Cold Morning

The house is chilly. Turn up the thermostat and the furnace blows warm air smelling of burnt dust, bringing comfort to your skin. In the bathroom, take a shower and turn up the water warmer than usual. The steam gathers towards the ceiling like a small cloud. The mirror can't reflect your tired face because the cloud stuck to it, blocking the view. Dress a little warmer choosing that heavier, soft shirt. For breakfast, hot oatmeal sprinkled with cinnamon and molten brown sugar. Plus scrambled eggs and melted cheese. Slowly, carefully, absorb this moment while tasting every bite bursting with conflicting flavors: spice, tart cheese, orange. No matter--it's the comforting routine. Go, finish with brushing your teeth. Pull on your coat, gather your keys, press the unlock button as the car acknowledges with a short honk, step out, and breathe in the cold, fresh air that brings your lungs and brain to life.

The Old Pool

We were scrambling down the hill through brush and dense growth, amidst the tall poplars and oaks, until we paused: an ancient swimming pool emerged before us. Stone apron and interior, leading to a dam that let the flow spill over and down a stream to the big creek below. The canopy of tall trees shaded this little paradise from the hot sun. Entropy is having its way with this long abandoned luxury as lily pads and moss carpet every surface. The stones have shifted and the dirt and roots are breaking through into the pool. Frogs and carp have taken up residence in the dark water. I imagine bathing parties long ago with men and women in their modest, body-covering attire and children running around, splashing and tossing balls. The symphony of birds: cardinals, thrush, cat birds, blue jays--all compliment this quiet oasis. It now rests from the human-designed purpose of retreat. Now it is simply a home for everything that lives there, but without that happy family that once prospered enough to build such an extravagance.  They are gone. Their estate, up on the land near the cemetery, long partitioned off and sold. This part, at least, is free to return to its former place in the world.

Bundle of Letters

I found a little bundle of letters when cleaning out my mom's desk. Sorting through her things: one of those sad rituals you must go through when your parent is sliding onward, away from home, closer to the end. And here was this silent diary--faded, lying dormant, ready to display a snapshot of history through their few words. I saw that they were from my uncle, written to his parents and sister--my mom. It was during World War II, from the Battleship USS Texas. He wrote in an upbeat tone, secretive about where he was or what he knew. Letter after mundane letter--a redacted glimpse of the life of a seaman in a dreadful war. I pictured his voice saying these things. He sounded so measured and descriptive. So unlike his usual self--flowing with strong opinions about everything. I could feel the uncertainty. The complete surrender to an indefinite mission far greater than him. How did he feel about the death he already saw? And would yet see again? He gave us no clue. I'm sure he thought it better that way for his family. He knew they would be less able to handle the uncertainties than he. At least he had a job to do each day. Everyone else had to wait at home wondering. What was he doing today? Where was the ship now? Were the Germans firing at them? Were planes attacking them? Quiet. All was hushed there in the warm little house in Palmyra, New Jersey. Roast beef, Brussels sprouts, potatoes. Comfort food. They wanted him there to feed him. But all they had were these thin paper letters in their hands. With his writing. How precious they were. How they wanted him home, to hug him. But they dare not hope for that. Not with this war going on.

And here we are. Reading them sixty years later. Safely removed from those exciting, terrible times.

Irene

The warm drops begin,

larger than a drizzle, tear-shaped pellets.

The big rain assaults the forest, pounding the leaves.

White noise raises its voice so you can no longer hare the birds.

The brook rises and gushes over the rocks. Usually,

a pretty sight, but scary now that the flood is coming.

You hurry down from the mountain as the trails become streams

rushing the same way you're going.

The water flows everywhere not keeping within the brook banks or trails.

The storm picks up trees, now boulders, tossing them bumping into the next one

with a crackling thud.

The percussion accelerates throughout the mountainside forest,

taking down trees, slamming boulders into each other.

A chased, feeble stick of flesh, much weaker than one of those big cedars that just knocked down another, you scramble frantically down the rushing trail, running from your doom.

As the forest clears, the trail flattens and you run for your car. Up to its wheels in gushing water, you tumble in and start the drive down the mountain road. What's left of it.

Standing on a Dock

The warm, misty October Saturday still manages good enough behavior for the grand wedding feast by the sea. The resort hugs the shoreline of the cove, wrapped by the arms of land on the left, and a long slender island on the right, all covered in tall grasses. The wedding party up in the pavilion carries on.  The water invites a young couple out onto a dock. They awkwardly descend in their fine clothes, as the girl scrambles down in her stiletto heels. As the dock breaths up and down slightly, they walk with bent knees to accommodate the motion. They pause in this perfection, turn towards each other, and hold hands as her mother asks for a photo pose. There they are, outstretched arms, smiling at each other adoringly. Or not. Is it just a pose? A little stiffness in the arms, a little smirk in the smiles? Do they really adore each other? The breeze furls her long hair as the water slaps against the dock. The aroma of garlic and fish and roasted beef mix with the salty air. Time to retreat back to the gathering. The heels click along the boards as the girl twitters about the difficulty of walking. The moment comes to a close.