momma

she struggles for the next word
and fills in the pauses with that kind of thing
and the bottom line is
i feel nervous and i scramble to think it through
what did she see what did she read
can i connect the broken pieces again
and i wonder if she realizes what is happening

she worries about her dad and her crazy brother
the upcoming election
the upkeep of her yard
and how she is going to paint her ceiling
but the stories are full of holes
vague wandering confusing

and i worry
how can i help her
how do i tell her what i see what i hear how i feel
i want to shelter her protect her
listen through the pauses
patient
calm
fill in the blanks patch the holes in her stories
in her memory

my mothers voice

we visited over lunch
i told stories about my adventures
she laughed and patted my hand
food - movie - food
easy saturday

i tried to read her
and not let the realizations wash over my face
she walked so slow
tired
fragile
nervous

she is worried about bothering me
inconvienencing me
and i am worried about her
she asks the same questions over and over
i calmly respond as if its the first time every time

shadow

we hung the blinds
one after another
mark the window
drill two holes on each side
screw in the brackets
hang the blind
untangle the cords
make sure it works

next

and my sister worked in the kitchen with my mom
ancient cookbook open to the beef strogonoff recipe
my mom read each step
looked at the pan
reminding herself where she was in the process
butter
onions
garlic
brown the meat
salt
paprika
red pepper
my mom panicked when she read next line
one tablespoon tomato paste
she was sure she didnt have any tomato paste
she paused for a minute and pulled a plastic container of blue cheese out of the fridge
offering to use it instead
and my jaw dropped

growing up we had dinner every night as a family
everyone at the table
rotating menu of which beef strogonoff was the star
my mom must have made it more than a thousand times
rote
by sight
by taste
by smell
we knew when her allergies were getting the best of her
the strogonoff was spicy

i like blue cheese she said
and my sister looked at me blankly
we are not going to use blue cheese mom
i do like blue cheese though - it will be fine
and i walked to the pantry and found a small can of tomoato paste on the shelf

patience

careful balance speaking up confidently thoughtfully articulately and dominating the conversation breathe breathe and breathe again

i focus hold my breath for a minute
then bear down with all that i have
willing her willing myself
patch heal recover

small broken down apartment
narrow hallway low ceiling paint peeling off the green front door
she quickly brushed off the wooden table
into a white plastic laundry basket
mixed media pile of tshirts jeans markers plastic tubes of paint books receipts
she talked about how lucky she was to work for the after school program
she had scored all these supplies for free
i curled my toes hard in my shoes
held my tongue and nodded

words poured out of her faster than i could hear
a jumble of we are so sad we will make it together we are best friends
a duststorm of we were so much alike
swallowing me

i walked back to my faded red truck
the smell of american spirit cigarettes caught in my nose
the faint bitter taste of coffee in the back of my throat
my mind spinning with all that she said
sinking heavily into we are the same

i stood on the top step of the porch
nervous as i looked towards the microphone
past the string of lights to the women on the grass
found tables salvaged chairs legs crossed some rocking most smoking
all listening
quiet
waiting
i read from the craft paper scroll i had taken from my wall
i hadnt thought this through
didnt realize how big it was how apart i felt
these words would be out there in the world
they would all know
my voice cracked and my eyes filled with tears
and i could feel myself stepping out of the depth of sameness
toward something more real more authentic

she beamed proudly
my friends clapped surrounded me hugged me
and i knew that was the only time for me
no next time
the end of our shared story

shout from my soul

ideas visions dreams words
float through me around me in front of me
sometimes transient and fleeting
a breeze carrying the sweet scent of cookies baking or smoke from a grill
lovely and savory
short lived and delicious
sometimes they rain down on me possess me
drench me
soak into my skin
all that i can see all that i can smell all that i can taste
overrun me overtake me
fill me up

i shout from my soul into an empty room
and the words fall back down onto me
tangled in my hair
dropped on my shoulders on my lap
caught in the cuff of my jeans
and i carry them with me on me in me
dropping syllables peeling off as I walk through my day
parts of me
parts of my soul

my father had a checklist

My father had a checklist to help me prepare for my trip to Minnesota for school. Not a written one but a mental list that he walked through carefully and in an organized way.

He found a sweater from land’s end that was practical – warm without being too heavy so I could transition easily from the cold winter air to the warm classroom. He bought every color. Sherbert hues of pink, yellow, blue and green.

He did exhaustive research on my winter coat – it needed to be long enough to cover my hips and be able to withstand the unimaginable cold of Northfield, Minnesota. I saw it and knew right away that it was long and dorky and that I definitely did not want to wear that coat. Pac boots with a shearling felted insert, lug sole and laces to close the suede upper. Comfort level 20 degrees to negative 40. Practical. Rugged. Dorky.

Two large heavy suitcases - full of my practical cold weather gear. I flew to Minneapolis the week before school to start the pre-season soccer camp. Kristen picked us up in the white athletics van – four long bench seats and an interesting mix of nervous freshman and good to see you again upperclassmen. Kristen was striking in that she was short and stocky and sporty in an REI kind of way. She was the team captain and smiled easily and worked hard to make us feel comfortable. I sat next to a girl from Oklahoma who told us all how she was the best player in the state; how she had played for the best select teams Oklahoma. My mind raced back to the summer letters from Herve – all of which included very specific conditioning plans to prepare the incoming players for the season.

Houston is Africa hot in the summer and the idea of running outside seemed like the most ridiculous thing in the world to me. I was a natural athlete and soccer had come easily to me since i started playing in the fourth grade. Unlike school – where I felt like I worked hard just to keep up in my accelerated track classes – soccer was joyous and it made sense to me. I was a strong player and my love for it only made me better. I reasoned that if I could play in the Houston summer – then I shouldn’t have any problem in the fall season in the much cooler world of Northfield.

I did not train that summer and only re-read the letters for a second time on the night before I left for school. I was terrified as we travelled the hour from the twin cities to Northfield. How was I going to explain to my dad that I had come all this way and did not make the team. Clearly the girl from Oklahoma was the star and I would be lucky to even earn a jersey.