Mabel's grave

From the time of his death when we were preschoolers, my cousins and I heard nothing but glowing tales about “Papa.” According to lore Papa loved us girls, bought us glazed and sugar donuts, sat us on his knee and let us dunk them in his coffee. He kept colorful wrapped candies in a clear glass jar for our sweet tooth, and on special occasions drove us around in his land yacht, a 1948 Plymouth. Because he was a train conductor in his younger days every train was “Papa’s train.” My Mom and Aunt conveniently forgot their father’s shortcomings and apparently frequented his grave too often after his death because of how they adored and missed him.

Grandma was a different story. Instead of an endearing pet name like they gave their father, they referred to her as Mabel. Mabel was sick and in bed a lot when they were growing up in their family of eight. Supposedly she tried to give my Mom away to a neighbor, and was a “floozy” who always had boyfriends somehow connected to her employment at a downtown hotel. The favorite stories, told again and again, were of my Mom and Aunt following Mabel on the bus downtown to spy on her. Many years later, in their quest to discredit her, they exposed a guy who was alleged to have been one of her boyfriends, a guy they called “Old Dad Tom.”

Considering these opinionated, depression-era women are not easily detracted by facts, we are left with only their revisionist history. But legend remains, and as inheritors of the legacy and inciters of levity, my two cousins and I have been known to take advantage of a toddy too many at holiday celebrations to incite yet another rendition of following Mabel downtown on the bus. “She’d throw that fox stole of hers around her shoulder and strut off to the bus stop, her nose in the air. And then we’d follow her,” they’d cackle.

I had no idea the great depths of their feud with their mother (she died when I was 11) until I agreed to chauffeur them to their annual ritual of grave flowering almost fifty years after Mabel’s demise.

My aunt cradled two bouquets in her arms as she climbed into my back seat. With Mom in the front, the three of us set out across town to the mausoleum where Papa and Mabel are buried. I recalled from my childhood visits a macabre place, hall after hall, row after row of floor-to-ceiling marble tombs engraved with names, birth and death dates, and brackets holding vases-in-waiting. I remembered halls almost too dark to navigate with a smell of rotting flowers.

As it turned out the place wasn’t as bad as I recollected, in fact, either some exterior lighting had been coaxed inside by strategically placed stained-glass windows since my last visit or I was looking through more mature eyes, perhaps both.

Ahead of me the two of them descended the two flights of circular stairs like homing pigeons, zeroed in on the correct hallway (not easy to locate in this maze) and my Aunt beat us into the prep room at the end of the hall where families fashion bouquets for loved ones. She emerged as we approached with the long handled “vase fetcher” and said something to my Mom like, “I got the tool first, neener, neener,” as if it had been a long-standing competition to go get the vases off the wall.

She pushed one of the bouquets at me, directed us into the prep area and set the other bouquet by the second sink. I obeyed. My Mom ignored her and headed off.

I unwrapped the bouquet and placed the paper and band into the under-counter garbage can and noticed the clippers chained to each faucet. My Aunt returned in a flash, plunked a vase in the holder above my sink and left again. I took this as a signal and pulled apart the bouquet as she called my Mom back from a chat with Papa in which she was conversing about the status of my uncle, the latest arrival to the “pearly gates.”

When she reappeared, my Aunt directed Mom to the other sink and bouquet. They busied themselves stuffing the flowers in the vase with the gentleness of a garbage hauler. It’s about here I realized the flowers I was trimming and carefully placing in the second vase were old and decrepit. I figured she had saved some money by buying day-old bouquets (whose gonna see ‘em, right) and said nothing.

Almost simultaneously my Mom wailed, “Aren’t the flowers beautiful?” I figured she either couldn’t see well without her glasses or was doing an overboard gush when I looked at their vase and saw, in fact, it was big and gorgeous with bright and colorful lilies, daisies and carnations. They scurried out with the overflowing vase and the vase fetcher to place their gift on the tomb of their beloved father while I attempted to make a decent arrangement with flowers that barely filled half my vase.

One of the stems of yellow lilies was translucent, wrinkled and brown on the edges. The petals on the two red gerbera daisies were alternating bent forward and backward like a plastic Hawaiian lei just unpacked. The two stems of white mums were acceptable and at least took up some real estate in the large vase. But the two Queen Anne’s lace were bent like candy canes and wilted like carrot tops left in the sun. They curled pathetically over the edge. Luckily there were three of those leafed stems used as filler, but because the vase was so empty and sad looking I told my Aunt when she entered the room with the vase fetcher, “The red flowers go in front.” She scooped up the bedraggled bouquet and disappeared—to Mabel’s grave.

I cleaned up the room and made my way to Papa’s side in the well-lit large hall where they had placed the abundant bouquet, adding a small American flag for homage. They followed, and stood beaming at their work. I asked where Mabel’s grave was and they led me down a lesser corridor to a dark corner where she rests behind a tomb decorated with the tired old posies.

“Why aren’t Papa and Mabel together?” I asked.

“We didn’t want her next to him because she wasn’t very good to him. She had boyfriends, you know,” my Aunt hissed.

Whole body celebration

It’s a whole body celebration, even her hair follicles beam in the evening light. She began at sunrise with a cup of fresh ground coffee, berries and cream, wheat toast and a Google search for the answers to life’s questions. On the sun-filled upper deck she talked on the phone with forgiveness and compassion for the parent who calls too much, wants too much and struggles with life; and then connected at a distance with the child who seeks counsel, creates her own destiny. They laughed. She arranged a jamboree of information on the page with care and style in the comfort of her well-organized, south-facing office; added a coat of off-white paint to the cabinet that will grace the remodeled bathroom upstairs. She unwound along the river, matched tempo with the black and yellow bumble bees, inhaled their favorite nectar; stopped to look upward at the dignified flight of the heron, the erratic chase of the hawk. Now, on the flower-filled lower deck, hand effortless on the page, she waxes poetic beneath her glowing scalp.

Distraction

My list is complete and my path is clear. But the kitty wanders in to my 3rd floor office, demands to be scratched, and I obey, taking time to comb his orange and white fur soft. My list catches my eye, but just as it comes into focus sweaty sox from the pile in the hall call to me to be laundered. After starting the load and running a rag around the grimy machine opening and across the dusty top of the dryer I return to my waiting list. I ready myself to dig in to the first “A1” when the doorbell rings and I run down the stairs to find the neighbor who has locked herself out and needs me to help boost her into the open bathroom window. Which I do, but she insists on making me a cup of tea and we talk longer than I really want because by now I hear my list beckoning me home. When I enter the door and pass the kitchen I realize my stomach is growling and cannot wait another minute for food. It takes some time to thaw out the soup I remove from the freezer and place into the microwave, but no worries because the newspaper sitting on the counter has an intriguing front-page story about a shady character that’s turned up missing with too many suspects to narrow, and no evidence there’s been foul play. My reverie with the mystery is interrupted by my list insisting from the upstairs office. "Egad," I think, as I look at the clock on the stove, and pour the hot soup in a cup. I carry it back to my desk and my list only to remember the clean clothes need to be transferred to the dryer, which I do, but there are several pieces that must be hung and no hangers in sight. I head to the basement for the extra stash and find that kitty has thrown up on the stairs. So I get some paper towels and a warm rag and clean up his mess, forgetting my original mission. On my way back upstairs to my list I discover the wet pile of clothes and descend, again, into the dark basement this time where I stumble on the stack of boxes meant for recycling and I remember about tomorrow’s pick-up. So I forget the hangers, dismantle three large and two small well-glued and stapled boxes and take them out to the bin, and take the bin to the top of the street. Feeling accomplished I head back upstairs to begin on my list, but run into the wet clothes. I abandon further hanger search and settle for laying the clothes on a variety of towels draped on racks and surfaces, which I do carefully to avoid those creases caused by uneven drying. And then I return to my list, only to find a text message from my unemployed daughter which reminds me I haven’t yet checked craigslist to make my daily contribution to her job search. I score a couple of leads and send them off to her and figure while I’m there I might as well check the furniture ads for the hard-to-find cabinet for the bathroom. While I’m online, a couple of emails arrive in my inbox, and as it turns out, require immediate attention. So I read and answer each, one requiring an attachment of a document I haven’t seen for more than a year. So I perform a document search under a couple of headings and finally scare it out of the archive and send it off. As I turn back to my list at last I notice the clock and the late hour. I realize that if I don’t put on the rice to cook now, dinner will be very late. And then there’s all that chopping that must be done for the meal. So I put my list front and center on my desk and figure I’ll start first thing in the morning, when I’m fresh and focused.

Undo

I want an undo option on the keyboard of my life. Not for big stuff, but for small, mindless typos dotting my page. When I scrape my knuckle on the bathroom drawer it will unfold the warped flap of skin and before my eyes lay it back down healed. When I blurt out words that should be kept to myself, it will suck them back as if through a straw to the moment just before their utterance. When I drop a capless permanent marker that skids across my pant leg and lands tip down on my shoe it will rewind the action, leaving the surfaces clean and the pen back in my hand in time for me to add the cap. When I turn too sharply in the spiraling parking structure and scrape my van on an interior wall, it will replay the action with me two inches in the clear. My undo key must be hidden and safe; perhaps my armpit so I don't accidentally undo the undo, and break my nail in the frenzy.

Brain Drain

At the instant your words reach my ears, inviting me to listen, the audible stream washes me from your side, hoses me like heavy rain down a storm drain, bound for the sewer of my brain. I struggle to hold on to the grate, to hear you through the chaos. Your voice fades to the background as a bubble encircles my head, fills with my own story of a time I felt exactly like you, which competes with a list of objections to your viewpoint and your tone, and is followed by a clear picture of what you should do next. Out of context, out of nowhere pops an inspiration for my next poem and the realization that you’re wearing new glasses. The cacophony ricochets from wall to wall, reduces your voice to a distant plea to be heard.

Leaving her brain behind

Leaving her brain near the door, she steps into her body, penetrates the thick steam. Filtered sunlight casts the landscape outside onto the cool textured floor. For the first time in weeks she feels the warm water circle the top of her head, surrenders to the crown, leans in to the silky spray tapping like rain on her skull. Droplets into stream rush down her scalp . . . encircle her shoulders . . . caress her backside and inner thigh, rounding to the outside of her legs just below the knees. She smiles and verbalizes her exhalation . . . inhales the spicy shampoo oozing a glossy pink ribbon into her palm . . . massages it into her scalp with all ten fingers. Squeezing grainy face scrub out of an almost-empty tube using two hands, she notices the diminishing supply. Cat’s tongue roughness, applied in circular motion on cheeks and forehead, urges layers of skin down the drain. Scrubber, frosted in pearly strands, explodes jasmine and rosemary up her nose and onto her skin; scratches her body’s itch. She reaches for the razor, sunken to the bottom of the basket of toiletries on the floor. It glides through the shampoo she substitutes for shaving cream, leaves a path of bare skin. In the middle of winter shaving her legs is an intention to initiate sex. Surely God stands near, back to the cold tiles, regards her with loving eyes and makes sure she rinses thoroughly.

The Witness

The soft light filled the Sunday morning little by little. Winter had arrived and the trees below the upstairs bedroom window were bare and moving slightly in the wind, urging daylight into the neighborhood. The mother and her suckling child were perched in the oversize upstairs window, sleepily enjoying each other’s company and rocking in the wooden chair. It was their morning ritual. The hungry swallows of the baby girl matched the rocking rhythm of the chair.

The neighborhood was still asleep—most for several hours yet. The quiet comfort of mother and child was the only event on the deserted street. The mother alternated her gaze between the sweet face of her feeding child—long, dark eyelashes brushing her pink cheeks--and the view of the yard and alley below. She cherished this intimate relationship with her second and last child. No one was the wiser for their presence she thought. No viewers to watch the bare breast breakfast bar. No one could feel the effects of the bond sealed by mother’s milk.

But a movement caught the mother’s eye from the house across the yard and alley below. She switched her gaze to the back of the neighbor’s house. The glass door that opened onto the deck slid open a few inches and a nose and then face appeared. The head glanced to the left and to the right, up and down the alley. The door closed again momentarily. The mother puzzled and kept watch.

The door opened again and the full head of the neighbor poked out for a second look. She looked around her yard and the alley as if to see if anyone were looking. Her gaze stayed at street level. She did not see the mother and baby watching from the second story window. She seemed satisfied she was alone in the neighborhood when her shoulder and then naked body emerged from behind the curtained door. The cold of the winter morning broadsided her skin as evidenced by a shocked grimace and brief self-hug. The mother’s attention riveted on the bare body. Like Wiley Coyote avoiding the Roadrunner, the neighbor continued to look around to assure herself she was alone and undetected.

The naked neighbor, slender and athletic looking half-crouched and half jogging, sprinted diagonally across the platform deck, reaching her arm toward a stack of firewood laying in wait. Still looking up and down the alley to make sure she was alone, she grabbed with one hand a piece of quartered oak. With one last look around the alley she sprinted for the door, like a scared child running up the dark basement stairs. Once inside, she peeked out again, as if to make sure she went unnoticed. The glass door closed.

The mother smiled, and then laughed out loud, startling the child whose arm reached out for balance. She chuckled throughout the day and smirked every time she ran into the neighbor in the following weeks. She wondered if she should tell her. Instead she filed the delightful image between the pages of secret sweetness left behind by a nursing baby.