by JS Gilbert
I once grieved beneath insistent deadlines.
Looming, sharp, pointy expectations brushing
my head. The world holding its breath
between life and death as if I held
the cutters, trembling, over the blue
no red no yellow wire. But what have I
ever so urgently accomplished that couldn’t
have waited one more? Waited for a second
opinion, for Christ’s return, for waffles,
for forests to reclaim the Earth for
my fingers circling the length of your
back as we fall asleep?
before your son leaves for college
take him for a walk along the beach.
Stay by his side without holding his
hand. As you avoid drift woods
and tides and fly-clouded corpses, drift
away and let his pace outpace yours.
Step in his footprints. Notice that his
feet have outgrown yours. Notice that
your stride can match his stride.
Notice that it’s not worth the effort.
I don’t know
what
angelic aerodynamics were involved
in sending Christ from his Father’s
right hand to Mary’s womb
but when my son took
off toward his grandparents at
140 knots my heart leapt
to follow with stubby wings
which floundered
in his wake and I
wasn’t even sending him
to be crucified
only coddled by flight
attendants who knew
exactly who
he was.
I cradled him, fresh from a morning
surveying his kingdom, into my face;
smelled winter beneath his fur,
flowerbeds behind his collar.
Wondered at those who collect these
haughty envoys, risking the ire
of municipal codes and threadbare
trope of crippling loneliness
to surround themselves with smells of
life, now, beyond their grasp.
I imagine archaeologists to be a rugged lot. Thick-soled boots like the treads of earth-movers, caked in ancient and illuminating grime. Wide brims and handkerchiefs and mirrored sunglasses to guard against a bully-sun cracking its knuckles. Scrapes and bruises; dehydration and sunburns; fingertips raw, knees creaking, eyes gritty and red.
And pockets. Lots of pockets.
I’m not ill-prepared in my bathrobe; just exploring a different terrain. A bathrobe, because stumbling in the dark for pants will wake her. Slipperless feet so that I can follow the contours of the carpet with my toes, in the dark. Or possibly because I’ve misplaced my slippers. A mug of coffee to keep my senses warm and alert.
My bathrobe has two pockets. I don’t know what they’re for.
The stairs lead downward, walls low and close. The evidence is sparse: faint outlines of shoe prints, scuff marks, crumbs clinging to the soles of my feet. They were here, quick and raucous.
There is an eyeball on the floor, staring at the ceiling. Disturbing in any light, and unexpected. I give it a scientific nudge with my toe, and it glows. Red, blue, green, red, blue, green. It fades, leaving a purple globe in my vision. Who were they, to have this? And to what purpose?
The pupil wobbles and settles. It does not follow.
Their civilization is spread across the floor, shattered. Or perhaps incomplete. Small, colorful bits of plastic are arranged in familiar shapes. I see buildings and vehicles with wheels and wings, and tiny figures scaled to use them. A village? A city? The design is haphazard, as though it hadn’t been planned, but discovered.
I see fluorescent domes, and devices that could be guns or drills or experimental probes. Or death rays. A military installation? This appears to be an airstrip, or landing pad. The headless bodies surrounded by wreckage certainly indicate a conflict.
I can’t explain the tentacles.
I do know there was laughter. Sudden bursts of joy punctuating the soft murmur of voices. There was discussion, and the rising inflection of questions. Shuffling and thumping, and an occasional scuffle. A companionable society that smelled strongly of feet.
But I can’t know the details; haven’t known for a while. I used to know everything. When he woke and slept, what he ate and when. What he wore, and what he learned. Who was there, what they said, what they did. What the tentacles were for.
He didn’t belong to me, but had been placed within my care. He needed.
Now there are swaths of hidden time. Where I am not, and so cannot see. A society to which I had belonged, but has grown beyond my grasp. Vast, and bright, and wonderful.
All I have are clues. Fading trails and bread crumbs, shards covered in dust. Remnants of history clouded by free will and perpetual motion. My knees crack and my joints ache. Sometimes I am burned.
I don’t have enough pockets.
(Originally posted on Total Depravity.)
Cardboard as tinder, strips tightly
wound and set amongst the ashes, like
a pan of cinnamon rolls.
My fingers, uncharacteristically sure
of themselves, place kindling within the whorls;
sticks and twigs he gathered and
left as an uncertain offering at my feet.
It catches, the fire.
Licks and bites and snaps,
crawls and claws its way from
base to wisping logs in a
desperate clutch.
It’s a thing I know:
heat, fuel, air is a fire.
So few equations seem as reliable, now;
unexpected results, ineffectual and
laughable, in-my-faceable.
But this
one thing
I can do.
His equation has grown exponentially,
from heat, fuel, and air to givens
I no longer recognize,
variables I don’t understand.
And so my fingers shake as I lay his kindling in
precarious motion,
fearful
of stifling and
squandering and
leaching
until all that remains is my
desperate clutch.
sweating, struggling, we’re lugging
the bin over grass and gravel,
sticks and stones
to the mound of broken trees,
the earth hot and dry like
Hemingway or Steinbeck;
man and boy toiling through
the fading sunlight.
you wait at the edge, eager,
forward and back again as
i shovel mulch and grunt.
your fingers twitch.
dust rises and you cough,
shielding your face
from the grit and sun;
still, you watch
and finally ask, ‘can I?’
of course, though you can’t,
possibly, lift even the blade.
i pass the handle, and you grin.
i wait at the edge, eager,
forward and back again as
you place your hands and grunt,
frowning but not asking for help.
your hands slide forward, seeking
the physics you don’t understand,
and you do, lift. and more, you
shove and lift again,
over your waist, shoulder, head,
blade full by anyone’s measure,
and tip the chips into (mostly)
the bin.
the blade drops with your hands,
clanging on the hard-packed dirt.
you breathe heavy and sigh.
‘I think I’m too little.’
My grandmother would make them,
large-knit in green, red, and white:
thick cables of yarn as cylindrical
camouflage for rolls of toilet paper, or
insulation against pots of chicken and dumplings.
Her shawl reminded me of these,
though white and splotched with dollops of
yellow surrounded by petaled pink and blue.
She wore it each week,
rain or shine, Epiphany or Lent.
(Truth be told, the church can be cold.)
She arrived, shuffling; sat, shuddering,
and her son helped her, lowered her, down.
She stayed, bent, forward over her hands
as we stood shaking hands and sharing peace.
The asterisk asked her to
* Stand if you are able.
Not a command of passive-aggressive guilt, but
suggestion and instruction. A lesson
in humility for those who don’t know or have forgotten:
in worship, in respect, in joy, we stand.
And each week she stood,
rain or shine, Advent or Easter.
Fingers curled and gripping the pew;
not pushed but pulled, drawn, and called
to her feet with patience,
without hesitation.
Her son’s hands holding the hymnal.
