Smithsonian of the Mind

Written for my dad's 60th birthday, based on a recurring dream he's had for years.  

They told him that he snored, and had apnea, and didn’t get quality sleep.  That his REM time was fractured, and no, cat naps while waiting out Wheel of Fortune for Jeopardy to come on did not count as real sleep.  He knew these things.  Make your room a peaceful, calm place, the sleep doctors said.  As opposed to what, a disco? he thought.  Peaceful was being surrounded by science fiction and bathroom readers, photographs and prints, design books and sketch pads, the checks and lines of plaids and tattersall.   And yet, often he woke in the morning as tired as he had gone to bed the night before, despite getting a full eight hours of “bed-time.”  He did not dread sleep like so many whose rest was less than restful, but was rather apathetic to it.  Except for the nights when he had “The Dream.”

Since he was a little boy he had always been a collector of “stuff,” of words and notions and scraps of knowledge, of bits and pieces of material detritus and refuse.  His wife was a tosser, but he closely guarded his stash like Smaug’s  treasure, embedding it.  Was he this way because of The Dream, which he had had since time immemorial, or had The Dream manifested because of this tendency?  Either way, they were inextricably linked. At some point he had come to know it for what it was, this nonreality day trip through his subconscious (it was always a pleasantly warm early afternoon during these twilight meanderings). But he couldn’t quite control it.  There was no beginning or end, no storyline or plot.  Just a bunch of poking about and exploring.  

He had been having The Dream in one permutation or another for as long as he could remember, but now, as he approached his 60th birthday, he was beginning to notice in it some changes that he found a bit discomfiting.  One of the things that gave him pause was the thought that maybe it had been changing all along and he had never taken the time to notice.  What shifts and turns had The Dream taken and foretold that he had been oblivious to before? And why was he cognizant of them now?  Was this the age old push toward retrospection in preparation for the time when the future all of a sudden seemed finite?  Was it finally that new memories and experiences were less exciting and meaningful than old ones?  Regardless, he was aware.  He was listening and watching, and he had been waiting.  

The essential frame and setting of The Dream had always been consistent, if not wholly static in the way that places in dreams had a tendency to shift and move without your consent:  He was a carpenter, as were his father before him and his grandfather before that, so it made sense that a large, rambling Victorian, interesting and comfortable and complete with attached sheds and barns, was built out of the collective subconsciousness of three generations.  He knew that this was not a construction of his own, but one whose dormers and elles had been cobbled and tacked on over not one, but many, lifetimes.  From its steep roof lines and modest gingerbread, he placed its cornerstone somewhere around the turn of the 20th century.  The house had shifted and twisted and turned until all of the beams were comfortable.  He recognized that notion as Vonnegut’s, and he wondered if Kurt had visited this same house in his own recollections.

  

In truth, he knew very little about the house as whole, and he often wondered who else might inhabit its other rooms, if they had adventures of their own in say, the pantry or basement, or if they knew he was there.  He knew the interior walls were painted a cheerful yellow with glossy white trim and that it smelled like molasses in the kitchen.  It was through the back kitchen stairs, by climbing a winding three stories, that he was able to get to The Door, which would lead him into The Attic, which spanned the entire top of the house and above the barn.  

Like anything that was off limits to a child, as a boy he had struggled to gain access to The Attic.  He would stand at the foot of the stairs and the door would be stuck or locked, or the treads on the stairs would be twisted and broken.  At one point, around the time he was wondering if he should be afraid of heights, the stairs changed to a stout ladder which led to a round Hobbit door.  Back then, once he made it to the top door, he was able to enter easily.  But now, as an adult, he found that he went longer between the times when he even saw the entrance, that when The Dream came, the bottom door stood open, but the stairway kept getting steeper and more narrow, and the door at the top was getting smaller.  Unlike Alice, there was nothing outside that said, “Drink Me” to ease his passage.  And the last time he had smelled smoke, had known there was a fire behind the door which he could smell and feel but not see. The door had stuck and he couldn’t get in. It was action, conflict, destruction, in a place where none had been before, and he needed to know  what damage it had done, what it meant, if the Smithsonian of his mind was still intact.  Because that is how he had come to think of The Dream: it was the non-tangible repository for the material artifacts, hidden wishes, and the memories both real and imagined of his waking and sleeping world.  But what would he find the next time?

Patiently he waited for his next opportunity.  He couldn’t force or conjure it, but simply had to wait for old Morpheus to bring him to the door again.  He had never been anxious about it before, but then again, he had always essentially known what he would see when he opened the door presented to him.  The door would creak open and the smell of molasses would give away to that of sunlight brushing over wood and metal and dust.  Midday sun pierced through narrow windows on the gable ends, hiding and yielding different objects in the shadows each time.  The space was cluttered but surprisingly dry and clean, with objects ranging from ticket stubs to a full sized International pickup, starting along the short knee wall and pushing out toward the center of the room.  It would have to taken many lifetimes to sift through every article, and he wondered if that was the point.  Some things were landmarks for him, always present after their first appearance, like the long green Old Town canoe that had been there from his first visit as a little boy, propped up on saw horses at the far gable end and filled with life vests and fishing poles. He had recognized it as his grandfather’s and it grounded him when the whole scene had been overwhelming to his child mind.  Then he had been able to move around the room and explore, picking through tools, sitting on the floor sorting through old magazines or record albums, trying on clothing that smelled of mothballs and hung from nails in the rafters.  

Occasionally he could link a decision he made in his waking life to something he had seen in The Dream.  He opted to play drums in the school band after finding a battered birch snare covered by a half-finished patchwork quilt resting against the wheel from a Conestoga wagon.  He tried on religion for a while after coming across a worn ebony rosary.  Sometimes he got to visit the things he hadn’t done, like when a soldier from the Terracotta Army appeared dressed in tap shoes and jungle fatigues.  Old college textbooks propped up uneven table legs, on which sat  cereal boxes filled with sheet music from songs he wished he’d learned.  There were Danish cookie tins and coffee cans filled with coins from distant lands jumbled in with marbles and cufflinks and protest buttons.  As he passed through adulthood, he recognized some artifacts from his children’s childhoods mingled in the mix: banana seats from first bicycles, egg cartons filled with sorted Lite Brite pegs, a full tree house, shoe boxes full of horse show ribbons. Forever after the night he saw the news of the art heist at the Isabella Gardner, “The Storm on the Sea of Galilee” had sat propped against the legs of a cigar store Indian.  He always made time to visit it and thank Rembrandt for his efforts.  

On the morning of his 60th birthday, he woke disappointed, knowing he hadn’t dreamt the night before, or certainly not The Dream.  His head was full of the news of Boston’s attack and the latest sci-fi movie, but not of his Attic.  He passed the day pleasantly enough, getting clambered over and drooled on by his grandson, dozing to golf on TV, eating far too many enchiladas at dinner. His children and wife bought him thoughtful if uninteresting presents, and that night he went to bed a slightly older, content man.  So it surprised him when he found himself walking up the drive of the old Victorian, climbing the stairs of the porch and knocking on the side door.  He had never done that before.  Always, he had simply been in the kitchen, and he’d known where to go and what to do.  He had assumed it was his house, and that he was welcome there.  

A man of early middle age opened the door.

“Good afternoon, Rick,” he said warmly, one hand resting on the doorframe, the other holding a stoneware mug half full of coffee.  “Come on in.”

He stood there for a moment, blinking, trying to place the stranger’s face.  Instead, a name resonated in the interior of his mind: Guy Montag, protagonist, deviant villain, hero of Bradbury’s Fahrenheit 451.

“Ah, so you recognize me?”  Montag said, smiling bemusedly at him. “So you must know what that means, right?”

“The Fire.” A small groan escaped his throat.  He had hoped what he had sensed had been an aberration, a one-time scenario in the grander scheme.

“It was a pleasure to burn.”  Montag chuckled, knowing he would immediately get the reference. 

He closed his eyes and shook his head.  His heart had sunk to the pit of his stomach and lay there thumping uncomfortably like a bird that had smacked against a window.  

          

“Please, do come in.” Montag stood back from the door and graciously held it open for him.  “I’m expecting you would like to see what’s left.”

His throat constricted and he could only nod. Really, the last thing he wanted was to walk up those stairs and force open the warped little door to see the charred remains of his life smoldering under the open sky.  He pictured gaping rafters, pieces of metal bent and scorched, boxes wet and weeping with soot and water, because, surely, someone must have tried to put out the flames.  

Montag put his cup in the sink and beckoned him to the door leading to the back stairs.  He turned the porcelain knob and pushed it open to reveal a wide staircase with a polished oak railing, a worn Persian runner up the middle.  The flick of a light switch revealed a warm yellow glow from sconces along the wall.  

“Looks a little different now, doesn’t it?”

“But these aren’t my stairs.”

“Sure they’re your stairs.  They’ve just had some work done to them since you were last here.  You know, a little remodel.  Got the idea from HGTV.  Amazing what you can see on The Walls these days.  Here, you go first.  I’ll get the door behind us.”

He climbed the flights, aware that his footfalls were muffled by the nap of the carpets.  At the last landing, he saw not a tiny, mishung door or a Hobbit hole, but a set of glass front French doors. It was dark on the other side.  His heart-bird began to flutter and flip against his ribs.  He thought he might throw up.  His eyes were blurring and closing in the way they did when he had a migraine.  

“Well, are you going to open the door?”

“What’s the point?  If there’s nothing left, why would I need to see what’s in there?”

“How do you know there’s nothing left?”

“You said there was a fire.  The way things were jumbled together, a single spark would make the whole thing go up almost instantly.  Everything would be destroyed.  It was a Fire Marshall’s nightmare in there.”

“I said it was a pleasure to burn.  That doesn’t sound all that bad, does it?  I mean, something that is pleasurable can’t be all bad, right?”

“But everything I remember is gone, obliterated.”

“So you see fire as destructive, evil?”

“In this case, yes.  That was my world in there.”

“And yet, what purpose does fire serve in nature?  Is it about wanton destruction?”

He shook his head, numb, wishing the ache that was forming behind his eyes would go away. The fluttering had stopped, replaced by a dull, radiating pain in his midsection.  

“That’s right.  You know as well as I do that fire is a cleanser, nature’s way of pruning things up a bit when the undergrowth gets too thick.  And it was getting pretty dense in there, wouldn’t you say? All those memories and ideas stacked precariously? Something needed to give or someone was going to get lost, maybe hurt. It had to be done.  Just part of the natural process.  Now, this is my last offer.  I’ve got someone coming to rummage through the shed in a little bit, so you either need to go in now or turn around and leave.  What is it going to be?”

“If I don’t go in, at least I get to remember it the way it was. I can still remember the big things, and the things that have been there the longest.  I remember the last time I was able to look around, I found a little carving my grandfather had made. And my first pair of skis. All of that is gone now, isn’t it?  Why would I want to see nothing?  My memories are gone.”

“And if you don’t go...?”

He paused.  Somewhere, beneath the deep sense of loss and confusion, curiosity was trying to gnaw its way through the ropes of his despair.

“Look,” Montag said, turning to head back down the stairs, “you’ve got some daylight left.  Once it’s gone, the choice is no longer yours. If you don’t go in now, it’s lost to you forever.  If you do, you can decide if you ever want to come back. Same deal as always.  You can’t force your way in, but the opportunity will present itself.  It’s up to you.  Just remember to close the doors when you leave.”

He didn’t hear Montag reach the door back into the kitchen, but the lights on the staircase went out just before the door clicked closed, leaving him in the dark, inches away from the double doors.  He felt around for a second switch, but not finding one, he cursed whoever had wired this particular part of his brain for scrimping by leaving out the three way.   It would be easy to find his way back down. Still, he felt for the door handles and rested his forehead against the wood.  From within, he could smell the remains of the fire.  

While he couldn’t bear the idea that the room was empty, even more unsettling to him was the idea that, if he didn’t open the doors, soon, he would never be back in this place.  The house of his memories, the museum of his soul, would be gone, sold, forever off limits to him from here to the end of his days.  Could he live with that? Where would his mind wander or return to if not here?  Where would his new memories and experiences go?  They couldn’t possibly just exist without a place to hold them.  He knew he had to go it.

Bracing himself, he closed his eyes and turned the door handles, pushing himself into the darkened space.  He expected that he might fall through a hole in the floor, down the rabbit hole, into the unknown rooms below.  But he didn’t. 

Crossing the threshold, he opened his eyes.  The vast space was intact, with no smell of smoke, swept clean, and very nearly empty save for a table and chairs set under the window on the back wall. Slowly he walked toward them, familiarity dawning.  The pedestal was slightly off kilter, allowing the worn oak oval to list a bit under the weight of a large book set in the middle of it. 

Beside the book was a pen.  He opened the cover to reveal thick linen pages. Blank. But there was an inscription on the first page.

“All of your memories are here. Make them real again. Write.”

The Holiday I Love to Hate

Thirty years ago today, when I was nearly six, I got a brother for Valentine's Day.  Now mind you, I was not the little girl pining away for a sibling, someone to dress up in little clothes and coddle and nurture.  I already had adoring parents, a dog, a kitten, a pony...who needs a little sister or brother to encroach on all that great turf?  But nevertheless, a little brother I got.  And that is when my confliction with Valentine's Day began.  

How can someone you're not all that thrilled about get their own holiday, complete with school parties, candy, cards, a color theme?  I tried not to be hostile about this growing up, but I didn't really see the fairness of him, a boy even, getting such a boon when my own birthday never even happened while we were in school.  One the last day of school, all of us summer birthday kids would get all lumped together with a generic, "Have a great summer! Oh, and happy birthday, too."  Boring.  Completely anticlimactic.  And what kind of cruel injustice makes it a holiday focused on sugar and love, when really, you might like to take this dirty little boy outside and leave him for the wolves?

I muddled along with a sense of benign indifference to this silly midwinter day.  And then came middle school.  Ugh.  Could there be anything more horrid and conflicted than Valentine's Day being celebrated by bunch of clumsy, bumbling blobs of hormones?  This is past the days when you were required to give Valentines to everyone.  Now you got to single out the people you liked, or at least not acknowledge the weird kid who hides under the table.  Valentine's Day became a day for a vast spectrum of awkwardness, hurt feelings, a little cruelty, and sometimes a lucky strike.  My first boyfriend, who I guess I didn't even know was my boyfriend at the time, gave me an enormous stuffed bear for Valentine's Day. It was on my desk after recess (How did he do that?!).  Given that I wasn't really sure he was my boyfriend, I obviously hadn't purchased anything for him.  That would have just been awkward. But the bear cleared that up in a hurry. But that sweet, kind gesture was clouded by the panic of (non) reciprocity.  Crap!  Now I have to buy a gift for a 12 year old boy.  What?!  What on earth do they like?!  And I live in Whitefield!  Crap again!!  Upon seeing me drag this enormous bear off the bus, embarrassed and elated, my fabulous, somewhat befuddled and amused mom beelined me to LaVerdier's in Littleton to find something appropriate, which I think ended up being a model car.  Which I then delivered to First Boyfriend* at his house, quickly and tersely with some lame excuse as to why I didn't have it at school and why we couldn't stay, because we had to get home for my brother's birthday.  

I still have that bear.  He's missing an eye and lives on a bench at my parents' house, standing sentinel over the other childhood toys.  That day marked my first "real" Valentine's Day, and now looking back in retrospect, the last time (until today) I was unsure about whether or not I actually had a Valentine.  Since I was 11 years old, I have never been without a Valentine, some boy to claim me as his on this silly Hallmark holiday.  In high school and through college I out and out boycotted the day, which I suppose is easier to do when you are sure there is someone willing to (not) celebrate it with you.  I lambasted it as capitalist, materialist, fake.  If you could not be nice to someone the other 364 days of the year, why choose this one to make up for it?  And yet I still received countless chocolates and flowers, books, and later, lingerie, dinner, sex (and more flowers and chocolate).*

I am not a hater of sweet gestures or shmarmy shows of affection.  I like the colors pink and red.  It's not that I'm not a romantic.  I love soft, touchy things, fireplaces and feather mattresses, walks or drives that end on the edge of moonlit water, a beautiful meal, someone to rub my back and stroke my hair, dancing close, love notes, little just right objects and inside jokes, and yes, sex and flowers and chocolates.  But for the love of all that is good, please, not on Valentine's Day.  

*Highlights reel:  

First Boyfriend (whose middle name-no kidding- happens to be Valentine) later became First Kiss (First Slow Dance went to the hot 8th grade boy who got up the courage to ask before First Boyfriend got around to it).  I broke up with him because he like the TV show MacGuiver better than he liked me.  Or so it seemed at the time.  I went to his wedding this past summer.   

Best Valentine's present: A bouquet of daisies from my best friend, who happened to be a guy. We were both dating someone else, but we loved each other dearly. Completely unexpected and hence perfect.

Whopper gifts I've given: My virginity.  Yup, trite and true.  Probably should have stuck with chocolates or cologne.  

Most Awkward: A bouquet of roses from a friend who I had no intention of dating. Ever.  He became a Special Ops Marine killing machine.  I hope that was not my fault, but perhaps the world is a safer place because of me.  

Second Most Awkward: A purple silk nightie and thong from Victoria's Secret.  Nice try, but a swing and a miss.  Wrong color, bad style for my body type.  Just not really me.  

Most recently most awkward: Flowers from my estranged husband, delivered while he was traveling out of town with his mistress.  But I guess they are pretty and the vase is heavy enough to use as a bludgeoning object.

Unthinkable Reality

As I lay you down to sleep, I touch your face and softly weep.

I heard the news as I sat with my sweet boy, putting him down for his nap.  I look at him and offer up silent thanks that I have him safe in my arms, that he is too young to know the news that makes me scared to be an educator.  I hold him close, tucked under my chin, breathing in his baby scent and wish him a life of peace and safety.  I want for him to explore his world, to see the beauty in it, to not know fear.  

Even before he came into this world I made a promise to him and myself that I would do everything in my power to help him become a man of honor, integrity, compassion.  I want him to root for the underdog, fight for those who can't fight for themselves, bring joy to others through his thoughts and deeds.  I want him to laugh with abandon at simple things, to smile because he has helped someone else succeed.  These are life's pleasures.

And yet the dark side of me looks down at his fuzzy duckling hair and bow tie mouth and I wonder if  the mother whose son committed this tragic act looked lovingly and longingly at her own child, dreaming a world of possibilities for him, never imagining what one heartwrenching day would hold.  What dreams did she have for him as she brushed her fingers over his sleeping cheek? 

It angers me that I have to look into the pure, unassuming face of my child and wonder if there is a chance that he will   grow up to commit unspeakable acts.  It angers me that I worry about saying the wrong thing to the wrong student and not getting to see my son grow up at all because of one person's selfish pain.

This event is tragic in its incomprehensibilty.  I don't presume to understand the grief, the terror, the loss, or confusion.  All I am certain of is my love for a little boy, one who I hope will be given the chance to grow into a good man who will make choices that will help, not harm. 

Parallel Reality

Dreams of youthful memories that never were
reconcile poorly
in the bumbling reality
of wakefulness.
I sit up, bleary eyed, and wonder
at the parallel existence
of my slumber self, her friends and lovers,
peripheral players and petty enemies,
and ask aloud if she is also
thinking of me.

Perido Ghost Hotel Free-Write

I used to have my students do free-writes from anonymous photographs. The Perido photos(www.bryanperido.com), specifically the Ghost Hotel series and #5 from Portfolio 1, provided great fodder and a chance to work with a semi- series. So much fun! It is an extra challenge, though, if you know someone in the photos. Jared, thanks for the great images and inspiration. All are fictionalized liberally and meant fondly. Enjoy!

The barn coat carried that olfactory fingerprint singular to every person. His was a combination of sawdust perfume from maple and cherry, hickory and pine, chewing tobacco, and the faint lingering essence of sweat from hundreds of cattle, a few good horses and one perfect dog, all brushed sweet and clean by tall grass, prairie wind, and summer rain. Its ochre color brought out the gold flecks in his eyes, softening them, although, just like we are unaware of our own scent, he was unaware of this particular effect.

It was a strange juxtaposition between the faded cotton duck and the fine wool of the black topcoat and the crisp linen shirt and cravat that he wore beneath it. But it is also a strange day when you contemplate your own mortality in a very real sense. His decision was whether or not he would walk through the door of the Perido Hotel. Fate would decide the rest.

He knew the stories. Some people come to a point in their lives when they stand at a crossroad, which is exactly where the boarding house stood, on the crossroads of a little non-town far out in the South Dakota grasslands. In its day it met passengers from the great coal and steam locomotives, providing them simple fare and a clean bed for the night between destinations. Now it stood between the end of time and decisions, the end of confusion, and a new take. But the choice wasn't up to you once you walked through that door.

He had dressed for the occasion, a fitting combination of in between. He chose clothes that he might be laid out in, the fine coat and shirt, in case that was to come to pass, but combined with soft jeans that hung well and sturdy broken in boots suited for a long walk or ride, a serviceable hat, and his coat, in case his journey on might continue.

The drive out to the Perido has been a silent and solitary one, eight hours in the old Buick with no radio, its red paint, scoured completely clean of clear coat, fading even closer to brick brown under the dry heat of the open road. He had taken his time on the drive, but knew he wanted to be standing on the dilapidated veranda before the sun settled beyond the horizon. No one had been able to tell him exact directions to the place, so he drove on instinct until the crumbling shell came into view.

He edged the car off the road and sat, letting the engine idle and gripping the thin wooden wheel in his slightly shaking hands. This was it. What was he hoping to find here? Where was he hoping to go? He had lived the past year in a morass of cheap hotels and cheaper women made tolerable by many, many of the cheapest beers. His stomach clenched when he thought of the number of mornings he had woken only to realize nothing had changed except the color of her hair or the number of empties lying on the floor next to the bed. He would dress slowly enough to ease his throbbing mind, but with enough haste to get away clean before her scent permeated his skin. Every daylight brought him back to the morning when he should have worn his fine shirt and coat, had a great tawny cat not taken his heart and hope and torn it to shreds. Since then he moved like a man haunted and hollow, because he was both, and wanted neither any longer.

He had heard it told that if you went in and the hotel decided that you had nothing more in you, nothing left to give, then that is where you stayed. You joined the ranks of the heartbroken, the mind broken, the ethereal glue holding the weathered stick framed building together. If you woke whole, you left new. At this point he was willing to take that chance.

He swung open the door of his car, thinking briefly of what would happen to it if he didn’t come back out. It had proven solid transportation and not infrequent lodging for some time. But now wasn’t the time to wax sentimental. Unfurling his long legs from the cab, he planted both feet on the rusty ground, closed his eyes briefly, then set off up the walk.

The building gave off the ancient smell of granite foundation stones crumbling to dust alongside rodent scat and bones, mildew, and neglect. The front door hung off one crumpled hinge, but before grabbing the porcelain knob he glanced through the parlor window. It looked as though someone had ransacked the room eons ago, and no one had bothered to put things to right. The drawers and doors of the desk and sideboard stood open, their contents of bottles and paper, nails and fabric, scattered across the tops and floor. Dust gathered inches thick on everything, clouding the contents of the glass from view. He knew chaos, items thrown about in haste and anger and left. But now he just wanted to find a room at the end of a long hallway where he could empty the contents of his mind and be done with them like so many emptied bottles.

The knob felt cool in his hand, despite the heat of the day. He could feel the sun beating through his many layers, making the hair that grazed his collar cling to his neck. He took off his hat and ran his fingers through his hair, deciding in that instant to enter the foyer like a gentleman, hat to his chest. As soon as he thought it, the door fell open and he was across the threshold, inside the inexplicably cool entry, door closed behind him. No sound, no movement, simply done.

The walls were quiet around him, although not the quiet of an empty house, but instead the silence of people saying nothing. Before his eyes and ears could fully adjust, he saw a woman off to his right. Her pale yellow dress glowed like gossamer. She gave no notice to him, but continued her task of counting the jars in the jelly cupboard.

Mother-woman, child dead. Couldn’t feed him. She goes from counting food to reading him fairy tales. Only he isn’t here. But she doesn’t know that.

The words had come through from everywhere and nowhere at once, filling in behind his eyes and making his head buzz. He passed the door of her room and went up the center staircase in the center of the hall. He didn’t want to hear anyone else’s story, didn’t want to see any more open doors. On his way down the hall, the way he knew he needed to go, however, more doors stood open and more stories ran out.

Killed a man, his brother. Accident. Couldn’t pull the trigger twice. Cleans his gun and waits until he has the courage. He watches out the window for him to come back.

Daughter gone, no note, no sign of a fight, just gone. Her cat paced frantically at the door for days. The two hoped they would find something here.

Finally he came to an empty room, his room. The door stood ajar and no story came out, so he knew he had to go in. He pushed it open and leaned against the frame, taking in the duality of the space. He could see it for what it was, thin lathe barely covered by decaying horsehair plaster, oilcloth rug haphazard on the floor, vacant and cold, but he also saw it for what he wanted it to be- her room. Robin’s egg and azure cheered the space against a winter’s pale sun. The fine finials on the thin wrought-iron bed gave a child’s room a lady’s touch. It stood empty, trunks against the wall, waiting to be moved to his house, their home. He wanted to bury his face in the pillows that weren’t there and take in her lilac smell. Slowly he eased himself onto the edge of the bed and closed his eyes, for there the decision would be made.

Running alongside a spaniel pup, sandy hair and round cheeks. Grass higher than his head. Indefinite possibility.
Moving cattle, spring and fall, on a sweet bay mare. Golden time.
Stolen kisses under enormous sky. Promises. Plans.
Labors of love. Details carved, not into stone, but wood. Every possibility.
Tackle and slice. Gone in an instant. Dip into oblivion.
Dark bars, garish lights, attached but alone.
Falling faster, spinning. Self destructing. Nothing.

And for an eternity or an instant his mind was still. His past had been weighed against the potential for his future. The bones of the house seemed to respirate and hum as beneath the weight of time he lay pinned to the bed, unaware of himself, but still existing in the now.

Images flicked past like numbers on a roulette wheel. Bright eyed children mashed against bar brawls against the smell of vanish against the tang of blood. Would he land on something of worth, something with a future? Or would he languish on the bed with the task of waiting for the future that wasn’t?
He felt himself begin to thrash as though being held under water. His arms and legs anchored him to the thin ticking, but his head whipped from side to side, his face finding soft fabric beneath his left cheek. He inhaled like a drowning man, frantic. Pulling in a ragged breath, his lungs filled with his own scent, his self, his reality. His past cascaded through his consciousness, hauling him through to a newfound present.

His eyes opened to blinding morning sun bleaching clean the walls of the little room. He could tell without looking that he was stripped to the waist, though how and when that had happened he didn’t know. His fine clothing lay in a pile on the floor, but his coat was balled at the head of the mattress beside him. His grounding. Gingerly he assessed his reality. The sun was not yet hot, but he could feel its warmth on his bare skin. A good sign. Reaching up, he covered his eyes then ran his hands down his face. He paused as he grazed his cheeks. He figured he had about a 60 grit stubble going on, indicating that it had been at least a couple of days since he had been in this world. But he was back. And he was whole. And for the first time since he wanted to remember, he was excited to get dressed, to create, to be.

He stood and let himself look down at the bed, wondering what he would see. But it was just a thin mattress in bare room in a decaying house, no longer a longed for nightmare. Quickly but with care he redressed himself, thinking that his next chapter might require this particular blend of clothes. He was ready for anything. He carried his hat in his hand as he pushed his way out the front door to his waiting car, covered in a thin layer of driveway dust. The door creaked open in its familiar way, and he settled inside the worn seat. Before fitting his hat back on his head, he looked back at the house and half smiled. Then he gave it a little tip, a nod to Lady Fate, before closing the door and driving away.

Thinking Pink

Oct. 31, 2010

I’ve spent a lot of time “thinking pink” lately. I’m sure that’s due in part to the saturation of pink ribbons, pinked Facebook pictures, pink hair extensions, commercials and promotions throughout the month of October “celebrating” breast cancer awareness month. Breast cancer rebels, from high school kids who “[heart] boobies” to football refs with pink whistles, have made the news this month, challenging the codes of their organizations in order to raise awareness of this terrible disease. But the main reason my mind has been clouded pink is because my sister-in-law is dying of breast cancer, and there is nothing I can do to stop that.

Jess is a real person. She is not an abstract cause or a faceless foundation. She is not a pink ribbon or the pink top of a yogurt container. She is an amazing 26 year old woman who has been fighting for the past five years, and now she is losing the battle. She was diagnosed in 2006, when she was a senior in college, but still managed to finish school- on time- with a nearly perfect GPA, despite chemotherapy and many trips to Dana Faber in Boston. While other recent graduates were out enjoying a few months of freedom before settling into the real world of work, she and my brother, Riley, prepared for her radiation and first mastectomy while he worked overtime as a nurse in the critical care unit (ironically) at Fletcher Allen hospital in Burlington. When she was recovered, she dove into her nursing job in the same hospital where she received treatment. She set some personal goals at that time- to run a marathon and become a nurse anesthetist so she could help others the way this group of people had helped her. And for a while, her body cooperated. She worked. She trained for and ran in the 2007 Burlington City Marathon, where my brother proposed to her at the finish line. They felt they had run the race, beat the odds.

They had another scare later that year. They thought they found another lump, this time in the other breast. It turned out to be a false positive, but given her very high risk factor, they decided to do a second mastectomy. Jess was unable to work, again, for many weeks while she recovered, and again, Riley worked overtime to pay their bills, but also nursed at home to take care of Jess. She went through the pain of the surgery and then the reconstruction, trying to plan their wedding and get fitted for her dress in the process. In the summer of 2008, when they married, Jess was cancer free (and had great new boobs for her wedding gown). That fall they moved to Portland, ME so she could begin her nurse anesthetist program.

In the summer of 2009, Jess started to have trouble breathing. We thought it might be allergies, maybe something in their apartment. Unfortunately, tests showed that her cancer had returned, having metastasized to her lungs and bones. Her instructors encouraged her to quit her schooling. Riley had to take more time off from work, although his amazing colleagues in the Emergency Department at Eastern Maine Medical Center in Portland were able to bank their sick time for him so he never lost a paycheck. Her diagnosis meant more chemotherapy, for the rest of her life. She would never again be “cancer free.” They realized then that they would never be able to have children. She was given a timeline in months, maybe years. Instead of dwelling on that, they pushed on. We got pink ribbon tattoos. They went on a medical mission to Ecuador to help people in greater need.

Jess continued her program, finishing up her last round of clinicals this summer. She started to feel poorly in July, struggling to breath and getting headaches. We learned that the cancer was becoming more aggressive. They put in a port so they could try another form of chemo. It didn’t work. They found cancer in her brain, spine, and cerebral spinal fluid in October, just as the whole country was starting to think pink.

Today is the last day of October. Jess has made it through the month. We are measuring in days now, weeks maybe. She is not able to walk securely on her own. She has no appetite. She has excruciating headaches. Riley has had to stop working to take care of her. Her graduation from her nurse anesthetist program is November 13^th. Her goal is to walk across the stage.

As we move into November, my concern is that people will put away their pink ribbons and “Save the Ta-Tas” tshirts and forget that this disease is a reality. They will forget that there is more to awareness and support than road races and rubber bracelets, Susan B. Komen and Yoplait Yorgurt. That it isn’t just about research for a cure, but actually supporting the people living with and dying from cancer, and not just breast cancer.

Please, continue to support research, but also give to local organizations that provide real support to real people with names, faces, and stories. Cancer takes lives, and cancer takes money. Imagine what it is like to be losing the person you love most in the world, but also having to worry whether or not you can afford to be with them in their last days? It takes money to pay for rent and utilities and food, money to pay for insurance and co-pays and medication, money to pay for funerals and burials and legal matters in the end. If you can’t contribute funds, consider your time. Lobby for decent health care and changes to public policy that will allow people security and comfort throughout major illnesses and in the end of their lives. And most importantly, remember to reach out to the people around you who are fighting these battles. Yes, it is uncomfortable to be around death. No one wants to be reminded of their own mortality. But they need you. Their families need you. October may be over, but the road for these people stretches an indefinite, difficult length. No one should ever have to walk it alone.

Update:

Jess took a dramatic turn on November 2, 2010. She was rushed to her treating hospital in Bangor, ME, where they were able to stabilize her enough for transport back to Concord in order to fulfill her wish of being able to die at home. She passed away at home in Concord on November 18, 2010. She was graduated from her nurse anesthetist program while in the hospital. We thank everyone for the outpouring of support received from friends and strangers as a result of the initial FB post.

Blues Cure

Today I would like the world to be shot through a blue filter

Crisp diffused intimated present

Hard lines and red ruddiness erased.

The world through indigo eyes, azure light

Clarity not found behind coppered verdigris

Stripped of jaundice and pensivity

Melancholy, no, not for these cool blues.