Those days when my

persistence got the better

of me.  And you, kind

enough to send me to my room.

Gentle words, though harsh

enough for a boy of nine, or

was it ten?

But ever-loving of a blonde

boy, and yes, blue eyes...

How changes were complicated

though needed, and now we

have an understanding that

reflects ourselves those days,

Mother and son.  

Tying Knots

The rain made its way on the leaves.  It dripped to the dry ground underneath and stained the raw dirt patches throughout the yard.  The samara on the ground lay brittle and torn.   He smoothed out a blade of grass between his finger and thumb.  He stood, tying knots.  Are you ready? he asked.   She shook her head but he rolled toward the house.  Too much chill in the air for a body so frail she thought but ached to stay outside. Making their way to the door was a chore.  As they approached the door, the bump of the wheel on the lip of the doorway jarred her pain awake and moved her spine.  The living nerves seared; the dead ones lay dormant.  He angled her chair back toward his front and hoisted with enough reserve to muster a final push.  For him, of course, inside out of the rain.  Never about me she thought.

No, never about me.  But I’ll have him.  I’ll have him move me and halt me; dirty me and bathe me; feed me and wipe me; love me and hate me.  When I sleep and when his touch chisels the shale of a frayed life.  I’ll have him.

She pulled the only living arm up out of its place atop the vinyl right hand rail.  She stroked her thanks on his arm but he did not notice.  The left arm twitched its approval but could do no more.  Its only salvation an exercise of right angle pushes and pulls to keep its memories of movement living.

She rested her arm back in its place.  A samara stuck in the tread of her wheel caught her attention.  She removed it and put it in her left hand almost sensing the wetness of its mark. If only to remember this day.  She looked out a level window to where she had just resigned herself to him.  The wheels marked tracks in the wet grass and trailed their leaving for the watching birds.  

Washing Hands

He cracked the thin sheet of ice atop the garbage can and washed his hands with the snow that remained underneath. The grease from the headlamp well had dirtied his hands.  He was thrilled it washed off without much effort.  Did you get those wipers on already?  the clerk asked as he snapped in place another man’s wipers.  No, they’re not for me.  They’re for my wife.  He asked Can I attach them for you?  Asking a man to attach his wipers for him is rather emasculating he thought.  He couldn’t bear to witness it, and for others to see.  Other men like himself wincing through their car’s windows, the store windows.  He would rather drive wiper less, the metal of the arm scraping a wide, perfect arc on his windshield.  He could hardly buy toilet paper.  It was a sign that people knew he actually shit.  It was the same with the diapers.  No, he wasn’t so concerned about having a child, but that people knew how that child came to be.  What they must be thinking. It was too much pressure to bear sometimes.  He was an awkward person but liked to believe he was a private person.  When he talked it was to divert attention away from what mattered, though he never said much.  And for better or worse he was often witty.  Grounded with a sense of humor that was a gift.  He had lost it. 

He drove out of the gray auto parts store lot and onto the main thoroughfare.  My God he thought.  He imagined himself driving west on the outer-belt, circling once or twice around the city.  He would simply exit, just exit on the nearest west highway.  The city would reflect itself in his rearview mirror, yellow and gold, a treasure unfound.  The note he left wouldn’t say much—“Getting a new headlamp and wipers to replace the worn wipers on your car.  Dinner?” 

He drove too close to the berm.  The rough-cut pavement chewed his tires shaking him out of his half-sleep.  He woke thinking about the note he had left.  He imagined himself rather polite for leaving a note at all. 

It’s a God damn shame that what brought him back was a pair of $20 windshield wipers.  His hands were still cold from the snow.