Cuff links

We'd packed up all that had been
in his bedside table,
not taking the time,
tossing in photos and letters
and maps of Rome and Africa,
a pair of opera glasses he'd had
since The War,
cassette tapes of Rossini
and Scarlatti
and a small leather box
filled with tie tacks
and cuff links.

Today all this time later
I opened the box.
So intimate a collection
of pins,
thinking how each day he would open
this box
and choose.

I know no men now
who wear cuff links
or tie tacks
or pins
showing
their clubs and allegiances
as my father did.

I learned how to enamel at camp one summer
and made him cuff links
both brown and triangular,
one with a hole drilled into a corner,
both ugly.
He wore them until
thankfully one came unglued
from its cufflinking mechanism
and was never fixed.
But he saved them here
along with a tie tack I'd made
when I learned how to do silver at school one year.
A silver thread snaked
onto a silver base
with edges I filed into as much of an oval
as I could
until it got smooth,
and I decided it was ovular enough.

When no new idea came
for father's day
we bought cuff links
and tie tacks
from the mall.
He opted for Rotary cuff links
and American College of Dentists tie tacks,
but he saved our gifts.

There is a piece of shrapnel in the box
he kept
from Italy
when he was wounded.

There is a heart
my mother made for him
and he moved it from one jacket
to the next,
wearing it always.

There are small keys
and little screws
left from some project.

My father's last calendar
turned
from being the place where he wrote appointments to come,
to being the place where he recorded what he had done that day,
adding small details
in case he was asked.
He was no longer able to remember.

On the day of my parents' final anniversary
he wrote
Beautiful day,
really dressed up,
cuff links et al.

So much of what shaped him,
his days and meetings,
his hobbies and committees,
holidays and warfare,
is in there
untouched
since he left,
and now I can't let the box go.

Out of the office

That time at a desk
seems so necessary for people
who don't know me
to help them
think they do.

I'm learning not to need the desk
as a prop.

Sometimes I do.

Other times
in this new time

there are no have to things.

Life is easier for people we don't know
when told with rules
and lines
and formulas that equal,
and how we fit in them,
not rolled out like a meadow
with clouds shading
and sun revealing.

What do You Do questions
are easier
for everyone,
when we answer
with the firmness
of a spreadsheet.
I do this.
I do those things.
I am important because you can define me
and I have a place to go,
even if you have never heard of where I worked
or couldn't care less about the fact that I work there.
Oh! you say.
Oh, you smile with relief
that you can understand,
as can I.
It makes us both feel better.


Oh,
they say when I say I've left my desk.
Is that a good thing?
Yes, it's good.
But I do go to bed
worried about the supposed to part,
whatever that is.
Should is what guides a day.
Don't know is what I'm left with,
and it's frightening,
and it's wonderful .

In my office
my coworkers and I stared at computer screens.
Like the who dunnit was going to be revealed
at the very moment we'd look up.

And each morning,
it was how was your night? What did you do?
I don't remember, we always said, or it was good.
And now
sometimes I don't remember and it was good
and I tell no one.

But I have a friend who said she gets defensive
in this unoffice life
when her husband asks her at the end of the day
what did you do?
as if accusing her,
when really he's just interested.
Do we make things up? Do we say we read on the sofa
for three hours
and it wasn't even snowing or raining out?
And we made popcorn
and we read through old college yearbooks
and we wrote a letter to a friend
on stationery and mailed it in the real mail?
Or do we say
I did the taxes
and then I put on a new roof
and learned chemical engineering
and started a corporation
and found a job
with benefits?

What will make me sleep through every night
reminded of the reward
of this time,
remembering that the day is mine,
that life is a blink,
and that sitting with the grateful dog
on the wet grass and
pulling up new dandelions by hand is
what is
here
to do?

Hot Flash Dog

She comes up for air from the depths
of the blankets,
panting desperately,
as if it were August
in Florida
and she'd been left tied out
in full sunshine,
even though it is Maine
in winter
and dark
and she was the one
who had gone to the very bottom
voluntarily
just hours before
where no air moved.

She'd started at the bend of my knees
where she curled,
and I'd fallen asleep,
back at the hour
when I needed blankets and a dog
to lead me through nighttime.

I had thrown the covers off
myself
and stuck a leg out of the bed
for air
and considered opening a window
even though it was snowing.

She was no longer there when
I became restless
and threw blankets.
She hid where no one could kick her
or warm feet
on her fur.

Now
she aligns herself with my back
and keeps her head above the covers
and I flip my pillow
to the cool side
and wipe the sweat from my chest
with my nightgown
and push the dog away from me
and open the window
and feel for pockets of cold
in the corner of the bed
and place the palms of my hands on the headboard
to bring my temperature back
to where I can
sleep.

And she commandos her way back
down to the bottom of the blankets
where there is less struggle,
and the air is still and safe

Please leave a message

We're letting the home phone go tomorrow.

The number our children have known

and could recite at a clip since they were small

seveneightonethreeeightnineeight!

will no longer be ours.

The only ones who call us on it

are our alma maters for money

and recorded voices

to remind us about dental appointments

or to take a survey

or vote.

The answering machine will go with it,

as will the message my mother said makes me sound

like I'm laughing in the middle,

or sneezing.

The message from before then 

everyone knew 

and still misses.

Please leave a message when you hear la beep

they yelled.

she couldn't say the.

Thank you, they'd said in unison, small children

saying thank you the way 

small children do
when they're told to.

My daughter called one more time

to say goodbye.

Why does this make me so sad?

I miss our phone number.

Now the number I have marked Home isn't for home

anymore.

How will I reach you?

Will someone else get our phone number?

It's the one I'd planned to call if I were kidnapped.

Oh well, I hope the new people who get our number are nice.

This is the same daughter who used an old phone we had

to talk to her great grandfather after he died.

It was a red phone.

She called it the dead phone. 

This is the same daughter who misses every age 

the night before she turns a new one,

who said she'd never forgive us for getting rid of the old sofa

and would never sit on the new one.

I hate change, she told me,

like it was news.

My family can recite old numbers impressively.

8924092 was the lake

7746814 was Gisi's 

7722652 was my dad's office.

My mother can recall her childhood number

on Clinton Street 

where she hasn't lived in 70 years.

I understand my daughter's sadness,

the loss of old numbers,

the way to reach those most loved people

in places most familiar and safe

with all our childhood 

at the other end of the line.

.

Spring Break

I lost

a whole story in the ether.

Sitting seething.

But I’d promised I’d make sesame noodles even though we had no ingredients

besides chicken broth and

a few strawberries

and leftover beet salad.

I didn’t want to make noodles.

Or eat.

Ever.

But I drove back

mad

to Publix for the second time today

with the vinyl bag my mother had hanging

by the door so that I didn’t give in to plastic bags I’d never take at home,

and walked past a man in the parking lot pushing his cart with his arm in a sling

and another man headed to his car with a cast on his leg.

Like they were leaving the ER

instead of the grocery store.

All daylight disappeared

and I was in the cold blast of pretend air.

I found the International foods in aisle 7.

International.

Taco shells and

Ragu and

La Choi.

No rice wine vinegar.

A jar of ginger for $5.99.

A jar of not the right kind of paste

for $7.99 that

my mother wouldn’t ever finish

since she doesn’t really cook.

She opens and heats.

I stood staring at the limited offerings

for so long that a couple who had come by for soy sauce and then

gone down the aisle and then

up another until they were back for

sesame seeds

saw me

standing there still in the same spot

not wanting to buy

and cook

dry Chinese noodles.

or continue to wander and search for the peanuts

and the scallions

and the garlic

and the cucumber

all for a total of five times the cost

of buying perfectly fine sesame noodles

at Kam Wah around the corner from my mother’s.

I put the noodles I held

back

and considered

frozen tortellini

or a roasted chicken

or seeing if the Greek restaurant with the good pita but

with the owner who yells

did takeout.

I walked to the front of the store,

left my empty basket by the door,

went out to the humid warmth and light,

got back into the car

and sat

staring at the round gray clouds that had just poured.

I can’t just go home.

I promised her noodles. And she doesn’t understand my moods,

the ones where I just throw up my hands and quit

eating and communicating and

being rational. It’s not just

hormones.

It’s me when I’ve lost something.

And can’t get back on track

and don’t want to because she could offer to help, too.

I don’t have to feed people.

My mother would be fine with nothing.

My mother will make it fine.

I don’t have to cook for her. I don’t have to cook. I don’t have to. I don’t want to.

My daughter asked why when I came home with nothing.
My mother suggested

the frozen lasagna

the frozen steak,

understudies in her freezer.

I stood and stared out the window at the pool

wishing I didn’t have to pull in my stomach when I walked,

that my thighs didn’t sag and dimple,

wishing someone would say what we’d have for dinner

and I’d sit at the table and eat it,

and my story about my daughter and her patience

I’d written and lost

and my memories of our childhoods

would somehow reappear.

Memento

It's funny to me how they like the same
color
things.
Both could spend time on
just so
and they both have an eye.

I walk around her apartment
the small succulents in soft yellow cachepots
lined up in a row
among candles and river stones,
perched on the sill
overlooking the street below,
all on square turquoise plates
The pumpkin orange coffee mugs
on the shelf next to four small dishes
from my grandmother.
The coffee pot and grinder and toaster and beans
and small ceramic spoons in a glass
The lacquered red boxes
holding nothing
on display with the things my sister makes
of pieces of puzzles
held together with color.

Both love things.
They derive great pleasure from things
and the moments and places where they find them.
They collect and curate
and always share gladly
and sometimes forget what they might already have.
I wander slowly through the place
and imagine these collections of objects
in my own home
with color I can't get right
on furniture that wobbles.
Too much.
Not enough.
I rearrange and clear off surfaces
and closets
until they hold nothing.

The Washcloth Resolution

When I was little, I made the same single resolution every year, writing it on a small piece of paper which I'd fold and put somewhere. "I will wash my face with a washcloth every day."  That was it. No promises of better diet or behavior, no hopes to do or see more. Yet despite how simple a plan it appeared to be, it remained unresolved, and was put back on that childish grand To Do list every New Year's Eve.

As I look back, I should have stuck to the ease of the washcloth promise. Eventually, I'm sure I could have succeeded, or decided it was not important to wash with a washcloth despite the or elses of my mother. Instead, at the end of every adult year, I lay the template of my life before me, and I make great plans to embellish.

This year, my plans loom larger than ever. With no children to raise, no job to attend,  I've thought through and suggested and tried out a myriad of ideas, where I want to go, how I want to be, imagining the rich fabric of days ahead.  And while I might not be known as a great planner, often more impulsive than thoughtful, I've spent hours and days pinning thoughts and wishes to the year to come.

In early December, I spent a half an hour in front of the calendars and journals and planners at Marshall's. I was looking for the one that would make sure I don't just write down dentist and hair appointments but that helps me draw long lines through days, setting them aside for myself. The calendar had to be monthly, with room to write. Not too big of a calendar because I want to carry it in my purse. No kittens or pictures of Milan, but also no Staples logo in the corner or any semblance of office calendar. No passages from the Bible or pointed fingers to be my best self and live each day.

On that first of two visits to  Marshall's, I found it. It said 2016 on it and was a simple, well-sized calendar with golden dates and card stock pages.  Nothing else.  And it was only $7.99. I held it, wandered through the housewares and clothing aisles, all while thinking about which pen I'd use in it and how I'd be sure to not clutter it up with mundane appointments, reserving it for Eat Pray Love level of ideas, and then I put it down and left. What did I need a calendar for?  I'd vowed I was going to just use my phone for a calendar this year, and last year I'd purchased a similar calendar only to fill it with people's birthdays and the upcoming dentist appointment, and then I'd abandoned it two weeks into the year.  But my phone calendar is flawed.  Up come work reminders that are interspersed with home ones, the "Send out Accounts Receivable emails" mixed in with "Dog to vet" ones, and they don't announce themselves and they aren't pretty. I can't buy just the right pen to fill in the dates. I like pens. And paper,

So I returned to Marshall's to get that calendar I'd abandoned too quickly, and it was gone. I searched through the Dream Big ones and the kittens, and couldn't find it.  Instead, I bought a colorful card stock calendar for the fridge where he could write "Tennis" on every Wednesday and I could write the occasional "Dentist."  I succumbed to the only one left that wasn't full of animals or bible verses, but was unfortunately one of the bossy ones. While it met the requirements of months I could write in and fitting into my purse, it shouted Do it, damn you! commands so popular these days as if we've all forgotten how to be.

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams.

Live the life you have imagined.

Live Love Laugh.

Just shut the hell up. The end of the year and the beginning of the next is always fraught with a terrifying mix of promise and failure.  This year in particular, I've spent months anticipating the coming year, how I will leave my job, and how for the first time in my life I will craft my days and explore my wishes. I'm sure there are cracks in my plan. Yet here I am,  that perfect moment when the clock strikes the new year and glittering, glorious promise is laid before me.

January 1st.  I have coffee, I am sitting in my favorite spot, the birds visit the feeder out of the corner of my eye, and I step onto the fragile plan of my life moving forward, hoping it holds me.