dmseay

Trees bare

Brown.

An advertisement for Gun Town.

Highway signs

30, 27, 30

East and west.

Tall grass and cat’s tails.

Make room for semis.

Wires hanging in air

Brown poles smelling old.

A Dollar General.

And open fields

Stretching on and on and on

They are barren now.

We wait

We wait.

Lake Michigan is always dramatic. Even on its calm days it comes across as extraordinary. The mass body of water washing up on the beaches of Chicago, Traverse City, take on a hue and energy that the two coasts simply do not have. It is amazing.

I used to run along the shoreline in my younger days. From Belmont to North and round the bend, I’d stretch my legs out, arms swinging, head bobbing, and look on as the tide rolled in. The sun going down, birds flying over head, there was a real serenity.

But, my favorite time to go to the shore was during the autumn and winter months. That was when Michigan was most theatrical. Waves crashing the beaches,climbing high and bending, I’d gaze. The temperature so cold, one could swear they saw a wave freeze.

However, this was just an illusion. Waves do not freeze. I know this now. For that was a time in my youth when all was possible. The impossible never crossed my mind.

They say in America you can be whatever you want. You’re allowed to dream. Dream big. The bigger the dream the more American you are. Looking at Lake Michigan I would dream. Never a nightmare. I’m one of the lucky ones.

There are those who look upon the body of wonder with great fear. Perhaps something happened to them in their youth. Maybe a costly mistake in the unforgiving water. Maybe, they no longer dream. That dream died. So did a spirit. So did a spirit.

I have not seen Lake Michigan in years. I have not dreamt for some time. Oh that I might dream again some day. And walk on the shores of the great lake. Or, is my spirit gone too.

He smelled. Looked dirty. Clothes too big for him. Hair disheveled. Could have used a shave. Beard below his chin.

Carried a gym bag with him. Just a plain old green bag he used to carry books, a shirt, pair of wool socks. Had a copy of Moby Dick and Leaves of Grass. This would comfort him at night.

Slept in a public parking garage. Up on the top floor. Over in a corner. Kept a blanket downstairs by the dumpsters. Hidden by newspapers,various debris, sometimes a tarp. It was a miracle the Mexican cover was never stolen. He got it years ago at a Salvation Army. There was no room for it in his bag.

On any given day you could find him in the park. He’d spend hours there watching people pass by. Moms with baby strollers, businessmen on lunch break, kids playing soccer in the fields. He’d look at them and wonder, how did they pull that off? To be normal. He’d then read from his books and think, we all have our cross to carry.

And then he’d dream.

Time passed him by. He waited forever it seemed. Long afternoons spent in the park; waiting.

He’d watch the geese walk by. Ducks talked to him. Leaves on trees up high like painted pictures. Sitting there by the brook looking on at statues, swingsets, slides, and little kids playing. Remembering his time, his life.

Thought about John baptizing Jesus in the river Jordan. Thought of his own baptism years ago before he knew what he was getting into; the responsibility of faith. Where had it gone? Now there was just a void in his heart, his soul.

And all the splendor that lay before him. Did the father create that? Or, did nature run its course?

Always thinking. The old man couldn’t stop thinking. It’s all he had left. Belief had long since gone.

Now it was just a constant question; faith, life, nature, the Bible, prophets, Jesus, Abraham, Mohammed, Buddha? The list goes on and on. It’s in these times that we all question.

He waited. Waiting for something. A sign. But, there was none. There was none. And, time passed him by.

They sat in the coffee shop holding hands as his eyes undressed younger women. She was aware of this, always had been. Look, but, don’t touch was her motto.

The grandmother knew she could no-longer turn heads. Particularly her husband’s. Her once thick, long, brunette waves had now become gray and stringy, thin on top. And her cheeks did not set high; nothing did. But, she had his hand to hold. She was most proud of that.

These two had been married for fifty years. They had just celebrated with the kids and grandchildren. Capped it off by going to Paris for a week. Walking around the city, his eyes were filled with attractive women. She just giggled. Saying to herself, some things never change.

Walks in the parks, art museums, fine restaurants, and always hand in hand. It would be that way till the day he died. He took very good care of her. Told her he loved her ‘fore slumber each night. She missed that.

The old man had been gone a month before she had the strength to go through his things. Old clothes he never wore, hats of various kinds, and a desk filled with unpaid bills, receipts, and letters. Written letters to him without a return address. Stamps and coins in a copper bowl.

These letters reeked of perfume. She didn’t know why she’d never smelled them before. It was Chanele, her favorite. His too. Some were written on stationary while others were written on plain white paper in black ink. They were love letters. Dated up to a week before he died. Sweet messages of an affair that had gone on for years. Her name was Lilly.

At first she cried, felt betrayed. Tremendously betrayed. Anger was in her. She called all his friends to ask if they knew of this Lilly woman. They all played innocent. And there were pictures of her. A tall woman with ginger hair and obvious work done to her. A tightening here, an adjustment there. She was thin. She was thin.

The mother of two and grandmother of six, placed the letters and pictures in an old coffee can outside one night and watched them burn. But, she never forgot of their marriage, their trips, their walks hand in hand. She just whispered, you think you know somebody.

He sat in darkness drinking wine. Placing the glass to his lips, he took large gulps. Swigged it down like it was the last bottle he’d ever have. It was a sweet Reisling. Tasted like syrup, sugar from the cane. He always had a bottle on hand. One to replace the next one.

The long stemmed glass he drank from had their initials on it. She picked them out. Had em hand engraved. Etched in by a master craftsman. Or, some kid at the mall.

The old man would sit and listen to jazz for hours while drinking bottle after bottle. A big toe was cut off; diabetes will do that. He knew it was a matter of time before blindness would set in. Never to be able to see again. He’d miss looking at pictures.

Every night he took out albums of old photographs and looked through them. The retired insurance salesman would cry over pictures of his wife, kids, grand kids, the family dog. Pictures of Paris, Berlin, New York, kissing in San Fransisco, they all made him shiver. These people were gone now. These places had changed. There was no going back. All of it was different now; wife passed away, kids living their own lives, the old house was falling apart.

Memories, that’s all he had. Too sit and drink while remembering the old days; a tear always came to his eye.

He finished the bottle of Reisling. Took his medications and never woke up. He dreamed forever.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting. On the nightstand was a Gideon’s Bible. That along with some change and a gold watch his wife had got him for Christmas. He put the Bible in the drawer. Placed his wallet on the bed and opened it; pulling out hundred dollar bills, a Starbucks card, and a Visa. The picture of his wife and son remained. He didn’t want to look at it.

The phone call was made an hour ago. She answered. He said he’d like to meet her. Told the woman what hotel he was at. Gave out his room number. Said he’d take care of her. They did not exchange names.

She asked if he was a cop? Nervously he said no. Said he was from out of town. Told the lady he was from Buffalo. She laughed. I don’t get too many from Buffalo, she said. I think you’re the first. He assured her that he was from out of town and was not a cop. She said she’d be right over.

What am I doing? he asked the blank wall, looking for the face of Jesus in it. Forgive me of these sins Father. Forgive me, the man pleaded. There was a knock on the door. He decided not to answer. Turned off the lights. There was another knock. And, another.

Go away, he said. Just go away. He looked through the peep hole. She was skinny, blonde hair a mess, makeup like a circus clown. She knocked again. I said go away, he began to sweat.

Open the mother fucking door, she said in a quiet scream. Open it. He did not. I’ll get my boy after you, she yelled while walking away. You’ll see.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Waiting.

Watching crows eat potato chips

Thrown on the ground

Tossed out

They peck at them

Pieces of stale wheat bread too

They’d eat that in Africa

Roof tops shine in the sun

Winter’s frost is here

Why rush the seasons?

The crows are certainly not

They’d spend hours talking on the phone. Started in the evening and quit when the sun came up. Talked of past and present. Marriages, divorces, life in California-where she lived- life in Chicago where he did. The two of em would talk about high school. And the first time they kissed. He kept a picture of her on his nightstand. She kept a picture of him in her mind.

She told him she’d lost her virginity to some movie actor out in Hollywood. A member of a famous family. Said they carried on for awhile. Till he got bored with her. The woman spoke of all the different life experiences she’d had. So did he. Talking about drug use and wild parties thrown in Chi-town. Models he’d dated, actresses as well. It made them jealous, this talk of lovers. It made them long for each other more.

And he told her about traveling all over the states. Living in New York. Dollar slices of pizza. Homeless shelters. Spending time in Bellevue. Telling her the truth. She was sympathetic. She listened.

These days were different for him. The insanity of youth had stopped. They talked of him moving out there to be with her. They talked.

One night she stopped calling him. And he would call, leave messages,but, it was only a voice on a machine. Left some wild rambling statements.

He tried everything to track her down. She’d disappeared. Left without a trace. He gave up. Chicago gets cold in the winter.

The table was empty. No one sat there. There had not been a sit down dinner in years for the family of four. They all sat in the living room and watched television during their meals. The kids would want to watch cartoons whereas mom and dad longed for a night of news. Often, the kids won out.

There was never a time when the old oak table-handed down from her grandad-was used. The two never hosted holidays, nor dinner parties. It just didn’t interest them. They both had busy lives. Professional lives. Dinner was often take out or Blue Aprin. Depending on whether or not she could find time to fill out a menu.

This old table gave her memories. It was where the adults sat at Thanksgiving and Christmas. It’s where grandad offered grace. Hands folded, elbows on table, as old pop would pray to God. She remembered them well.

It’s also where she would eat breakfast when visiting the grandparents. Grandmother would give her a bowl of cereal which would turn into mush due to her refusal to eat it. And, at lunch, where that same soggy bowl would appear again. They’re starving in China, Grandmother said. So finish it, the little girl would cry and cry until it was taken away.

The table was also the place where Dad would place his head and fall asleep at night. Reeking of booze, the old man would lay there in a pool of drool only to be awakened by mother’s nagging.

She hated seeing her father this way. Hated it also the night he didn’t wake up. Lying dead at the table. His head turned sideways. Staring at a picture of a girl in pink.

And-as often the case-the family sat on the couches and watched television while eating Chinese food. While the table lay bare. She would hand it down to her daughter.