december memory, con't
ever have a story turn into something completely unexpected?
. . . . .
The ground feels like December, a cold stillness rising through the soles of my feet--but it's the only things that does. My sweater lies discarded on the porch like a rumpled blue bird. The sunlight washes like water over my bare arms as I squint out at the flat New Jersey horizon. I remember when the view was cornfields, tidy and brown, stretching into the distance. Now, a ranch house squats low and out of place in the middle of the adjacent field, as tidy and brown and mundane as ever. It overflows into the little yard, all this brown, tidy mundaneness. Children's toys lay like bright, confused circus aniumals in the midst of it all, primary colors faded into a look of surprise.
How did I get here? My head buzzes with warm confusion, my eyes hot and dry. I can still feel the cool, cotton touch of the sheets on my arms, contrasted with the warm dampness of your skin, pliable where my fingertips press against it. I can feel the boards in my back and the lumpy mattress like old dough. Can still smell your hair.
Hello, how did I get here? My mind is hazy, forgetting thoughts as they come. On the ride over, I slept feverishly in your lap, feeling the threads of the seat too clearly against my skin and wanting to cry. My sister stared, but I needed you.
Cold flagstone beneath my feet feels like December, but the soft wood of the porch feels like June--feels like visitng my grandfather, and swimming in his pool, and getting cheap plastic gifts that I will lose before I ever make it home. The wood feels like my grandfather's hands.
I wish that you could have met him. I think you would have liked him, with his silver slick-back hair and his weathered-Arizona face. You would have loved his love of plants, his indoor greenhouse, his slow tenderness.
I was twelve the last time I saw him, stiff and cold, with a run in my stockings and a short black dress. I hid in the bathroom and burned tissues during his funeral, wearing the cheap department store shoes my grandmother bought at the last minute. My grandfather was secretive, even with his disease. Like you.
But now I stand on the porch he built, watching you walk across the December ground, curly-haired angel children in tow. I lean on the porch railing, lose the boundary between railing and arm. I yawn, and become merely an extension of a tired house. You cheeks are rosy, their hair dark. You tread across the yard to the trampoline, leaving shoes scattered like discarded pastel candies, four tiny shoes and a pair of black boots. I watch, but don't come near.
Grandpa, can you hear me? Why are you the only person I feel close to right now? (Grandpa, you're dead.) Grandpa, I can feel your hands in the walls of the house, in the foundation you laid, in the bricks of the fireplace. Grandpa, I remember how green your living room was; I remember the tiny jungle. Grandpa, I remember the chocolate bunnies, and I remember the red-haired woman laughing. I remember that they loved you.
Did I ever know you, grandpa? You never told me that you spoke Hungarian. I never knew that you had served in Japan until after you were gone. I didn't know how much my mother loved you. I remember the way you smelled like musky cigarettes, but I don't know a million things. Grandpa, I feel like I've lost my past.
Where are you now? Grandpa, I'm watching a golden-haired girl play with your grandchildren. I love her, grandpa. I want her to meet you. I want to meet you. Grandpa, why weren't you here when I was old enough to talk to you? I don't believe in God, grandpa, so where are you? Grandpa, I can still feel you here.
Grandpa, I don't believe that you're gone.
Grandpa, even your funeral is just a confused December memory.
. . . . .
The ground feels like December, a cold stillness rising through the soles of my feet--but it's the only things that does. My sweater lies discarded on the porch like a rumpled blue bird. The sunlight washes like water over my bare arms as I squint out at the flat New Jersey horizon. I remember when the view was cornfields, tidy and brown, stretching into the distance. Now, a ranch house squats low and out of place in the middle of the adjacent field, as tidy and brown and mundane as ever. It overflows into the little yard, all this brown, tidy mundaneness. Children's toys lay like bright, confused circus aniumals in the midst of it all, primary colors faded into a look of surprise.
How did I get here? My head buzzes with warm confusion, my eyes hot and dry. I can still feel the cool, cotton touch of the sheets on my arms, contrasted with the warm dampness of your skin, pliable where my fingertips press against it. I can feel the boards in my back and the lumpy mattress like old dough. Can still smell your hair.
Hello, how did I get here? My mind is hazy, forgetting thoughts as they come. On the ride over, I slept feverishly in your lap, feeling the threads of the seat too clearly against my skin and wanting to cry. My sister stared, but I needed you.
Cold flagstone beneath my feet feels like December, but the soft wood of the porch feels like June--feels like visitng my grandfather, and swimming in his pool, and getting cheap plastic gifts that I will lose before I ever make it home. The wood feels like my grandfather's hands.
I wish that you could have met him. I think you would have liked him, with his silver slick-back hair and his weathered-Arizona face. You would have loved his love of plants, his indoor greenhouse, his slow tenderness.
I was twelve the last time I saw him, stiff and cold, with a run in my stockings and a short black dress. I hid in the bathroom and burned tissues during his funeral, wearing the cheap department store shoes my grandmother bought at the last minute. My grandfather was secretive, even with his disease. Like you.
But now I stand on the porch he built, watching you walk across the December ground, curly-haired angel children in tow. I lean on the porch railing, lose the boundary between railing and arm. I yawn, and become merely an extension of a tired house. You cheeks are rosy, their hair dark. You tread across the yard to the trampoline, leaving shoes scattered like discarded pastel candies, four tiny shoes and a pair of black boots. I watch, but don't come near.
Grandpa, can you hear me? Why are you the only person I feel close to right now? (Grandpa, you're dead.) Grandpa, I can feel your hands in the walls of the house, in the foundation you laid, in the bricks of the fireplace. Grandpa, I remember how green your living room was; I remember the tiny jungle. Grandpa, I remember the chocolate bunnies, and I remember the red-haired woman laughing. I remember that they loved you.
Did I ever know you, grandpa? You never told me that you spoke Hungarian. I never knew that you had served in Japan until after you were gone. I didn't know how much my mother loved you. I remember the way you smelled like musky cigarettes, but I don't know a million things. Grandpa, I feel like I've lost my past.
Where are you now? Grandpa, I'm watching a golden-haired girl play with your grandchildren. I love her, grandpa. I want her to meet you. I want to meet you. Grandpa, why weren't you here when I was old enough to talk to you? I don't believe in God, grandpa, so where are you? Grandpa, I can still feel you here.
Grandpa, I don't believe that you're gone.
Grandpa, even your funeral is just a confused December memory.
1 Comments:
that thing you wrote is beautiful. It reminded me my dad (he is dead too) and i love him so much. :)
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