detroit

The heat
that causes the
tar to turn
sticky.
The suffocating
stickiness of the
July night.
The rock and rhythm
coming from the
corner
of Michigan & Trumbull.
The traffic.
the buzz.
The electricity in
the air.
Fans to dissipate
the swelter.
Aided by a cool
breeze?
Never.
Sirens.
Laughter.
More heat.
Thicker at night
if that
is possible.
And
it is.
Was.
I miss it all. Or do I
miss
what it was?
Or:
What
I
Was?
Younger.
Braver.
Younger.

esther's journal-3

THURSDAY, September 14: We went on hike, today, with the new students – and the old. A bonding affair. We do something like it every fall. It sometimes seems artificial – at least in the planning. But the actual event ends up being quite nice. The weather was a bit chilly for this time of year. I found myself getting rather winded, even though the hike was not at all strenuous. Of course, my mind wandered back to me, to my situation. It does get tiring, always being on guard, trying to avoid the “doomsday” mindset. It’s not easy. But being outside helped. I’ve always loved the hills of New Hampshire. I grew up in suburban Connecticut, but this has become my home. I do find myself hoping to be able to see one more fall. The autumns are glorious. But enough, already, about that.

I sidled up to a new sophomore on the hike. Her name is Andie. She trailed the pack. I struck up a conversation. She’s from New Jersey. Never been away from home, not even for a summer camp, which is quite odd. Many boarding school students are veterans of sleep-over situations. Andie said she was OK, but she wasn’t. She had on this brave smile that broke my heart. I wanted to take her and hug her, but didn’t, for two reasons. One, it was too soon. And, two: I wasn’t sure if I would’ve been doing it for her or for me. Truth be told, Dear Diary, I haven’t been hugged for a while. I could’ve used one. But we talked. I think it helped her.

Tonight, I started making a list of things I wanted to do, before you-know-what. I decided to try to list one thing a day. I know there are constraints: there’s no timetable for my last breath. But I figured it would be a good thing to do. So, here’s the first one: write a love letter. I know, I know – to whom? Well, to no one, in particular, probably. I’ve not been a great lover. I was married; I’ve had relationships. But I don’t think I’ve ever really written a “love” letter. So, I will. Not tonight, though. I need to think on it. But soon.

Oh, one more thing. I’ve also decided to learn how to skate – ice skate. Nicky Kono, the school’s hockey coach, is taking me this weekend. He owes me. I’ll tell you why, later.

the harpies in the stands

they sit in the stands
or stand
by the seats
and harp
and
cackle
and scheme about things
they cannot
control because
control is so important
to them and why wouldn’t
it be
since
they’ve
been able, for most of
their adulthood,
to
buy whatever they want
or bully
whomever
they desire or push
when it comes
time
to
shove.
He said: I am not
a
(pick one – or get it over with and circle all)
“backstage parent,”
“hockey parent,”
“little league
parent.” but comes
the rub: if you have to
deny
it,
well, you get the rest,
don’t you?
he said that
most
recently
when he called the
man in charge
of
teaching his son
how not
to become
one
of
them
a “shithead.’
I’m not one of
them
he
said and with a straight
face and then looked in
the
mirror and what looked back
wasn’t horrifying, though
it should have
been.
and because it wasn’t:
case
closed.

wet dog

popcorn.
seared steak.
microwave
popcorn. rain, sometimes. the Christmas tree,
eventually.
burned toast,
always.
citrus spray
(thank
goodness).
fresh tar. stale
smoke.
sour milk.
your mother’s
perfume.
your father’s
after-shave.
your grandmother’s Vicks. anyone’s exhaust.
a bad idea.
a poor
performance.
garlic.
fresh bread.
fear.
sweat.
strong coffee. (not tea.) bad feet.
cut flowers,
mostly.
the first fire of the
winter.
gasoline.
fuel oil
jet fuel.
Right
Guard. 'Lectric Shave. English
Leather.
Fabreeze.
wet.
dog.
I.
win.

whitelights

He stood before the shelf, surveying the strings of lights. He needed new ones. She had always insisted on white. No colors, only white. There was something perfect about white. Or so she’d said. Once he’d suggested colors and she’d said, “Like your parents’ tree?” and he’d acquiesced, because of how she said it – accusingly, mostly, but intimidating, too. She was gone, now. After all that time and all those white lights, she was gone. She hadn’t been perfect, after all. He grabbed a box of lights from the shelf, a box with reds and blues and greens and yellows and no whites. He felt so good about his choice he took two. A clerk asked if he needed help. He thought about saying, “Not anymore,” but knew that wouldn’t be true. Instead, he said, “I’m alright, thanks.” That wasn’t completely true, either, but it was closer. He paid cash for the lights. She would’ve used a credit card. She always used a credit card. He didn’t have one, anymore. Or the fan noise, at night. Now, he slept in the stillness.

thunderstuck

He says he was
Hit by lightning
While cutting the grass
And listening to his
iPod.
I don’t want to hear
About
Perforated
Eardrums
Or ancillary
Brain damage.
I want to know
Only
Three things:
Why was he mowing
During a storm?
To what song was
He so drawn that
He missed the
Thunderous
Clues of impending
maelstrom?
And, lastly there’s
this:
How did his
Parents get him to
Cut the lawn
In the first
place?
These are all
Pertinent questions that
The journalists
Don’t ask.
And I decry their
Abject
Failings.
Was he alone at the
Time of impact,
And what of the machine?
And, perhaps, most
Curiously:
Who might be getting
Sued?
Bob Dylan?
Mr. Pod?
God?
Not that a youngster
Of his ilk, age
Or specific species
Might be able to
Differentiate.
But his parents would.
And, really, what’s
The use of suffering
Through the teenage
Years,
Unless
There’s the possibility
Of Payoff?
Or is that
Just being a
Bit too cynical?
Stay tuned.
(Available soon
(On
(Podcast.
(Of course.)

sitcom

It was a stupid TV sitcom and it made me cry. It wasn’t so much that George was dying. It was that he was alone and he was afraid. He tried talking about it, but not really. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it, even if he had an idea. I’m older, now. My parents are dead. My children are grown and gone. My dogs are with others. I adopted out my cat, too. And I feel that same thing, a little. But here was the thing, too. George had a quiet dignity about him. He had courage. It was almost beautiful, he was, and I only say almost because it was, after all, a TV sitcom. It shouldn’t’ve been that good. But it was.