dmseay

Winds blew and trees swayed back and forth to a rhythmic beat. It was the dance of nature. He watched from his front porch; sun casting shadows, flowers still showed off colors; Indian summer.

And he looked at the black asphalt running in front of his house; shining like a new penny. Tall grass growing by the foot on the sides of the road. Birds swooping into nests built in gutters, trees. It was all like some kind of movie, or, painting; an old Chevy truck sat in the front yard.

The sounds of semis and motorcycles from the highway made a soundtrack. Soon it would be the slushing of snow; nature’s death before resurrection. He knew it was coming; winter, darkness would come early.

But, he was at peace on that day. His last day. Finality has a beauty. Goodbye dear friend.

There were no leaves on trees. Autumn had passed. In fact, autumn never came. It just turned from hot to cold in the blink of an eye. Snow had yet to come.

He looked out the window of his hospital room. He’d been inside for months. The same old regimen, day in day out. Patients pacing halls. Lining up for medications. Arts and crafts. Group therapy. Death is never the better option. That’s what they told him.

Life, he said, is funny. What keeps us in the game? or, maybe we no longer wish to play; give up. Take drugs and be a zombie. That’s what he had decided to do; check out. Stay in Bellevue as long as he could. And when released, consider the possibilities.

Winter. Wishing for snow. Ice skating at Bryant Park. Christmas is in high gear. Shops and tinsel. Trees decorated. Soon the mayor would flip the switch and the city could breath again. But, for now, he looked at 1st Avenue down below. Wishing it all wouldn’t move so fast. He needed the pace to be slower. Don’t we all.

The house was bare; no furniture in it. Not a pan or a pot in the kitchen. The bed was gone in the bedroom. An old love seat had vanished. He looked around the place for clues. Paintings which were once on the walls disappeared and things like lamps, chandeliers replaced with hanging light bulbs. Cracks in the walls.

This is where he grew up. This is where the old man spent his childhood; outside on a swingset, sliding down a slide. They were gone too. Brown grass and dirt lay where the boy’s youth was spent. Dad used to push him on Sundays high into the sky. Mom would watch as she fried up chicken livers.

The old man walked outside to the driveway where the basketball hoop still stood, mounted to the green garage. Several nights he played imaginary games on that court. All by himself he pretended to be both teams, the coaches, and the television commentators. The floodlights shined down on him.

And now the house was going to be torn down. Condemned from further use. He was glad he saw it one last time. Times were better back then. The memories proved that. You can’t live an imaginary life forever.

He stood in the hallway. Watched her every move. Saw her in the kitchen fixing coffee, adding cream to it. Looked-on as she sliced an apple. Peered in on her while she ate it one bite at a time.

She didn’t love him anymore. He could tell by the way she slept on her side of the bed. Always got up before him. Dressed immediately.

It just happened. These actions. The way she no longer looked at him. Didn’t talk anymore. They were two roommates that wanted desperately out of a lease.

And sometimes he heard her on the phone. Talking about going to Sweden, or, maybe Copenhagen. Perhaps Hawaii. Anywhere to get away from him.

He stood in the hallway. Watched her every move. Oh how he wanted to oblige.

There was no sound. He sat there quietly, listening to nothing. Thoughts ran through his head. Memories. Past sins. A cat purred on his lap.

She said she was innocent. Or, was that how she came across; going to church on Sunday mornings and Wednesday nights. She sang in the choir. Went to Bible study on Friday evenings. Always brought a casserole.

He never spoke to her. The two of em just kind of looked at each other not knowing what to say. They were young back then. Shyness got the best of em.

The young man began having dreams about her. Dreams where they were walking in the woods, holding each other’s hand, but, not a word between em. It was like watching a black and white silent movie. Except their lips didn’t move. There were no words on the screen. Just silence. Until she went away.

The old man never loved anyone. Stopped going to church. He stuck to himself. Sitting in a chair with a cat on his lap; purring. Thinking of past sins. Memories.

Watching the clock. Looking outside at the clouds growing dark. Eyeing the clock again; quarter ’til two. The blonde on the television says it’ll be coming before six o’clock. Almost black outside. Leaves are shaking.

Waiting on the storm, I find myself at peace. It’s been a good run. Friends, lovers, adventures back and forth ‘cross America. Countless jobs, always hanging on by the skin of my teeth. As long as there was a dollar in my pocket. A poet, a pauper.

This is tornado time. A frame of time given me to sort things out. To prepare. And I sit and wait in meditation. Wanting it all to end.

“I’m ready my Lord,” Leonard Cohen. From the song, “You want it darker.”

She took Highway 21 heading south through cornfields, beans, alfalfa, cows grazing. Drove ’til she couldn’t drive no more. Just parked the car on the side of the road and started walking. Strolling down hot asphalt in the summertime without a care in the world. She prayed the old two lane would take her somewhere; anywhere.

Men passed her by. Amish boys in wagons taking a look. Teenagers on tractors taking a gander over their shoulders. Farmers slowing down in old pickups wished she’d stick out her thumb. The tall brunette kept walking.

And she’d laugh at her own jokes. Saying to herself, Some folks call it a small soda while I call it a Minnesota, that made her chuckle. The young girl would pick up rocks and pitch em ‘cross the road.

What was she walking away from? No one ever knew. Not sure that she did. Maybe she was just out for a walk. Clear her head for awhile. Could’ve been running from a man. Whatever it was gave her strength to walk ten miles that day. Ten miles to the nearest bar. And it was there she stayed awhile.

The bartender poured shot after shot for her. Whiskey was her choice. Backed with a Coca Cola. She liked the way it fizzed on her white teeth. She liked the burn on the way down.

On the television up connected to the corner ceiling, was Vanna White. Tall leggy Vanna turning letters. Smiling. She wished she could be Vanna. That was her dream. Just smiling and turning letters. It’s all she ever wished for.

They watched the tide roll in at the break of dawn. Lake Michigan in September with autumn on the cusp. Soon the beaches would be cold and the winds crisp. Boats sailed ’til November.

She skipped stones while he smoked a cigarette. The two of them, up all night roaming the city like coyotes in the country, going through trash cans and dumpsters in search of food, tin cans, pvc pipe; something borrowed, something blue.

The boy and the girl sat in the sand eating sugar packets collected at McDonald’s, counting dollars and quarters given to them by those walking past. Soon they’d go looking for the man.

Marks on arms, in-between toes, always looking for an open vein. Junk crawled in their bodies, making them look like zombies; days were numbered.

But on this morning they watched the water kiss the sand. And, wished they could.

This grass has been cut, turning brown, straw like. Tall weeds have taken over. Tomato plants dying of thirst. Peppers picked. Where is the rain?

He started his days in the garden. A cup of coffee sat on a rock close-by. The old man used to water the plants and earth everyday. Until it became too expensive. Water is a precious commodity.

Now days he relies on mother nature. She has not been fair to the Midwest. The lonely man wondered why he even tried.

Cucumbers, radishes, bib lettuce, melons rotted on the vine. Half picked over by rabbits and coyotes looking for midnight snacks. He could hear the mad dogs howling into the night. The old air conditioner only drowned out so much noise; semis on the highway, train whistles under a yellow moon. Kids down by the river.

These summer days. The old man was ready to move on. Wrap it up to another failed garden. If only he’d read the almanac. How did they know? he thought. It’s a guessing game, the old man said. It’s all a guessing game.

She loves

Crisp air

Coffee and cigarettes

Her child.

She loves

Pumpkin spice

A cat named Henry

Freedom.

She loves

Autumn’s air

Being an aunt

Ice cream cones.

She loves

Crying over a movie

A song from her youth

Ministry.

And, I love her

I will dance with you

The list continues.

Happy Birthday, Carla

A thousand seasons we shall have.