From First to Last

I’ve had occasion, lately, to consider my “firsts”; my first kiss, my first sleep-over, my first job…

Days after completing the survey, I find myself still considering. While applying make-up, my first pair of boots walk through my mind. They were black patent leather, and the sound of those heels on institutional tile transformed me from a twelve year-old, angst-ridden seventh-grader into a confident, edgy, prepubescent force. While driving to work, I hear the sound of horses’ hooves on pavement as I relive my first carriage ride. It was mid-afternoon. We were in Chattanooga, on streets packed with tourists. But, the fact of him beside me dimmed the sun, stilled the crowd, and isolated our love to a single point in the middle of a busy thoroughfare wherein we were the only two souls that mattered.

I wish I’d appreciated my “firsts” more. I wish someone had reminded me, before I turned back to make sure no one was watching through a front window, that I would be allowed just one first time to surrender to Jimmy’s embrace. I wish someone had been there to whisper in my ear, “This will be your only first date.” It would have been helpful if, before placing her into my arms for the first time, the nurse had looked at me knowingly as she said, “This is your first, and only, daughter.”

I’ve reached the age when thinking of “firsts” leads, naturally, to consideration of a growing number of “lasts”. I’ve birthed all the children I will ever bear. I will never again feel the sweet pull of infant lips upon my breast, or feel the rush of emotion in realizing the miracle inherent in our relationship.

Since the age of twenty-one, sex has been a repetitive act. And, while each encounter offers a new and wonderful experience, nothing is like the first time; the virgin time. As synthetic fibers scratched against my bare back, I wish I’d had the wisdom to consider; is this the right place, the right time, the right man? Are you ready to be a mother?

What if, before you first stepped onto your college campus, a guide stopped you, taking you by the arms? “Stop!”, he might have said. “Stop, and look around. This is the only first time you will walk upon the ground that will change your life. Your next step will forge your destiny. The decisions you make now will determine your life course, because tomorrow will be your second time.”

I enjoyed driving my first car, but might I have enjoyed it more if I knew that I’d never see another one like it? Would I have relished the feeling of pumping the clutch, and finding the gears, if I knew I’d never feel that again?

I will never again reap the harvest from my first garden. I can never again get my first perfect score in English, or Math, or Spanish, or bowling. I have already baked my first birthday cake.

I know there are more “firsts” ahead of me; my first stress test, my first colonoscopy, my first AARP card. And, I hope for more; my first published book, my first trip overseas, my first healthy dill plant. I can’t grow dill. I’ve tried, and tried.

One day, I know I’m going to find just the right spot…

Closer

In a house inhabited by an eleven year-old boy, peace and quiet is a true commodity. When I get it I resent any interruption, but particularly the jarring ring of an unanticipated telephone call, just as words begin to flow from my fingertips.

“Hey! Didn’t know if you’d heard…Brenda’s house got broken into today.”

An image of my already anxiety-ridden, widowed neighbor filled my mind.

“They broke out two back windows before her alarm went off, but they didn’t get anything.”

I thanked my neighbor for calling, before dropping my head to my hands in an effort to recapture my thoughts.

It wasn’t until mid-day the next day that I felt it. Some time after lunch; after I’d eaten, and conversed, and excused myself to read with hopes for a nap; I felt the violation. My peaceful, uneventful, quiet cul-de-sac had been violated. An unknown person with nefarious goals had roamed my neighborhood. He’d looked at my house. He’d chosen hers over mine. But, he’d looked at my house, with intent.

I reasoned that the sight of three dogs, of appreciable size, jumping at the kitchen door should be enough to thwart even the bravest of thieves. But what if he was armed?

A picture of my assailant immediately filled the screen of my mind. He was dark, and small, and strangely reminiscent of actor, John Leguimazo, in his short stint on ER last year….

Using the powers of reason still available, I did a quick mental inventory of my valuables, deciding that I was fully insured.

Most days, Shane arrives home several minutes before I do. He calls, as he disembarks the school-bus, and we talk as he walks towards our drive. He’s usually in a hurry, and eager to end the conversation in order to free his hands to unlock the door.

When I answer, he is singing along with my ringback. I am quiet. Listening. Appreciating the gift.

Finished, he finally answers my “Hello”.

“Hey! I had a great day today!”

“Great! I’m happy for you! Tell me what was great about it.” I could do this part of the conversation in my sleep.

“Well…” He always hesitates as he picks through the best parts to give me his favorite.

And while he hesitates, my heart beats just a little faster. What if the John is waiting in the house?

“I had a good day in language arts. Ms. Murray was OK today.”

“Oh, good!” I make a mental note to tone down my enthusiasm. “Any other good news?” My voice, now, is measured, and Mom-like.

“I got an eighty on my math quiz?” He poses a question.

“Wow!” Unbidden enthusiasm creeps back in. “How great is that?” My mind spins, searching for more questions.

“Mom?”, more questions. “I need to go now. I need to unlock the door.”

“Go ahead, honey. I’ll hold on.” Beads of sweat adhere to hair, wisping along my forehead, as I force casualness into my voice.

“Um…ok.” And, I hear “Ok…what’s up with that?”

Holding the receiver ever closer to my ear, I hear the rattling of keys in the lock, the force of paws on the door, and barking.

“Get back!” My son says assertively to his greeters.

“Shane?” I fight for measure in my voice.

“Yeah? I’m about to take the dogs out.” He sounds resigned, placating.

“Do me a favor; before you let them out, just peek outside. Are the gates closed?” I pray he doesn’t hear my ragged breathing.

“Uh…yeah!” He makes no effort to hide his derision as he opens the door. “Yeah, Mom…just like always!”

I laugh, hoping that’s all he hears.

“Cool…”, I answer, nonchalantly.

“How close are you?”, he asks between footsteps.

“Close.”

Wishing I was closer…

Missed Opportunities

“Oh, you know how he is…”

And, I do. I do know how he is.

The difference, now, is that I also know how he could be.

And, I think he should be.

Pondering Ponds

I can’t begin to guess how many times I’ve passed that pond.

I’ve run by it.

I’ve walked around it.

I’ve gazed upon it, distractedly, while talking on the telephone, or giving my son directions, or parking my car.

Yesterday, I saw the pond.

The sun was amazing; a true spring sun whose soft rays never quite breached the fabric of my tee shirt. Breezes blew from several different directions at once, playing havoc with my hair and Chevy’s nose, dancing, merrily, on the end of his long, narrow snout.

As we rounded the bend, several geese gathered on one side of the pond. Realizing Chevy had never seen geese up close and personal, I seized the opportunity, and I guided him closer to the clearing in which they had gathered. Apparently accustomed to visits, the geese held their ground. The largest of the group sat upon the bank, and without turning, hissed comically. I laughed softly before cooing my assurance, while Chevy ignored her.

And, then I saw the reason for her anxiety. A mother duck, sporting a single striking blue feather amongst her brown and white mottle, swam into view ahead of four tiny, fuzzy ducklings. The goose took a step into the water as they passed. as if to ensure a barrier between us and them. No sooner had the first duck passed when another mother duck, with several chortling ducklings, swam into view. The goose squawked softly as if to say “Hurry along, now!”, and the family glided past. Satisfied, their long-necked protector retook her position on the bank and settled into her feathers.

Feeling we had disturbed the serenity of this part of the pond long enough, I urged Chevy up the hill and around to another arc of the pond. Without a sound, a pile of turtles sunning themselves upon the bank, poured into the water as we approached; the only sign of their retreat a collection of ever-widening circles.

I knew geese stopped here. There were signs of them everywhere, and particularly upon the walking track which they seemed to target with their deposits. In summer, when the sun’s rays swelter, the smell is enough to force me to another part of the track.

But, I hadn’t seen the ducks. And, I didn’t know the turtles. I hadn’t realized that within a very busy county park, these animals had seen fit to create a home in which to procreate. I had never seen the pond as a place of caring that required caring for.

We left the pond, and headed in the direction of Shane, and the batting cages. I thought, again, of the goose; of her protective fervor for those unlike her, and I appreciated the irony.

We have much to learn…

Traditions in Transition

My family’s Easter traditions became lost in the cry of gulls over pristine white sand. My sister travels to Destin to spend the holiday with my father who, understandably, welcomes the opportunity to visit without travel. Often, as finances allow, one or more of us join them. More often, we do not.

For years, my older children traveled the seventy-five miles between my house and theirs to participate in smaller scale celebrations. This year, my daughter is grateful to have the extra hours at work, and after putting in eighteen hour days for two consecutive weeks, my son is looking forward to an afternoon spent resting on a riverbank, watching the water ripple around his fishing line.

I assembled my final Easter basket last night and felt the finality. The look of wonder left Shane’s eyes years ago, but I’ve continued the ruse, for both our sakes. I admit to feeling just a little ridiculous as I fluffed plastic grass and poured jelly beans into plastic, egg-shaped baseballs. Next year I’ll limit myself to a nice card, and maybe a bag of chocolate-peanut butter eggs.

We’re not a particularly religious family. While my father could be called a religious scholar, given the hours he has spent reading various religious doctrines, only one of his four daughters attends church regularly. I’ve decided that this lack of structured piety is partly to blame for our lack of celebration.

As a child, Easter meant a new dress and a fine white purse to match my shiny, new, white shoes which I would wear only to church. It meant traveling across town to share dinner with a family of friends from Chicago, who marked the occasion by molding butter into the shapes of lambs and crosses. Our Easter baskets were always grandiose things; large and round they were stuffed with chocolate, before being wrapped in pastel-colored cellophane, cinched with matching ribbon. Easter morning found four of them, arranged in a grand display upon the kitchen table. The trick was to slide your hand into the flap created by the cellophane in order to pilfer a peep before Mom and Dad woke up.

By the time my children were born, Easter dinner had become a strictly family affair. Easter egg hunts were added to the celebration, meaning my children usually had at least two opportunities to load their baskets. The hunt at my parent’s house was always conducted outside, while I occasionally chose to nestle my children’s loot against window sills, behind curtains, under a lamp, or between two books on a bookshelf. The children seemed to prefer the indoor hunts. I like to think they enjoyed the intimacy.

“What are we going to do today, Mom?” Shane’s question left me wanting. We settled on a trip to the park. He and his Dad will play pitch and catch, while I walk the dog around the track. It should be a good day for it. The weather is beautiful. Later, we’ll cook out.

But I can’t help wishing there was something more…

Fashionistabunny

My father attended church with us only twice a year, Christmas and Easter. Mother went more regularly until we were older, at which point the car barely came to a full stop before she started shooing us out the door.

“Meet me right here when church is over!”, she shouted as she accelerated past the crosswalk.

There was always a line of people waiting to enter the sanctuary. Dark-suited, older, white males stood solemnly, just outside two sets of double doors, holding small stacks of church bulletins which I had came to think of as my ticket; Admit One. As my sisters and I waited our turn in line, I studied the ushers. They always put me more in mind of sentries guarding a castle than greeters for the “House of God”.

Standing in that line was a bit like walking downtown sidewalks surrounded by sparkling skyscrapers of varying heights. The air lay thick with a potpourri of scents spritzed from cut-glass atomizers, as I shuffled my feet inside black patent leather. Women, who had soldiered through the previous week in their uniform of polyester pants and rubber-soled, terry-cloth scuffs, now fanned their tails like so many peacocks in designer finery. I studied the mink stole draping the shoulders of the woman in front of me, appreciating the varying hues of brown, gold, and black while following the seams connecting the pelts with my eyes.

“Love the dress!” The furred woman spoke to another woman just to the right of us whose eyes sparkled above her rouged cheeks before looking down at her dress, as though she had forgotten what she was wearing.

“Oh, thank you!” Her hands went to her bare arms and I felt her self-consciousness. “What a gorgeous fur! Is it mink?”, she asked through strained painted lips.

“Yes, Gordon brought it back from his last trip to New York.” Red-tipped nails caressed both arms. “I wore it today since it might be my last opportunity before summer.”

“Gayle! Is that a new ring?” Another feminine voice swiveled my head to the left, just as the older woman next to me retrieved her hand from its spot under her husband’s arm.

“Yes! Robert gave it to me for Christmas.”, she said, flashing a smile at her benefactor, who answered with one of his own. She raised her hand towards her friend who turned it this way and that, in appreciation.

“Wow! Pretty snazzy, Robert. Gayle must have been a good girl!” Gayle lost her footing in laughter, bringing the tip of her pointed-toed pump firmly against my Mary Jane. I turned swiftly so as not to be caught staring. By the time I reached the sentries, the aisle separating the pews looked more like a catwalk.

If most Sundays produced a fashion show, Easter Sunday served as “Fashion Week”. No one was immune. Men bought new suits, and corsages for their ladies. Women scanned racks for weeks, in search of the perfect dress and dyed new pumps to match, before retrieving their jewelry from velvet beds inside safe deposit boxes.

Girls were taken shopping for Easter dresses. Most girls. My sisters and I were taken instead to “Cloth World”, where we were encouraged to choose from one of several fabrics from which my mother would fashion a suit. The fabrics were coordinated so that each girl would wear a solid and a print, and the style would vary, if only slightly.

My mother was an excellent seamstress, having culled the talent from her mother who made her living as a tailor in an exclusive men’s clothing store. She made most of our clothes and some of her own. One of my fondest memories involves a church fashion show, for which my mother created four identical white dresses; one for her, and one for each of us. Walking as ducks in a row, we took the stage together the afternoon of the show. I don’t remember who actually won, and it never was important. In my mind, my mother stole the show.

As a child, I never appreciated our carefully coordinated Easter suits. I felt dowdy and out of fashion. I watched other girls swish by in taffeta, and lace and wished the sewing machine had never been made available for purchase by the public. And, I resented my mother for not understanding.

Several years ago my grandmother died, leaving behind boxes and boxes of photographs my mother had sent her in celebration of our childhood. My youngest sister, who had been my grandmother’s primary caretaker, arranged a luncheon at which she invited us to open the boxes and take the pictures that meant the most to us. As we leafed through the photographs, there were countless images of my sisters and me, usually backed up against a wall and standing in descending order, wearing our mother’s handiwork. When I searched my mind today, for Easter memories, these pictures were the first thing that came to mind.

We miss so much when we are children, when our minds are not yet fully formed and ready to understand the importance of things. As I study the photographs now, I see more than meticulous construction and careful coordination. Forty-plus years later, I see time, and effort, and sacrifice, and love. And, in her sharing of the photographs, I interpret pride; pride in her children, yes, and something more. By sending these photographs to her mother she shared, and appreciated, her legacy.

I hope I said it then. I wish she could hear it now.

Thanks, Mom.

Same As It Ever Was

“I’m a table sitter, just like my Mother.”

Knowing she wouldn’t be joining me allowed me the freedom to stretch out on her well-worn sofa.

Hallie eased herself into her usual spot next to a blinded window. A heavy sigh accompanied the release of her weight onto a vinyl captain’s chair, and the years washed away in my anticipation of her next move. Both hands went to her head, grasping at gossamer wisps which had rudely escaped the band she’d swept them into that morning. Another sigh and her hands went to the tabletop. Her lips pursed as her hands moved about the table, straightening a pencil against the edge of a writing tablet, carefully lining up book spines along their mitered corners, and touching each of three small stacks of paper.

As she took assurance in the precision of her surroundings I remembered rows of pencils, sorted by color and length, lying alongside a notebook in the laboratory where she worked. On quiet days, and sometimes just during a lull, I took particular delight in flicking one end of the pencil closest to me and watching the others careen like pick-up-sticks. She feigned disgust, but I understood the satisfaction she took in realigning her environment.

As she sighed, and sorted, and sorted, and sighed, I searched her face for change. Other than a slight gravitational pull around the corners of her mouth, there was none. Despite her claim of green, her eyes had always been of indeterminate color. They snapped just as they always had, behind eyeglasses whose shape demanded the word “spectacles”. The freckles that had always danced across her cream-colored skin were just where I’d left them, and her small, colorless mouth pursed between spurts of speech enriched with invectives.

“Remind me to give you a blow job later!”

It was the fall of 1992, the year the Braves won the pennant. Both of us had followed the Braves throughout the season. We knew stats. We referred to the players in such a way as to suggest we might have had them over to dinner the night before, and each of us had our favorites. John Smoltz was mine. We both agreed he bore an eerie resemblance to my wayward husband, who Hallie described as “poetic looking”. Hallie appreciated the talents of the wiry Otis Nixon and the second baseman, who she referred to as “Little Lemke”.

Sometime over the course of the Championship series, we had begun to watch the games together, by telephone; she ensconced inside her cozy duplex less than ten miles away from my little farmhouse, filled by the sounds of soundly sleeping children. The call usually came sometime after the seventh-inning-stretch.

It was the bottom of the ninth, and the Pirates were up two to zip. In an era free of steroid controversy, we thought nothing peculiar about the guns on Ron Gant, as he took the plate with the bases loaded. He sacrificed, making the score two to one. Brian Hunter popped up, leaving us with scant hope as a little-known pinch-hitter, named Francisco Cabrera, loped towards the plate. He singled, scoring David Justice, and an oft-traded, unlikely hero named Sid Bream. As Sid slid into home, securing the pennant, Hallie shouted her reminder into the receiver. I remember collapsing with laughter, and would recall little else about that game, or the ensuing World Series.

“I thought you were bringing Shane!”

Hallie stood on the steps leading to her front door.

“This can’t be Shane! Shane’s just a little guy! Who is this tall boy you brought with you?”

Color seeped into Shane’s cheeks as he shut the car door and walked, sheepishly, in the direction of my friend.

“Hi, Aunt Hallie.”, he said into his chest.

He walked, obligatorily, into her waiting arms and hugged her back. There was less than two inches difference in their height.

Gathering the few things I needed before leaving in search of a hotel room, I left the car and replaced Shane’s body with mine. My arms embraced her shoulders as hers encircled my waist. Time had carved precious inches from her already diminutive stature.

“Come in, honey.” She always calls me “honey”. “Be careful with that door. I need to fix the latch.”

Our love for each other spans twenty years, one birth, two marriages, two divorces, and the deaths of two children, both our mothers, and her beloved Aunt Flo. As I study her face for change, I realize mine is the one that is different. I am where she was when I left her to start over, again. Her changing was done. Mine had just begun. I shifted against the soft fabric of the sofa I rested upon, uncomfortable with the knowledge.

“I see you’ve changed your hair.” She made no effort to hide the disdain in her voice. “You’re wearing it like everyone else; like you haven’t combed it in days.” Ill health forced another sigh. “I don’t know why you want to do that. You have such nice hair. I liked it when you flipped it back.”

The fingers of her left hand weaved themselves into my hair.

“Oh, it’s very soft. It doesn’t look soft. It looks hard, but it’s very soft…just like it always was.”

And, it is…just like it always was.

“You’re my touchstone…”

Service Sector Sagacity

Our trip was unexpected, unplanned, and unbudgeted, which helps to explain my presence in the drive-thru line at McDonald’s at 11:47 a.m. We rolled to a stop in front of a daunting menu of gastronomic atrocities too crowded to read. I allowed my eleven-year-old to order for both of us.

“Please drive around to the first window.”

A heavy-set girl with long brown hair manned the register, behind a small glass door that seemingly opened and closed of its own accord. I hit the mute button on the stereo as she logged another order. She turned in our direction, and the door opened as she extended her hand, palm up. I laid several bills inside with a smile that went unnoticed as she stashed them before collecting my change while focusing, intently, on the LED display of the register. Her left hand extended again, dropping my change while her right hand hit a button on her head set, and I rolled to the second window.

A hundred miles or so later, my cup was empty, but my bladder wasn’t. I searched large, green, roadside signs for another iconic fast-food restaurant that would offer relief for both. As I rolled into the Krystal’s parking lot, my son sat forward on his seat.

“Are we going to eat again?” Shane’s voice sounded exactly like you would expect it to sound, given his usual diet of whole grains, fish, and fruit.

“No, honey. Just the bathroom and a drink!”

As I entered the bathroom, I was accosted by an odor that said “Turn back!” in a deep, unnerving voice. Shaking it off, I pushed open the painted metal door, expecting the worst. I considered myself lucky in not uncovering the source of the odor and attended to the matter at hand, post-haste. I rinsed my hands hurriedly, and opened the door with my elbow. Shane was waiting outside.

The counter was clear of customers, allowing us to stand, unimpeded, in front of the register. A large woman, whose hairstyle must have cost at least a day’s pay, approached from the back of the restaurant throwing one hand in the direction of another woman as her eyes glazed mine.

“You got customers.”, she said as she walked by, carrying a sheaf of paper cups.

The woman she addressed stood at the other end of the counter, bent at the middle, her face just inches above a laminated paper.

“You really got her worried ‘bout that schedule!”, the female voice came, complete with laughter, from the grill area.

A painfully thin, uniformed young man approached from the dining area.

“Whatchew doin’?” He mimicked her posture so that their visored heads met.

Shane and I stood with necks arched; studying a menu we had no intention of ordering from, until a man wearing a white shirt that said “I Am The Manager” approached, carrying a bundle of bags.

“Can I take your order?” I was relieved to hear self-consciousness in his voice.

Sunlight did nothing to enhance the pallor present on my friend’s skin as we sat around her picnic table. We sipped, and laughed, and talked, and laughed. The telephone rang, and she answered it. I made my decision while she assured our friend I had made the trip safely.

As she pressed “End”, I eased myself off the weathered, wooden bench.

“We’re going to get a room.”

She argued despite my tone of finality.

“It’s just two miles away….” I ended the conversation.

I hit the button, locking my son safely inside the car before walking towards the lobby. A blonde woman who hadn’t yet accepted the reality of her morbidity manned the desk.

Her expression never changed as she managed, “You want a room?”

I leaned both arms on the desk as she typed, wondering if she knew that the boxed-blonde curtain hanging down either side of her haggard face failed to hide the collection of chins the years had provided her.

Tiny cowbells rang, and we both turned. Shane entered, mute. He approached a display of brochures while I felt validation.

“How old is the child?”

“Eleven.”

Several minutes and colorful invectives later, I tapped Shane’s shoulder and left with credit card-shaped “keys”.

“Mom?” I pulled my sweatshirt closed as we walked against a cool breeze.

“Yes.” Shane hurried to catch up to my stride.

“Aren’t there a lot of people looking for jobs?”

“Yes.”, I answered, not sure where he was going.

“Then why does everybody act like they hate their job? Don’t they know they’re lucky to have one?”

From the mouths of babes…

Ordinary Origins

I love to sing. I used to be pretty good at it; good enough to be asked to sing in a band. My stint there afforded me the opportunity to work as a background singer in a local studio, but family obligations sang louder, and I retired my tambourine.

I now perform in very limited engagements. With my IPOD as accompaniment, I sing as I clean, and croon when I garden. And, playing Beth Hart wide open, in my car, has been known to illicit a throaty growl or two. On one such occasion, when my son and I were running Saturday errands, he asked, “Where did you learn to sing like that?”.

I’m an avid gardener, and surround myself with growing things year-round. My vegetable garden satisfies my preference for fresh herbs while providing a variety of fruits and vegetables for friends and family. And, I never met a flower I didn’t like.

For years, my gardens were populated randomly, by an assortment of annuals. Lately though, I’ve tended towards more permanent plantings and the creation of gardening environments, my favorite being an “English Garden”. The space is a constant work in progress, as the drought we’ve suffered for the last two years has taken a toll, but I love knowing that a feeling of peace and connectivity is as close as a stroll through my own backyard.

Last week, a friend and I shared a glass of merlot on my patio, surrounded by a cacophony of pansies in hues ranging from deepest purple to palest yellow. She remarked on their beauty, the way they winked in the breeze, and their fragile strength. “Where did you get your green thumb?”, she asked.

My family has always been appreciative of my writing. They comprise a large block of my readership. It was, in fact, at the persistent prodding of my youngest sister that I began to blog.

I’ve written since I was a young girl, though not always on paper. An ongoing saga, detailing the lives of a homeless, orphaned girl and the brother she cared for, provided pleasant distraction for what seemed like hours and hours as I mowed the front lawn. Recently, I’ve come to regret that I never gave the story permanence. I have attempted, on occasion, to recreate the drama, but only tiny bits and pieces remain in my much older brain.

A high school English teacher took an interest in my work, asking my permission to submit two of my poems to a literary journal. She provided me with a copy of the finished product which was left behind, along with my music boxes, Barbie dolls, and a complete set of Nancy Drew mysteries, when I struck out on my own. I wish now I’d packed an extra box…

Last week, my aunt sent me a nice note in praise of my writing, and for at least the second time mused as to its legacy. “Where do you think that talent comes from?”, she queried. “We don’t have any other writers in the family!” I hadn’t thought to ask that question. I’d never pondered the parentage of my propensities.

Yesterday, as I aimed my pencil at a sketch I’ve been working on, my mother’s unbidden image swam into view. She sat head down, at the kitchen table. Using one of our number two pencils, she transformed a simple sheet of blue-lined notebook paper into a work of art. And there are more memories; of sitting in the back seat of our station wagon and wondering why she wasn’t singing on the radio, and of plants, rows and rows of growing green things. Later in life, she took painting classes, and, even now, her needlework hangs on my walls.

I brought the pencil closer to the paper, angling the point to achieve shading that suggests shadow, knowing it is her hand that guides me. And, I appreciate the legacy…

Siren Sister

The sun coaxed color into your ever-pale face,

sprinkling darker spots along the bridge of your nose,

that only brought your observer closer,

in an effort to see if you were real.

Your eyes,

always light, drew refection from your skin,

until their green matched the hue of the surf

as it rushed in between our feet on white sand.

The wind blew.

And your hair danced;

long, blonde diaphaneity.

Part Siren,

part Mermaid,

my Sister,

on the beach.