Color
In autumn and in dying light the father walked past rows of birches burned to ochre, brightness aged past glory, almost brown in spots. He was on his way to the field. Every stir of air made leaves fall, and in the stillness between the stirs, more leaves detached themselves, piling like paper boats on paper boats.
He saw the colors of the trees and of the grass begin to turn as the sun sank. From yellow-brown to rose. Magenta. Color that was drowned in day revealed in daylight’s wake. His shadow like a mast in the middle of it, long and growing longer toward the mountains. Man or mast, man on mast; he stretched his arms to sail the tide. With his shadow-self he sought to reach across it.
Then light and color faded under him. At once he fell from where he’d been suspended. Thus evening came, rushing to swallow everything, drowning him with sober darkness.
In autumn and in dying light the father walked past rows of birches burned to ochre, brightness aged past glory, almost brown in spots. He was on his way to the field. Every stir of air made leaves fall, and in the stillness between the stirs, more leaves detached themselves, piling like paper boats on paper boats.
He saw the colors of the trees and of the grass begin to turn as the sun sank. From yellow-brown to rose. Magenta. Color that was drowned in day revealed in daylight’s wake. His shadow like a mast in the middle of it, long and growing longer toward the mountains. Man or mast, man on mast; he stretched his arms to sail the tide. With his shadow-self he sought to reach across it.
Then light and color faded under him. At once he fell from where he’d been suspended. Thus evening came, rushing to swallow everything, drowning him with sober darkness.
Girlfriends
You can't blame them -- the family -- for not being too interested in her. She's as temporary as the weather, something that arrived in the wake of his latest storm. Unwelcome, even as I am unnoticed. Her presence interrupts the regular flow of the household. The girlfriend blows in and right away puts herself in all the wrong places, like a dragonfly stuck under the windshield wiper, or a leaf caught on the siding of the house. If the family considers her at all it's only to entertain what a mess the future might be if he decides to keep her. If he tried to keep anyone. Sometimes I feel like a worried mother. We know him too well, and we can see the mess that would ensue. Change is not welcome, when it comes to our oldest.
So when he's ready to let this one go, she'll hopefully blow away with the rest of the front, all gust and wind because she never had any shape of her own. And how could she? Life is what you make of it, it's said. By you I mean they, the family. Sometimes you (again, they) need a little fresh air in the room, but no one should expect daffodils on the table every time she opens the door and breezes in, though that's exactly what this new girlfriend seems to always get.
And of course she's here again today. She, who should be faceless and unidentified but who I've come to recognize. She's always where everyone is going before they get there themselves, it seems. She displaces everyone in turn. First me from my spot in front of the door, which is pretty much automatic and not really noticeable or worth mentioning. Then the youngest from his spot in the dining room: he must move so that she might sit beside her prince. Next the mother from her spot on the couch. Then our oldest girl from her spot at the kitchen table where everyone sits after supper to talk. All of this is done without anyone saying anything about it, pretending not to notice. Being polite, they call it. Finally she moves the stack of magazines from the piano bench because, you know, she plays.
It's at this point that I get up from the carpet and leave the room. I have no ear for music, certainly not for jazz, which is what the family calls the sound that tip-toes and pounces from beneath the girlfriend's fingers. I don’t like music at all. It doesn't move me.
I'm on my way through the kitchen to push open the screen door when the girlfriend starts singing. Singing as she plays, that is. The family is speechless. To me the notes from the piano are simply noise, hammers striking strings, but her voice is a voice; and since I have a voice of my own, something inside me is struck. Something in my gut resonates like a string, a living, twitching fiber.
I pause halfway across the linoleum. No one is there to tell me to stay but the truth is that I couldn't leave now if I wanted to. My own voice pushes up into my throat, past my lips, and suddenly I'm singing along with her. With the girlfriend. I can't help it. Eyes half-closed, head back, lips pursed, I sing the long notes, leaning into them. I break sharply when she punctuates the rhythm with her words, then let loose again with my own personal torrent, a veritable gale of sentiment. The string inside me has been plucked and thumbed, and plucked and plucked again. It reverberates and resounds. My voice and the girlfriend's each become a breath, a breeze added to the storm-song that lifts us both. In this way I begin to better learn my place in relation to hers. In this way I learn where she belongs, even if she doesn't know yet herself.
When it's over I stop and turn around to see the family in the doorway, staring. Then suddenly they're laughing and patting my sides. Ruffling my ears. It's all good and makes me happy, if not a little unworthy. But I’m starting to wonder about this girlfriend. If she comes back on a different day we might sing again. We could be singing partners, she and I together. I'll wait by the door for her. I'll listen at the window for the sound of slowing tires, for the sound of the door opening and the accompanying rush of air, the whiff of flower perfume and spring that's only waiting to fill the space she and I dug out together.
You can't blame them -- the family -- for not being too interested in her. She's as temporary as the weather, something that arrived in the wake of his latest storm. Unwelcome, even as I am unnoticed. Her presence interrupts the regular flow of the household. The girlfriend blows in and right away puts herself in all the wrong places, like a dragonfly stuck under the windshield wiper, or a leaf caught on the siding of the house. If the family considers her at all it's only to entertain what a mess the future might be if he decides to keep her. If he tried to keep anyone. Sometimes I feel like a worried mother. We know him too well, and we can see the mess that would ensue. Change is not welcome, when it comes to our oldest.
So when he's ready to let this one go, she'll hopefully blow away with the rest of the front, all gust and wind because she never had any shape of her own. And how could she? Life is what you make of it, it's said. By you I mean they, the family. Sometimes you (again, they) need a little fresh air in the room, but no one should expect daffodils on the table every time she opens the door and breezes in, though that's exactly what this new girlfriend seems to always get.
And of course she's here again today. She, who should be faceless and unidentified but who I've come to recognize. She's always where everyone is going before they get there themselves, it seems. She displaces everyone in turn. First me from my spot in front of the door, which is pretty much automatic and not really noticeable or worth mentioning. Then the youngest from his spot in the dining room: he must move so that she might sit beside her prince. Next the mother from her spot on the couch. Then our oldest girl from her spot at the kitchen table where everyone sits after supper to talk. All of this is done without anyone saying anything about it, pretending not to notice. Being polite, they call it. Finally she moves the stack of magazines from the piano bench because, you know, she plays.
It's at this point that I get up from the carpet and leave the room. I have no ear for music, certainly not for jazz, which is what the family calls the sound that tip-toes and pounces from beneath the girlfriend's fingers. I don’t like music at all. It doesn't move me.
I'm on my way through the kitchen to push open the screen door when the girlfriend starts singing. Singing as she plays, that is. The family is speechless. To me the notes from the piano are simply noise, hammers striking strings, but her voice is a voice; and since I have a voice of my own, something inside me is struck. Something in my gut resonates like a string, a living, twitching fiber.
I pause halfway across the linoleum. No one is there to tell me to stay but the truth is that I couldn't leave now if I wanted to. My own voice pushes up into my throat, past my lips, and suddenly I'm singing along with her. With the girlfriend. I can't help it. Eyes half-closed, head back, lips pursed, I sing the long notes, leaning into them. I break sharply when she punctuates the rhythm with her words, then let loose again with my own personal torrent, a veritable gale of sentiment. The string inside me has been plucked and thumbed, and plucked and plucked again. It reverberates and resounds. My voice and the girlfriend's each become a breath, a breeze added to the storm-song that lifts us both. In this way I begin to better learn my place in relation to hers. In this way I learn where she belongs, even if she doesn't know yet herself.
When it's over I stop and turn around to see the family in the doorway, staring. Then suddenly they're laughing and patting my sides. Ruffling my ears. It's all good and makes me happy, if not a little unworthy. But I’m starting to wonder about this girlfriend. If she comes back on a different day we might sing again. We could be singing partners, she and I together. I'll wait by the door for her. I'll listen at the window for the sound of slowing tires, for the sound of the door opening and the accompanying rush of air, the whiff of flower perfume and spring that's only waiting to fill the space she and I dug out together.
