I come in, give my name.
"Have you read the 'stop sign'?"
Well, now I have. I make a mistake with its information, laugh at myself, get a smile from the receptionist along with my booklet.
"Please read this thoroughly."
I've read it at least a dozen times, but I acquiesce one more time, though my definition of "thoroughly" may be different than hers. I take it back to her, return to my seat . . . and commence waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
And waiting.
I've never waited this long before.
All around me, people are getting called, people who came minutes or even longer after I did.
A bell rings, and four white-coated people rush to the table behind us, snatch a woman, lay her on a cot, put her feet on risers. I glance at her face; she's dead white.
The room quiets. Names are still being called. I stare at the guy straight across from me, trying to figure out how the liquid in the bag next to him is so clear. He probably thinks I'm creepy, or disturbed, but he smiles and I smile back, apologizing.
A scream sounds, from the far corner, behind the cardboard partitions. "Get it out, get it out, get it ouuut!" Two women's heads appear over the top of the partition, jerking back and forth in a strange dance, then one of them looks up, blushes a little, and calls, "Just a bug." The whole room laughs a little, then settles back into its suffocating waiting.
Mom and I have both used the restroom twice (we're super well-hydrated) and are starting to get slap happy. Forty-five minutes into the wait, we play a two-out-of-three Rock-Paper-Scissors tournament to figure out who gets to go first. I win, but neither of us have been called, so we make it three-of-five. I win number four, then number five.
"Katie?"
I glance up, into the white-coated woman's face and ask if my mother can go first.
"It takes me longer," Mom explains. The woman in front of me chuckles.
"Slow bleeder, eh?"
The white-coated lady takes Mom away, into one of the cardboard-partitioned rooms. I try to slow my breathing and pulse, sit relaxed straight, keep my hands warm, and avoid crossing my legs.
"Katie?"
I regret my decision to let the lady take Mom, when I see that the white-coat waiting for me is a giant man without expression. I know I'm going to have to tell him all sorts of awkward things about myself, and as he leads me toward a flimsy cubicle, I also know my blood pressure is spiking.
I give him my card, and he scans it and makes me confirm my name and age and social security number about six times. I thought that the card was supposed to remove that extra step. Apparently not. I know the questions, and the answers, so I fly through them and his fingers sprint over the keyboard. I want to ask him how on earth such big hands can move that fast. He asks me to put my arms out, turn them so he can check for needle marks.
"Good, great," he says, and I want to tell him that I've never even thought of sticking anything into my arms. I leave my left arm on the table, and he places his hand over my pulse . I try not to stare, but it's hard when I can see that his two fingers nearly span my wrist. He punches in the number, tells me some ridiculous number that I know is born out of the cardboard walls and needles hovering just outside the fake doors. It's low enough, though. His hands fly over the desk, grab the sanitizer, use it, toss it back down.
"Put your middle finger out, just like this." He shows me, and I obey, surreptitiously rubbing my hands together just before I do. He rubs my finger with alcohol, pricks it, and I watch, fascinated, as he squeezes out three crimson bubbles, rejecting the first two and taking the third. I wonder Why always the third? but this giant hurried man is not the one to ask. He pushes my slide into the small machine next to me.
"Twelve point five or above and you are good to go." I lean forward to see the screen, holding my breath a little. It's totally blank, and I feel miserable, like I've already failed. But then, then, the numbers come up and they are beautifully high.
"Fourteen point nine," he says. "You've been hitting the spinach." I lean back, smile a little.
"Whoa. I've never tested that high the first time."
"I'll take credit for that." His face is serious, but there's a little twinkle in his eyes, and I flash him a smile, a real smile that I think he finally deserves. Then, oh relief, he sets up the computer, leaves me and the awkward questions alone for awhile.
I answer them, only saying yes twice, but I know that twice is quite enough to flag me.
In comes the white-coated lady who took my mother. She makes me confirm my name, age, SSN, then she sees my flagged answers. She fires a series of rote questions at me, but it's not until I tell her, "We pierced my ear with a sewing needle," that she really pays attention. I want to huddle miserably, but she's kind of staring at me, and I think to myself, Maybe my iron numbers were so high they won't reject me. So I plunge on, doubting it will help. "I mean, we sanitized it, and he even wore gloves, but it was a sewing needle, and--"
"I'm sorry," she tells me. I see the donor-desperation in her eyes as she tells me, "No, not today." She asks for the exact date, which I suddenly realize was not November at all but October 28th, and she gives me a letter of deferment, apologizing again. I think she's sorrier than I am.
Walk of shame, back to the seats. No one knows why I've been deferred--stupid confidentiality--and the giant doctor knows that my iron is more than high enough. He probably thinks I got flagged for some insanely horrific question. I slump, trying to be small, but the kind lady finds me and slips me the donor gifts, even though I didn't give. I smile at her and put them in my purse, feeling guilty and disappointed. Somehow, though, it's hard to be too disappointed when I feel like I'm winning the game called Iron Levels that I've never before quite mastered.
It's not until late that night, when I take off the bandage on my finger, that I realize my finger is purple and yellow where the giant fingers squeezed out my blood. That has never happened to me before, no matter how low my numbers were. He bruised me, I think, He bruised me no matter how high my iron was, and somehow I think this is funny, and I'm even a tiny bit proud of it.
I can't go back until October--October 28, 2011, my letter informs me--but somehow it's okay. I think this trip will last me at least that long.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Monday, July 25, 2011
what have you come to do?
He settled back into the truck seat, blinking to keep himself from falling asleep at the wheel. It'd been a long and rather shitty day, beginning with the irate customer that burst in the door as soon as it was unlocked, and ending with unexpected overtime. He'd never been more glad to see the lights go off in the little shop.
Every day his hands got a little bit softer, his skin a little lighter, and he hated it. He missed the wind, the chafing salt waves, the biting cold of the coastal dawns. He missed the breathless dance of dragging out the clawed creatures without getting pinched, the involuntary cursing when a wave crashed over the gunwales, the salt invading every crack in his coarse dry skin. Hell, he even missed the furious banter that bordered on harassment. Now--now--he realized what it really meant.
Tears stung in his eyes, but he bit his tongue and swallowed hard. Lobstermen don't cry, he shouted at his own weak self. But it was too late--his heart felt the tightening in his jaw and throat and refused to contain the grief any longer. The road blurred in front of him, and he yanked the steering wheel into the first open parking spot he saw.
Damn.
He'd parked directly in front of the footbridge, and the area still teemed with pedestrians. Even as he tried to swipe at his eyes without making a scene, an elderly couple hobbled by the passenger door, peering with unhidden interest into his truck cab. He swung open his own door, sliding out and slamming the door shut behind him. Striding past the now open-mouthed couple, he set his eyes ahead, determined not to be engaged by anyone else. He passed romantic-eyed couples, holding hands; boisterous families, attempting to curtail energetic children; calloused natives, keeping their eyes fastened on the ground.
When he realized that he'd escaped them all, he stopped, resting his arms on the railing and his eyes on the horizon. Somehow, though he'd grown up on the sea, the sunsets never failed to capture his attention. They always, somehow, seemed to be making a promise. Red sky at night, sailors' delight, he thought, echoing his dad's saying without even trying.
Dad.
Putting his head down, he wept, the salty tears dropping down and mixing with the ocean water below. He hadn't believed the words, when he left--you'll miss this place, son--but now he knew them to be true. And more than anything, he wanted it back. The back-breaking work, the cramped grey-shingled house, the rough coarse fiercely-loving camaraderie--he missed it all.
Oh, Dad . . . I want to come home!
But as he lifted his head, he knew with certainty that home-coming dream was just a fantasy. The man he knew and loved against his own will would never take back the person his son had become. Even as he wiped the tears from his face, he despised the hands without callouses, the arms without a tan. He had become weak, soft, and the tears proved it.
Lobstermen don't cry.
Damn straight, Dad.
He'd never go back home until he could prove that he was a real man, worthy to be called that hallowed name, lobsterman.
And by the looks of the tearstains on his shirt, that wouldn't be happening any time soon.
**
A year ago, she'd walked into his life, one night close to the sea. He'd seen her, swinging her skirt a little bit and laughing as she walked, and he'd walked right up to her and said hello. Looking back, he couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking--or maybe he was not thinking at all.
It'd only been a year, but already he knew most things more clearly than in all the twenty-seven years preceding. He knew that she loved starlight, and moon-risings over the sea, and rocky beaches. He knew that she liked to dance, but wasn't very good; that she sang with a peculiar unique sweetness, but was shy about her voice; that she hated wearing sneakers. He knew that her hand was small and often cold in his grip, that she tended to look down right before she said something brave, that she usually laughed right before she burst into tears. He knew that when she was angry, her eyes turned the colors of a hurricane sea, all green and grey and terror. He knew that she loved daisies of any sort, and could make a chain of them in less than a minute. He knew that she kissed like she meant it, that she preferred to hold hands and walk than make out. He knew that when she laughed in the sunset light, it looked like she was going to float away and become part of the sky itself. And he knew, at those moments, that he wanted to hold her just a little bit more tightly, to be sure, because it was then that he knew he wanted her to be with him for the rest of his life.
He knew exactly how, and when, and where, and what he wanted to ask her.
Parking his truck, he slid out, shoving the door closed behind him and striding onto the footbridge. He was too much focused on his own thoughts to notice the sideways glances of the people he passed. There was only one spot that would do, only one time, and that was where he'd very first seen her.
Right in the middle of the bridge, he stopped. This was it--the place he'd been standing when he saw her dancing toward him. He turned his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on the railing. This was the time, too, right between sunset and dusk. It was as if the sky itself was working to make his choice perfect, for as he watched, the sunset burst into flames. He stared at the horizon, not really seeing the beauty before him, but wrapped up in his plans.
Soon, he knew, he would come back here, but not alone. Next time, he'd come holding the hand of a girl who laughed and wore skirts while climbing rocks and gripped his arm like she'd never let go. Next time, he'd have a tiny treasure box hidden in his pocket, and next time, he'd turn her face toward the sunset and ask her the question that would change their lives. He knew it, knew it perfectly. He'd never known anything else, anyone else, so well in all his life.
He knew this was what he wanted--exactly what he'd always wanted.
Every day his hands got a little bit softer, his skin a little lighter, and he hated it. He missed the wind, the chafing salt waves, the biting cold of the coastal dawns. He missed the breathless dance of dragging out the clawed creatures without getting pinched, the involuntary cursing when a wave crashed over the gunwales, the salt invading every crack in his coarse dry skin. Hell, he even missed the furious banter that bordered on harassment. Now--now--he realized what it really meant.
Tears stung in his eyes, but he bit his tongue and swallowed hard. Lobstermen don't cry, he shouted at his own weak self. But it was too late--his heart felt the tightening in his jaw and throat and refused to contain the grief any longer. The road blurred in front of him, and he yanked the steering wheel into the first open parking spot he saw.
Damn.
He'd parked directly in front of the footbridge, and the area still teemed with pedestrians. Even as he tried to swipe at his eyes without making a scene, an elderly couple hobbled by the passenger door, peering with unhidden interest into his truck cab. He swung open his own door, sliding out and slamming the door shut behind him. Striding past the now open-mouthed couple, he set his eyes ahead, determined not to be engaged by anyone else. He passed romantic-eyed couples, holding hands; boisterous families, attempting to curtail energetic children; calloused natives, keeping their eyes fastened on the ground.
When he realized that he'd escaped them all, he stopped, resting his arms on the railing and his eyes on the horizon. Somehow, though he'd grown up on the sea, the sunsets never failed to capture his attention. They always, somehow, seemed to be making a promise. Red sky at night, sailors' delight, he thought, echoing his dad's saying without even trying.
Dad.
Putting his head down, he wept, the salty tears dropping down and mixing with the ocean water below. He hadn't believed the words, when he left--you'll miss this place, son--but now he knew them to be true. And more than anything, he wanted it back. The back-breaking work, the cramped grey-shingled house, the rough coarse fiercely-loving camaraderie--he missed it all.
Oh, Dad . . . I want to come home!
But as he lifted his head, he knew with certainty that home-coming dream was just a fantasy. The man he knew and loved against his own will would never take back the person his son had become. Even as he wiped the tears from his face, he despised the hands without callouses, the arms without a tan. He had become weak, soft, and the tears proved it.
Lobstermen don't cry.
Damn straight, Dad.
He'd never go back home until he could prove that he was a real man, worthy to be called that hallowed name, lobsterman.
And by the looks of the tearstains on his shirt, that wouldn't be happening any time soon.
**
A year ago, she'd walked into his life, one night close to the sea. He'd seen her, swinging her skirt a little bit and laughing as she walked, and he'd walked right up to her and said hello. Looking back, he couldn't imagine what he'd been thinking--or maybe he was not thinking at all.
It'd only been a year, but already he knew most things more clearly than in all the twenty-seven years preceding. He knew that she loved starlight, and moon-risings over the sea, and rocky beaches. He knew that she liked to dance, but wasn't very good; that she sang with a peculiar unique sweetness, but was shy about her voice; that she hated wearing sneakers. He knew that her hand was small and often cold in his grip, that she tended to look down right before she said something brave, that she usually laughed right before she burst into tears. He knew that when she was angry, her eyes turned the colors of a hurricane sea, all green and grey and terror. He knew that she loved daisies of any sort, and could make a chain of them in less than a minute. He knew that she kissed like she meant it, that she preferred to hold hands and walk than make out. He knew that when she laughed in the sunset light, it looked like she was going to float away and become part of the sky itself. And he knew, at those moments, that he wanted to hold her just a little bit more tightly, to be sure, because it was then that he knew he wanted her to be with him for the rest of his life.
He knew exactly how, and when, and where, and what he wanted to ask her.
Parking his truck, he slid out, shoving the door closed behind him and striding onto the footbridge. He was too much focused on his own thoughts to notice the sideways glances of the people he passed. There was only one spot that would do, only one time, and that was where he'd very first seen her.
Right in the middle of the bridge, he stopped. This was it--the place he'd been standing when he saw her dancing toward him. He turned his head, leaning forward to rest his arms on the railing. This was the time, too, right between sunset and dusk. It was as if the sky itself was working to make his choice perfect, for as he watched, the sunset burst into flames. He stared at the horizon, not really seeing the beauty before him, but wrapped up in his plans.
Soon, he knew, he would come back here, but not alone. Next time, he'd come holding the hand of a girl who laughed and wore skirts while climbing rocks and gripped his arm like she'd never let go. Next time, he'd have a tiny treasure box hidden in his pocket, and next time, he'd turn her face toward the sunset and ask her the question that would change their lives. He knew it, knew it perfectly. He'd never known anything else, anyone else, so well in all his life.
He knew this was what he wanted--exactly what he'd always wanted.
Tell me, baby
What's your story
Where do you come from
And where you wanna go this time
Monday, July 18, 2011
let Your love hover near
Imprecation
I call it "honest"
"emotional outpouring"
"brokenhearted praying."
Strike all my enemies on the jaw! Break the teeth of the wicked!
Why do I think it's acceptable?
I think a lot of things,
say some of them, too.
That doesn't make me right.
Imprecation
It seems harmless
a release, maybe,
just words.
Pour out Your wrath on them!
And then
I realize what it is exactly that I'm praying against.
Or who, rather.
The arrogant cannot stand in Your presence.
(How often my pride rules my actions.)
You hate all who do wrong.
(I pass injustice every day on the streets
and sometimes I perpetuate it.
Knowingly.)
You destroy those who tell lies.
(It's too hard to keep telling the truth.)
Bloodthirsty and deceitful men the LORD abhors.
(Yet here I am, screaming for the heads
of those who have wounded me,
making it all their fault
when maybe I was in the wrong, as well.)
Imprecation
It seems so hypocritical.
It feels so wrong.
Declare them guilty, O God!
Am I honestly praying for my own guilt to be revealed
gleefully recognized
fittingly punished?
Let their intrigues be their downfall!
What if mercy never caught me when I stumbled over my own plans?
Banish them for their many sins, for they have rebelled against You!
How many times have I deliberately
turned my back
shut my eyes
closed my hands
covered my ears
run the other way?
Too many times to count.
Can I demand that they be banished,
cut off,
separated,
and then dare to beg that I be spared?
Oh, God.
Oh, God, God, God, God.
Imprecation
It's a dangerous business, I think, asking for justice to be served.
Maybe I don't know what justice is at all.
Maybe my idea of "justice" is whatever seems to best serve my interests.
When I pray
Strike
Break
Pour out on
Destroy
Declare guilty
Banish
I'm forced to look in the mirror,
see the ugly truth I want to flee,
know my own faults,
and admit my deep unworthiness.
Imprecation
I see in them my own
failures
apathy
deliberate rebelliousness.
But
I, by Your great mercy,
I will come into Your house.
Unworthy as I am, I throw myself on the only thing that I know will catch me.
Imprecation has no place when I realize
I am them
and they are me.
But
by Your great mercy . . .
I call it "honest"
"emotional outpouring"
"brokenhearted praying."
Strike all my enemies on the jaw! Break the teeth of the wicked!
Why do I think it's acceptable?
I think a lot of things,
say some of them, too.
That doesn't make me right.
Imprecation
It seems harmless
a release, maybe,
just words.
Pour out Your wrath on them!
And then
I realize what it is exactly that I'm praying against.
Or who, rather.
The arrogant cannot stand in Your presence.
(How often my pride rules my actions.)
You hate all who do wrong.
(I pass injustice every day on the streets
and sometimes I perpetuate it.
Knowingly.)
You destroy those who tell lies.
(It's too hard to keep telling the truth.)
Bloodthirsty and deceitful men the LORD abhors.
(Yet here I am, screaming for the heads
of those who have wounded me,
making it all their fault
when maybe I was in the wrong, as well.)
Imprecation
It seems so hypocritical.
It feels so wrong.
Declare them guilty, O God!
Am I honestly praying for my own guilt to be revealed
gleefully recognized
fittingly punished?
Let their intrigues be their downfall!
What if mercy never caught me when I stumbled over my own plans?
Banish them for their many sins, for they have rebelled against You!
How many times have I deliberately
turned my back
shut my eyes
closed my hands
covered my ears
run the other way?
Too many times to count.
Can I demand that they be banished,
cut off,
separated,
and then dare to beg that I be spared?
Oh, God.
Oh, God, God, God, God.
Imprecation
It's a dangerous business, I think, asking for justice to be served.
Maybe I don't know what justice is at all.
Maybe my idea of "justice" is whatever seems to best serve my interests.
When I pray
Strike
Break
Pour out on
Destroy
Declare guilty
Banish
I'm forced to look in the mirror,
see the ugly truth I want to flee,
know my own faults,
and admit my deep unworthiness.
Imprecation
I see in them my own
failures
apathy
deliberate rebelliousness.
But
I, by Your great mercy,
I will come into Your house.
Unworthy as I am, I throw myself on the only thing that I know will catch me.
Imprecation has no place when I realize
I am them
and they are me.
But
by Your great mercy . . .
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
committment
Writing a really quality story (short story, novel, whatever) is much like a marriage, I think. It takes time and work and intentional commitment. Halfway through, it's tempting to give up, set it aside for a little bit, take up something else "just for a little change."
(We all know we're never coming back to that set-aside story. Let's be honest.)
I don't really like thinking of writing like this, as something I have to work at and discipline myself to do. If it doesn't come easily, natural as breathing, then what if it turns out I'm actually really bad at it? Can you love something so much . . . and it just doesn't work out? I'd prefer to compare writing to one of those awful love affairs, where everything "just happens" and there are no obstacles that can't be overcome with a few magical kisses.
But writing isn't like that. Actually, most times, writing is more like having a husband who took a really dire turn somewhere along the way. He's started working late, forgetting important promises, drinking too much, getting argumentative and difficult. He's loved . . . but it's honestly so much easier when he just forgets to come home . . .
Writing has always come and gone for me, like the ebb and flow of the tides. But I think I'm coming to the point where I know I can't keep just flirting. It's time to slow down and set up house, or leave for good before I get myself in deeper than I can swim.
(We all know we're never coming back to that set-aside story. Let's be honest.)
I don't really like thinking of writing like this, as something I have to work at and discipline myself to do. If it doesn't come easily, natural as breathing, then what if it turns out I'm actually really bad at it? Can you love something so much . . . and it just doesn't work out? I'd prefer to compare writing to one of those awful love affairs, where everything "just happens" and there are no obstacles that can't be overcome with a few magical kisses.
But writing isn't like that. Actually, most times, writing is more like having a husband who took a really dire turn somewhere along the way. He's started working late, forgetting important promises, drinking too much, getting argumentative and difficult. He's loved . . . but it's honestly so much easier when he just forgets to come home . . .
Writing has always come and gone for me, like the ebb and flow of the tides. But I think I'm coming to the point where I know I can't keep just flirting. It's time to slow down and set up house, or leave for good before I get myself in deeper than I can swim.
moats and boats and waterfalls
Home.
What a strange solid little word for such a huge elusive slippery thing.
So many things mean home to me.
Home is being in the house I grew up in, walking on the braided rug I know from all those years ago, pacing out the patterns the way I did when I was five or six. Home is sitting on the front steps of my dorm, with a good book and people passing by every few minutes. Home is the way the waves of the sea crash against my very soul, taking my breath away while somehow giving me back the vivacity I'd forgotten. Home is crouching on a step-stool in the housekeeping office, leaning my head against my knees, and listening to the pidgined language flying around me, content to wait and savor that moment. Home is the trees, the lawn, the treehouse, the stream--all in my backyard.
Home is the camaraderie of the conversations with the older couples at my church, flirting gently with the men and holding the hands of the women. Home is the freedom to scream and weep in front of a dear friend, and the knowledge that when I collapse, finally drained of all the rage and pain, she'll still be there. Home is the laughter and solemnity of reunion weekends. Home is the casualness of shouting through the bathroom door at someone in the shower. Home is the discovery of another spirit made kindred through the common bonds we share. Home is reading a book out loud, squished among four little kiddos I've learned to call "mine." Home is my father . . . my mother . . . my sister . . . my brother.
Home is the way I move through Jerusalem, strong and brave and quick, knowing there are eyes on me and not caring, keeping my head high and my face forward while my feet and hips move in a strange and swirling dance to avoid the other walkers. Home is a romance that's yet to come. Home is settling into my seat in a classroom, excited about the coming discussion, sharing laughter and smiles with my fellow students. Home is late-night tea-talks. Home is the unhinging feeling of burying my hands and face in the long fur of a wriggling dog or a purring cat. Home is the freeness of being barefoot everywhere I go. Home is the long, long farewell hugs; the shaking sobs that are made shameless by the depth of the grief; the wild determination that I have to come back, I must come back.
Is home the place? The people? The feelings?
Or is Home something I'll never quite reach, this side of eternity? Is it something that I'm meant to always miss? Will there always be that little twinge that makes me remember that there's something even more Home-y yet to come?
Home, I think, means feeling good in my own skin, and delighting in how my whole self fits into the place I am, and knowing that my very soul is recognized as beautiful by those around me. True home is having roots that go down deep. Whether those roots are in something lasting and solid, or something transient, is a decision I make each and every day . . .
What a strange solid little word for such a huge elusive slippery thing.
So many things mean home to me.
Home is being in the house I grew up in, walking on the braided rug I know from all those years ago, pacing out the patterns the way I did when I was five or six. Home is sitting on the front steps of my dorm, with a good book and people passing by every few minutes. Home is the way the waves of the sea crash against my very soul, taking my breath away while somehow giving me back the vivacity I'd forgotten. Home is crouching on a step-stool in the housekeeping office, leaning my head against my knees, and listening to the pidgined language flying around me, content to wait and savor that moment. Home is the trees, the lawn, the treehouse, the stream--all in my backyard.
Home is the camaraderie of the conversations with the older couples at my church, flirting gently with the men and holding the hands of the women. Home is the freedom to scream and weep in front of a dear friend, and the knowledge that when I collapse, finally drained of all the rage and pain, she'll still be there. Home is the laughter and solemnity of reunion weekends. Home is the casualness of shouting through the bathroom door at someone in the shower. Home is the discovery of another spirit made kindred through the common bonds we share. Home is reading a book out loud, squished among four little kiddos I've learned to call "mine." Home is my father . . . my mother . . . my sister . . . my brother.
Home is the way I move through Jerusalem, strong and brave and quick, knowing there are eyes on me and not caring, keeping my head high and my face forward while my feet and hips move in a strange and swirling dance to avoid the other walkers. Home is a romance that's yet to come. Home is settling into my seat in a classroom, excited about the coming discussion, sharing laughter and smiles with my fellow students. Home is late-night tea-talks. Home is the unhinging feeling of burying my hands and face in the long fur of a wriggling dog or a purring cat. Home is the freeness of being barefoot everywhere I go. Home is the long, long farewell hugs; the shaking sobs that are made shameless by the depth of the grief; the wild determination that I have to come back, I must come back.
Is home the place? The people? The feelings?
Or is Home something I'll never quite reach, this side of eternity? Is it something that I'm meant to always miss? Will there always be that little twinge that makes me remember that there's something even more Home-y yet to come?
Home, I think, means feeling good in my own skin, and delighting in how my whole self fits into the place I am, and knowing that my very soul is recognized as beautiful by those around me. True home is having roots that go down deep. Whether those roots are in something lasting and solid, or something transient, is a decision I make each and every day . . .
Monday, July 04, 2011
Their Fourth
Moving through the crowd with my parents, I search for the best vantage spot. Crowds are already gathered, but most of them are in lawn chairs. We will stand. We find a place, nice and clear, and stand in anticipation. I watch the group of men near us; they're chatting, smiling, shaking hands, calling each other "brother" and "man" and last names. There's still an air of anxiousness that hangs over them. An older, yet still spry man comes by, carrying the familiar walking stick. He stops, speaks to the group of men right in front of us, then moves farther down the road, past where I can see. Dammit.
"Mom, Mom," I say, batting at her arm like a child. "They're down there; the line starts down there."
"Where, where?" she answers, nearly as excited. I point, totally unmannered, and we hurry down the sidewalk, excusing ourselves to the mothers with strollers and the retirees holding dogs' leashes. We find another spot, and feel the heat of the sun after our short rush. I glance around, checking to be sure we're at the front of the line. I think we are.
In a few minutes, a man climbs into the open-sided jeep in front of us. A young man, too young actually, climbs in beside him, and I suspect he's some sort of medical attendant. He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't think he deserves this place and the attention. The jeep driver starts the engine, and Dad grins.
"That jeep, she purrs," he chuckles. I smile at him, but I'm already feeling my throat tightening.
Then, I hear music from our left, down the street. All of us, sitting or standing, crane our necks, swiveling for the best view. A line of five comes down the street, followed by a line of three. Two of them, on the ends, carry rifles; the rest carry flags. My eyes blur, but just for a minute. There's a lull, and the crowd stirs with restlessness and expectation. The spry older man steps into the middle of the street and gazes down, waiting for a signal. He turns and says something to the others, and they shift almost as one. A group files out from the side of the street, to our right, then the man in the middle of the street nods, and waves his hand.
And it begins. The jeep pulls out, hauling the trailer with the old familiar bell and the sign.
And I cry as I watch them.
They're older men, the same ages my grandfathers would be. Many of them wear baseball hats with words emblazoned across the front; some of them wear the hats of their military branches. Each of them carries the smooth light-colored wooden walking stick with the flags and design. Though they're stooped with age and pain, wearing suspenders to keep their pants at their waists, their steps are measured and sure. They've done longer marches than this; they've walked harder roads than this. I can imagine them, as young men, younger than I am now, full of life and vigor and recklessness, marching out onto the new ground. We'll send 'em back where they belong. I can see them, terrified out of their minds, face first in a muddy hole, clutching photos or letters or medallions. There's a woman marching in the front row, clutching hands with a man next to her, and I wonder if I could ever be so strong as she, white-haired and wrinkled as she is. I think of the terror of an entire world at war, a war that was concentrated on the shoulders of men young enough to be college students, yet old enough to leave wives and children at home. I wonder about their families, their stories. I watch the men they are today walk by, as straight as their old bones will let them stand, and I cry harder as the last one passes.
Right behind them is another banner, another group of men. They're a little younger, the ages of my uncles, though some of them are stooped with pains other than age. They walk just as proudly, just as strong, as the men before them. They're waving more then the others, smiling a little more, but their eyes are still haunted. Their walking sticks are the same size and shape, but the flag pattern is a little different. Over half of these men wear the black shirts with the white words and outlined silhouette. You are not forgotten. I wonder how many of them are still waiting for a partner, a brother, a buddy to come home from the prisons. Though their fight was shorter, less global, I know it was just as horrible. I think of the new and terrible weapons these men used and experienced, the fear and confusion of smoke-filled jungles, and I shiver for them. I ache when I think of the confusion, the reproachful near-betrayal they felt when their government acted embarrassed of the effort they'd made. My tears flow just as freely for them, too.
There's another group coming, the largest so far. These men are the strongest, outwardly, and the youngest, but many of them walk with limps or lean too hard on their walking sticks. Some of them walk straight and proud, but many of them look nearly embarrassed to be there. I know why, and I feel angry at a world, a country, that spat on them when they were weakest. Like the others, these men did what they were told to do, fought and bled and watched their comrades die. They left wives and babies, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters and cousins, and home. I imagine them, young, strong, confident in their victory . . . and I see their shock when it never came. I see their joy when they were told the war was won, they were told they could go home. And I cringe at the shock and confusion when they came home to neighbors who screamed the ugly words at them--baby-killer!--and strangers who burnt the flag that'd been so precious to the men over the sea. Make love, not war. It's been within my memory that they've been allowed, requested, to march, and I remember many faces from that first year, when we spilt out onto the sidewalks and clapped until our hands hurt, trying to make right the wrongs done to them those many years ago. I weep, knowing that, really, nothing will ever erase that burning betrayal of the past.
Now a small group marches past, only a handful, really. Only a few of them are in civilian dress; the rest are still in their ACUs and combat boots. There is a noticeable number of women in their group. They're wearing sunglasses, mostly, and have their sleeves rolled up. I know that their wives, husbands, and little children are probably watching from sidewalks somewhere close by. Always ready, always there. I know that they have no time to bask in the applause and salutes and cheers. In the next few months, weeks, even days maybe, most of them will be redeployed, sent out to arid shining lands where any beauty is erased by the blazing sun. I imagine the sunburns, the cracked lips, the constant thirst. They're engaging with the crowd the most, and I meet their eyes with my own tear-filled ones.
The buses are here, and I raise my head, tipping my face to squint up into the windows. They've started putting a sign on the sides--Veterans--because people used to ignore the buses, stop clapping, sit down. This year, there's a man standing on the steps of each vehicle, waving at us. Their eyes are still sharp, mostly, and each one of them clutches the walking stick in his hand. These are men and women whose bodies no longer have the capability to walk the relatively-short route, the ones who have physically suffered the most. And yet here they are, waving little flags and wearing the hats and smiling down at us. One man is so hunched from age and pain that he can barely peep over the edge of the window, but his crumpled little hand still feebly waves the flag he fought for. God bless America, boys. I wave back, doing my best to smile through my tears.
And then, the buses are gone, taking the last of these soldiers with them. I wipe away my tears, get a drink, look around shyly at the people around me. Most of the others have gone back to their chairs, are chatting with the people beside them. My father puts his hat back on, and the parade flows past us like nothing happened.
I look at the ground. A few last tears trickle down my face as I swallow the lump still in my throat, my heart still somewhere on a battlefield. I think I can hear the soldiers whispering.
Ora pro nóbis peccatóribus, nunc et in hóra mórtis nóstrae; Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our deaths . . . Shema, Israel, Adonai Eloheinu, Adonai echad; Hear, O Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is One . . . Bismillāhi r-rahmāni r-rahīm; In the name of God, the most beneficent, the most merciful . . . Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name . . . Oh, God, don't let me die here!
I blink and glance up. The sun is still shining, and I am standing next to my parents. The children behind and in front of me are squealing and laughing at the floats passing by, and I feel the day rolling on, too.
But I know that next year, I will stand, and I will applaud, and I will cry for these soldiers again. And, I find, I am glad for the tears, because they mean I have not forgotten. I don't think I could forget, even if I wanted to.
And I know I will never stop crying when, once more, the soldiers march on by.
"Mom, Mom," I say, batting at her arm like a child. "They're down there; the line starts down there."
"Where, where?" she answers, nearly as excited. I point, totally unmannered, and we hurry down the sidewalk, excusing ourselves to the mothers with strollers and the retirees holding dogs' leashes. We find another spot, and feel the heat of the sun after our short rush. I glance around, checking to be sure we're at the front of the line. I think we are.
In a few minutes, a man climbs into the open-sided jeep in front of us. A young man, too young actually, climbs in beside him, and I suspect he's some sort of medical attendant. He looks uncomfortable, like he doesn't think he deserves this place and the attention. The jeep driver starts the engine, and Dad grins.
"That jeep, she purrs," he chuckles. I smile at him, but I'm already feeling my throat tightening.
Then, I hear music from our left, down the street. All of us, sitting or standing, crane our necks, swiveling for the best view. A line of five comes down the street, followed by a line of three. Two of them, on the ends, carry rifles; the rest carry flags. My eyes blur, but just for a minute. There's a lull, and the crowd stirs with restlessness and expectation. The spry older man steps into the middle of the street and gazes down, waiting for a signal. He turns and says something to the others, and they shift almost as one. A group files out from the side of the street, to our right, then the man in the middle of the street nods, and waves his hand.
And it begins. The jeep pulls out, hauling the trailer with the old familiar bell and the sign.
At the end of the war in 1945, bells rang all over Maine.
Beside me, my father takes off his hat and starts the applause with a loud steady clap, and my mother and I join him. Around us, I hear others clapping, too, and I barely see the people in the lawn chairs around us rising to their feet. Mostly what I see is the men on the road.And I cry as I watch them.
They're older men, the same ages my grandfathers would be. Many of them wear baseball hats with words emblazoned across the front; some of them wear the hats of their military branches. Each of them carries the smooth light-colored wooden walking stick with the flags and design. Though they're stooped with age and pain, wearing suspenders to keep their pants at their waists, their steps are measured and sure. They've done longer marches than this; they've walked harder roads than this. I can imagine them, as young men, younger than I am now, full of life and vigor and recklessness, marching out onto the new ground. We'll send 'em back where they belong. I can see them, terrified out of their minds, face first in a muddy hole, clutching photos or letters or medallions. There's a woman marching in the front row, clutching hands with a man next to her, and I wonder if I could ever be so strong as she, white-haired and wrinkled as she is. I think of the terror of an entire world at war, a war that was concentrated on the shoulders of men young enough to be college students, yet old enough to leave wives and children at home. I wonder about their families, their stories. I watch the men they are today walk by, as straight as their old bones will let them stand, and I cry harder as the last one passes.
Right behind them is another banner, another group of men. They're a little younger, the ages of my uncles, though some of them are stooped with pains other than age. They walk just as proudly, just as strong, as the men before them. They're waving more then the others, smiling a little more, but their eyes are still haunted. Their walking sticks are the same size and shape, but the flag pattern is a little different. Over half of these men wear the black shirts with the white words and outlined silhouette. You are not forgotten. I wonder how many of them are still waiting for a partner, a brother, a buddy to come home from the prisons. Though their fight was shorter, less global, I know it was just as horrible. I think of the new and terrible weapons these men used and experienced, the fear and confusion of smoke-filled jungles, and I shiver for them. I ache when I think of the confusion, the reproachful near-betrayal they felt when their government acted embarrassed of the effort they'd made. My tears flow just as freely for them, too.
There's another group coming, the largest so far. These men are the strongest, outwardly, and the youngest, but many of them walk with limps or lean too hard on their walking sticks. Some of them walk straight and proud, but many of them look nearly embarrassed to be there. I know why, and I feel angry at a world, a country, that spat on them when they were weakest. Like the others, these men did what they were told to do, fought and bled and watched their comrades die. They left wives and babies, fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters and cousins, and home. I imagine them, young, strong, confident in their victory . . . and I see their shock when it never came. I see their joy when they were told the war was won, they were told they could go home. And I cringe at the shock and confusion when they came home to neighbors who screamed the ugly words at them--baby-killer!--and strangers who burnt the flag that'd been so precious to the men over the sea. Make love, not war. It's been within my memory that they've been allowed, requested, to march, and I remember many faces from that first year, when we spilt out onto the sidewalks and clapped until our hands hurt, trying to make right the wrongs done to them those many years ago. I weep, knowing that, really, nothing will ever erase that burning betrayal of the past.
Now a small group marches past, only a handful, really. Only a few of them are in civilian dress; the rest are still in their ACUs and combat boots. There is a noticeable number of women in their group. They're wearing sunglasses, mostly, and have their sleeves rolled up. I know that their wives, husbands, and little children are probably watching from sidewalks somewhere close by. Always ready, always there. I know that they have no time to bask in the applause and salutes and cheers. In the next few months, weeks, even days maybe, most of them will be redeployed, sent out to arid shining lands where any beauty is erased by the blazing sun. I imagine the sunburns, the cracked lips, the constant thirst. They're engaging with the crowd the most, and I meet their eyes with my own tear-filled ones.
The buses are here, and I raise my head, tipping my face to squint up into the windows. They've started putting a sign on the sides--Veterans--because people used to ignore the buses, stop clapping, sit down. This year, there's a man standing on the steps of each vehicle, waving at us. Their eyes are still sharp, mostly, and each one of them clutches the walking stick in his hand. These are men and women whose bodies no longer have the capability to walk the relatively-short route, the ones who have physically suffered the most. And yet here they are, waving little flags and wearing the hats and smiling down at us. One man is so hunched from age and pain that he can barely peep over the edge of the window, but his crumpled little hand still feebly waves the flag he fought for. God bless America, boys. I wave back, doing my best to smile through my tears.
And then, the buses are gone, taking the last of these soldiers with them. I wipe away my tears, get a drink, look around shyly at the people around me. Most of the others have gone back to their chairs, are chatting with the people beside them. My father puts his hat back on, and the parade flows past us like nothing happened.
I look at the ground. A few last tears trickle down my face as I swallow the lump still in my throat, my heart still somewhere on a battlefield. I think I can hear the soldiers whispering.
I see the smoke, hear the screams, smell the gunpowder, feel the explosions, taste the the bitter terror as if it were my own. It roars and roars until everything seems black.
I blink and glance up. The sun is still shining, and I am standing next to my parents. The children behind and in front of me are squealing and laughing at the floats passing by, and I feel the day rolling on, too.
But I know that next year, I will stand, and I will applaud, and I will cry for these soldiers again. And, I find, I am glad for the tears, because they mean I have not forgotten. I don't think I could forget, even if I wanted to.
And I know I will never stop crying when, once more, the soldiers march on by.
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