This Geiger counter gives him away every single time. The closer to the truth we get, the faster the clicks; one lid against the other forsaking his secrets.
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The fleecy innards of my footy pajamas cling to my freshly powdered legs and feet. My fingers argue with the stubborn, unworked pop-and-lock beads which refuse to come undone. With intention, I stay after them while the television mumbles.
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I dwell within the vessel of a Warrior. My considerable gluts command attention. Along the mirrored barrier at the back of the yoga studio I cannot ignore them when I peek to adjust my stance. They hold extended poses as if it isn’t difficult while I take in and release ujjayi breath. As if. I am the heaviest I have been, as the scale measures, in my post-partum life. They are prominent and without the tone I would prefer, but they sustain me and the weight of all that I carry as I ascend the jagged, rocky bluffs along the trails each morning searching for contentment.
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They clutched the edges of that cardboard, reversible “Syr/Roch” sign that he carried to hitchhike to Rochester during his ‘sideburns’ phase. He did this often after my dad died in 1977 – to help my mom, to father us, even when he had so little time of his own working on his PhD at Syracuse University. And he wrapped them around mine when we sat on the brown and gold plaid couch in my mother’s family room watching Bad B movies together. Even Godzilla scared me then. He knew this and pretended to be scared, too.
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Most think that the starling is a common bird, like me. Boring actually. Ordinary in color and size. Few know that she has steady feet and the ability to mutate her vocalizations to her surroundings mimicking the shrill of a car alarm or the murmur of human speech for both gain and protection. Her plume, mostly brown, has a subtle, iridescent sheen.
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In my 51st year I begin to see how much my hands look like yours. My knuckles are thick and ache from holding on with ferocity to something invisible. Something already gone. To anything really to stop the spinning. And my veins burgeon with gelatinous hurt that is taking forms which no longer resemble its origin. That pain rests here as a silent reminder visible to the world.
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Shuffling and muttering I bring my house back to normalcy after the Armageddon of Christmas and the New Year. This task holds a melancholy push/pull of hold on and let go. Candy cane wrappers tucked into sofa cushions. Pine needles lining the grout. Boxes and bags and fudge no longer suitable for eating. A fridge full of this, that and yesterday.
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They grab, poke and tangle, these tricky vines; wound around essential organs ~ like the heart ~ with a chokehold.
They aren’t like the luggage that is just too weighty.
The luggage that you can simply put down.
Or even like the chattels you once cherished that you can gently kiss goodbye and set free like a paper boat on the reservoir at sunset.
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Things aren’t just things.
They carry with them a weight and a flavor. In my life, more often heavy and bitter than light and sweet; but memorable nonetheless. And I cannot touch things without remembering the feelings associated with them.
The soft satin trim on a baby blanket as I tuck a childhood poem into a box for Grad School. The pang of panic as I stroke the edge of the rocking horse that added that scar to a forehead. That one I move into the pile to sell.
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If I lean in and peer closely enough I can still see her past the crow’s feet and time.
A tiny pocket miracle with sponge-like brown eyes drinking in the world as if it is Kool-Aid.
The latitude of her smile is geographically incorrect as it spills past her cheekbones and her ears and bounces light around the room at the tail end of her laugh which fills the air like happy wind chimes.
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“I had no idea you were such a baseball fan!”
This is what people often say when they hear about my quest to see a baseball game in every one of the 30 stadiums across North America.
“No. Not really.” is my response.
Plain and simple.
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I drove due South for a piece where Kansas kisses Missouri. I landed just north and a little west of Joplin where a twister summarily leveled an entire community in 2011. Once I hit the Bourbon County line I lost all cell reception. I doubt this is a coincidence. The road was straight with more dips and interest than its neighbor. If lucky, two lanes to pass the 18 wheelers. It was peppered with scrap metal trucks, two-toned cars with replacement doors and Chevy’s towing silver Airstream trailers carrying both rust and American Flags for the Memorial Day Weekend.
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