Pup, as she flies around our dining room, spatula firmly planted between her jaws. Then I hear- “Sophie… treats.” Katy is using her sweetest voice, the one that promises wonderful, wonderful delectable morsels. I almost got up to go see what she offered.

About ten minutes after the spatula was recovered by my daughter’s feminine wiles, and some old slices of turkey, the first batch was done. Colin called out “Orders up.” Katy stood at the refrigerator and asked me- “What’s your poison?” meaning did I want milk or orange juice. When did my kids begin to talk like short order cooks or bartenders? Why didn’t they bug me to make french toast?

 Most snow days, we tackle the driveway and the sidewalks together. We argue over who gets which shovel, and wears the gloves that don’t match. We throw snow balls, and there comes a time where I have to institute a cease fire because one hits Katy to hard in the head.

But today, I felt like I could handle the job on my own. While I listened to them make breakfast, watched them serve breakfast, marveled at them cleaning up after breakfast… it occurred to me that maybe they deserved a break. And maybe I needed a few minutes outside by myself to get used to the idea that Colin and Katy are growing up.

The driveway is done. The sidewalk and the stairs up to our house are clear. I’m a gym rat, and I like the fact that I am strong enough to do all this work, to shift mountains of snow from one spot to another, without pause.

But I saved the other side, the sidewalk on Franklin. I have laid out our collective mittens, found a few extra shovels, and we are going to finish it up together. There will be snow balls thrown, and endless negotiations about who gets which shovel, and whether we should clear in front of the neighbors house. And if we still like each other when we are done, and can still feel our toes, I’m thinking this snow is the right kind for building a snow man.

I’ll see what they think. I am hopeful that they are still young enough to be bribed with hot chocolate, especially if I still have my stash of the right kind of marshmellows.