The Afghan

"This," my friend says, "is lovely."
Lovely is never a word
I use to describe the ugly afghan
crocheted by my grandmother
and dragged out of storage
when guests sleep on the sofa.

It is avocado green and orange,
milk chocolate brown,
and amber gold,
like the yellow my parents
painted the kitchen
of our new house.

"She picked each color herself,"
my friend explains,
as she carefully runs her fingers
up and over the zigzag pattern
with awe and affection,
though she never
met my grandmother.

It is the color palette
of my seventies family,
when Mom and Dad
were almost-happy still,
my sister played with Barbie
by the sliding glass window,
and my bangs were
appropriately feathered
away from my face.

"She thought about
you and your family
with each stitch."

I could see her then,
sitting in her green recliner,
counting stitches like
the beads on her Rosary.
"Love Boat" on the Sylvania,
drinking instant iced tea
while a cigarette smokes
from the ashtray.

It was after her husband died,
and Grandmom traveled
with her dog Coco,
bringing Shoo Fly Pie and
Moravian Sugar Cake from
Pennsylvania to our house
in Connecticut.

That Christmas,
she crocheted ponchos for us, too,
and took me to Hawaii
to see my Grandfather's name
carved in marble at the
Pearl Harbor Memorial.

The same deft hands
that crafted this blanket
raised son and daughter
independently in the fifties;
folded in prayer
for neighbors and friends;
prepared feasts
with love
for grandchildren.

"So much thought went into this,"
my friend continues,
as we carefully fold the afghan
and place it on top
of the antique hope chest
in the corner.

"Each stitch, each row,
holds love and memories."

March Long Weekend

It's barely 6 a.m.
and I'm busy.
Thankfully busy
with last minute laundry
and suitcase selection.
The outfits I will wear
hang on the curtain rod
in the bathroom--
Thursday, Friday,
Saturday, Sunday.

In a flurry,
I pass by the list
that sits in the
dining room:
Journal - check.
Books - check.
Pens - check.
Half-finished story
that needs editing,
and a red pen - check.

The car is cleaned out.
The cat food is stacked
on the kitchen counter
with instructions for
how to and when to.
The extra coat,
ice scraper, boots,
and umbrella--
sentinels at the door:
"are we there yet?"

The laptop glows,
plugged in and humming.
The charger says the
camera will be ready soon.
The cell phone is attached
to the kitchen outlet--
when the light turns green
we "Go!"

So this is what they mean
by "recharging your batteries."

It's All Greek to Them

My mother--
not content
with "grandcats"--
tries to set me up.

A nice man, she says.
Goes to church.
Works at a bank.
Drives a nice car.

"Does he write?"
I ask.
"Paint?"
"Travel?"

"I don't know,
you'll like him,"
she insists.
Hopes.

"I have enough,"
I tell her.
"My work, writing,
the house, friends."

"Think about it,"
she says.
"I have,"
I respond.

She asks again,
a week later.
Three weeks later.
"No, Mom."

"He doesn't understand,"
she tells me.
"You don't understand,"
I reply.

"You meet, no?"
says her boyfriend,
the older Greek
from upstairs.

"You talk.
You like.
You get married.
No?"

"No,"
I think to scream--
but am polite
to my elders.

"Honey," he says,
"You are alone.
You get married,
you are happy."

"I am happy,"
I insist,
no doubt in
Swahili.

Making the Bed

Wednesday,
2:00.

A crystal’s rainbows
dance about
in southern sun,
as I fluff pillows
and straighten sheets.
Its intention:
new energy
in this space we shared.

Why is it then,
I think of you, still?

Dream Sequence

Technicolor,
full-length feature—
he comes to me
each night.
Every night.

In patchwork scenes
from waking-life…
across the table
in a diner,
by the water
near the beach,
in an elevator
at the museum.

Extras walking
back and forth,
standing, waiting.
I don't recognize them—
or him.
He is the news anchor,
the clerk at the store,
Bill Clinton?
I laugh and turn over
in my sleep.

"Where are you?"
I ask.
"Are you OK?"
"Are you safe?"
He responds
as if reading a
script I wrote myself.
My words, my answers...
drop meaningless
on the pillow.

I can feel him—
his hand in mine—
and smile
before waking fully.
Small comfort
in the quiet
of this empty stage.

Beautiful Foolishness

Bursting from the confines
of appropriate
and polite
and compliant,
I exploded!
Ran down the street
with arms and legs flailing.
Did a pirouette in the
produce aisle.
Stomped my foot
and yelled with a roar.
Rolled in the grass
like a playful pup.
Jumped in the ocean
fully clothed.
Sang wicked loud
in a crowded room.
It's not chagrin
this pink on my cheeks.
But flush
from the rush
of beautiful,
unrestrained
foolishness.

Identity Theft

I looked
in the mirror
and saw nothing.
Pieces of familiar fall away.
Sticks poke at what's left.

Start from scratch
or use a box mix?
Put square peg
in square hole...
that's never been my style.

I took a walk
to get answers.
Insert A into B, get C.
But all I saw was ocean.
Vast and unresolved.

IT doesn't seem
to need answers.
In. Out. Back. Forth.
Up. Down. [Repeat.]
I take my cue and leave.

It's OK. Really.
I was bored with her anyway.
If you please,
may I see something
in a polygon?

Metamorphosis

Safely
wrapped
inside
the chrysalid.
Cloaked in
appropriate action
and matching
predictability.
Drone.
Dispassionate.
Dormant.

Until your ignorance—
of magic
and second chances
and love—
shattered
the false refuge.
And I,
laid bare
and fetal-curled,
with
old life seeping
from my eyes,
enough
to drown.

Choking, thrashing.
Retching words
of sorrow and
confusion.
Grasping helpless
in the murky
residue
of memory.
What light?
What life
beyond all this?

Until…
Colors
bold and strong
unfurled.
Beating in
singular cadence.
Defiant
in the face
of ordinary.
Hungry for
exultation.
Rising!
Reborn!
Resplendent!

What Sound, Change?

I remember
sitting on the front porch
that August night
my father died
thinking surely I would know.
Surely there would be
some sign
some sound
to note the if and when
of his passing

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.

I remember
leaving you
two years ago
this day
thinking
“I will never see you again.”
No fanfare.
No crescendo.
Wet gravel beneath my tires,
winter rain against the window--
change’s only notes.

I remember.
Its aftermath
still echoes
like the tempest
that brews
overhead
this morning.

I want
the thunder to
crash loudly.
Rattle the roof
and windows.
Mark the anniversary
with ferocity

THIS IS THE DAY.

But
change needs
no fanfare.
No crescendo.