Some things I missed

I missed seeing my father walking up our front walk this Thanksgiving his arms loaded down with boxes and bags of food and drink. He would have smiled an kissed me on the cheek, noticed that most of the leaves had been raked, pulled my daughter in for a big hug. "Nice job," he would have told my husband who orchestrates the meal. I missed seeing him sitting at the table, a leg bone wrapped in dark meat on his plate along with stuffing, mashed potatoes, green beans, and the eggplant and Italian bread that he buys special in East Boston. He would test the chestnuts, along with Uncle, to make sure they were done - just like his father before him had done. I missed seeing him dunk hard cookies into the coffee with his overstuffed hands. He might have apple pie with vanilla ice-cream too before sitting in the large easy chair for a snooze. E would have insisted on a game of chess. He would have been kind to all the children. He would have worn a light cotton shirt, blue, underneath a button up wool sweater and soft soled walking shoes with white socks that he favored in his older age. I missed hearing his voice.

Love

When my daughter was very sick for one of the first times in her life, my father drove out to spend the day with us. My husband happened to be away at a conference and I didn't want to be alone. My mother was still working so my father took the two hour drive out to be with me alone. We spent the day taking turns holding that hot little bundle, taking her temperature, trying to get her to suck some milk down. At one point her temperature rose to about 105, her cheeks turned bright pink, and we got scared. How could such a little body hold so much heat? The doctor told us to wait until morning. If the fever didn't break by then, I should take her in. Dad was worried, "You should take her in tonight, just take her in." But, I wanted to wait.

The very first time she had a high fever, J and I took her in to the pediatrician's office and got the doctor who, while thorough, was altogether too quick to send us to the emergency room for x-rays, blood, and urine tests. (If you don't know, getting a infant chest xray is no small feet and requires padlocking the child in what looks like an up right iron lung. The urine test which required intubation was a painful and drawn out failure that we vowed never to allow again.) The child had nothing more but a bad fever and cold and was on the mend by the next day.

My father who by nature was a terrible worrier didn't want me to wait but he didn't press which was probably really hard for him because he worried so much. He held her long into the evening making sure I got dinner and left only when I insisted he go home to sleep.

E woke in a glistening puddle of sweat that night and sucked to her heart's content. I called Dad the next morning and told him that she was alright.

Winter Tree

I feel most like a winter tree devoid of frills, hunkered down, reaching for the deep warm soil. I am conserving my resources; rough and icy on the outside but warm and sugary on the inside. I'm not dead or dying or old or tame. I have shed my bounty for those that hunger and can finally rest from the burden of holding up nests and making food. After the snow and ice and darkness and mud, I'll be restless and ready again for the riotous seduction of spring.

Dancing with my father

A song just came on in the cafe where I am working that reminds me of my father. We danced to "I left my heart in San Francisco" before I left for my first teaching job in San Francisco. My father was an agile dancer, light on his feet and gentle. I wonder if he took lessons or just picked it up at the clubs where he danced with my mother when they were young. He taught me to dance when I was little, "Don't look at your feet," he would say moving me around the living room, "Relax, let me guide you." I wish I could tell him how handsome I thought he was, how secure and special I felt in his arms. I think he really enjoyed dancing. We have pictures of him when he was thinner, with thick black hair, smiling wide mouthed into the camera. He is with my mother, her hair in a high bouffant and my grandfather younger than I am today. They are all dressed to the nines my mother in a sleeveless wool suit, the men in dark suits with thin ties. They drink fuzzy cocktails and listen to the band playing cool jazzy tunes. "Let's dance," he reaches for my mother's hand. He's on top of the world so happy to have such a beautiful woman to dance with.

Heartbreak

"In one life, how many times can the heart break?" from "Moaning About My White Hair" by Chinese poet Wang Wei.

I asked the women in my writing group to write something about this. Here is what I wrote.

These days my heart breaks wide open at least once a day. I feel less sure of everything. Less sure than when I was 11 and could ride my bike fearlessly to the edges of my small town, less sure than when I was 17 and so in love I walked effortlessly without the pull of gravity on my feet, less sure than when I was 25 and immersed in the heady belief that logic could save me. Now, I walk upon fragile ground. I slip and slide on the ice and feel sadness, and contentment, and joy all in the same moment. Its strange in the same way that the Thai soup that I love startles me with heat, sweetness, and a sour bite. Success is measure by breaths deeply taken, in thin moments of gratitude for a good meal, ease on my husband's face, a spine that still bends backwards. I am in awe at how much joy there is to be had in the dog's soft red fur and the suffering that is ours alone to make sense of. A veil has been parted, the onion peeled, the world is less apparent than it has ever been, my imagination more real.