With you, I am more me,
as if infused,
as if you found a piece of me, a
passing cloud
and collected it between your warm palms
hiding it there for years,
until you sensed me near,
and then,
ever so quietly,
waited for my gaze to land on you,
held out your hands,
and opened them.
With love.
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6 years old. Mom just sent me to my room for “snipping at her” for who can remember what. I slam the door in a huff, yelling, “I hate you!” and “You’re not my mommy!” I stomp around he floor. I pound my fists onto the bed. I cry hot tears. I pull a black vinyl record out of its sleeve & place its hole over the pin of my portable record player, turning the dial up high. She’ll be sorry!
But anger melts into remorse, and not ten minutes later I write a note, in red and blue marker — “I love you mommy” — & slide it under the door.
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When we were kids, mom & dad paid us to do chores around the house. 10¢ to dust. 5¢ to clean the toilet. 25¢ to vacuum. It’s how we earned the money we needed to buy candy bars at the nearby grocery store, or, if we pedaled across the creek, at the 7-11.
In 6th grade, our new next-door neighbors paid me 75¢ an hour to babysit their 2-year old. That was 25¢ more than my mom paid me to help out in her day care home.
Early lessons in economics never leave you.
Note: Odd that two random words, today’s and yesterday’s, would share the first three letters!
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When is the last time I touched the earth? Truly touched it? I spend my time in boxes, even my feet boxed up, hands too high up to ever get dirty.
Ok, not true: a few weeks ago I weeded the patch out back that passes as a yard, maybe eight square feet of dirt.
Do bricks count as earth? They started out that way, but does human intervention disqualify them?
Even when those humans have themselves returned to earth, as we all will?
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Now, as the darkness lengthens, leaves dropping from the trees, my feet and neck wanting wrapping, I steel myself for winter. Even in California we feel the cold (we appreciate subtlety here). Yes, I revel in pumpkins, persimmons, cozy sweaters not worn since last year, curling by a fire to the sound of raindrops on windows. But oh, the beguiling sweetness of an impossibly far off summer day.
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