SEPTEMBER SOLILIQUY

Sunday afternoon around four or so,
September's sun begins the long slide down from
the page of the novel I'm about two thirds through
and I'm wondering why even though I don't
much like it, I will slog on through
to the end.

                 Here on the backyard bench
I look across to the neighbors'
driveway and watch their SUV pull up to
the house, everybody pile out, dogs
included, making indistinguishable
noises, probably about where they've
been, what they've done.

                                            And it occurs
to me that sitting with a book in my hands
is something I've done much too much,
that my mother was right when, long
ago, I overheard her tell her sister,
"he always has his nose in a book."
She said it bewilderdly, I imagine.

                                                    Now
I am a bit that way myself, bewildered.
It's not what you'd call a moral failure. It's
not a flaw of character, at least I hope not.
It's more a secret sadness, a sense
that other people do so much more
interesting things on Sunday afternoons.

MOLLY

Her twisted body sentenced her
to wheelchair and bed
but could not exile delight.

My visits, few enough, it's true,
were welcomed as if she really
did remember who I was.

What I learned about her was
sketchy, episodic, told
in bursts like a four-year-old.

Talking cost her effort, her
voice raspy, her face red.
She preferred talking to listening.

It was her chance to shine,
to be someone of consequence.
I learned to listen.

She guided me into
and through the fifty years of
her contracted world.

I found, to my surprise,
a place absent of complaint
or fear or sulk or rage.

And when, about to go, I'd
say, each time, would you like
a prayer? Her face lit up.

I'd say a line, "Our Father
who art . . ." and
wait to hear her echo.

Then, half-way through,
remembering, she'd race ahead
to "trespass against us."

I wondered what she knew of
trespass, hers or others, what
need she had of forgiveness.

And then we came to what
I still remember most.
Her eyes squeezed shut,

Her fervency fervent,
she prayed ". . . and lead
us into temptation. Amen."

And I wondered if, maybe,
her version made
as much sense as the original.

AT THE MOVIES

They sit in darkness,
some in ones, more in twos,
only a few in threes.
They do not commune unless
you count popcorn and sugar.
They watch the screen, wordless
as anchorites. Afterwards they
do not pass the peace
nor meet each other's eyes
as if they had all seen or done
something shameful, unspeakable.

Once, years ago, during "On the
Beach," I heard a woman's sobs
go on and on. At the end of it
we all stayed in our seats
till she left. We spaced apart
our own leave-takings, going out
as if leaving a confessional,
unforgiven, unshriven.






[NOTE: No entries for the next two weeks -- on vacation in New England]

RETROSPECTIVE

        "Were not our hearts burning within us
        while he was talking to us on the road?"
                    -- Luke 24:32

-- You know, Cleopas, I really did think there was
    something . . .  well . . . compelling . . .

Yes, yes. How when we rounded that last bend
    and the setting sun fell full on his face
    . . . an illumination . . .

-- Oh well, yes, I suppose. I was thinking more
    of the way he bent toward us as he
    spoke, almost prayerful in earnestness and . . .

Prayerful?  No, no, surely not! He exuded strength,
    authority. He told, not asked. He commanded,
    he . . .

-- How can you say that? He came to us gently,
    with questions. Don't you remember how he . . .

Ah yes! Questions. Each one designed to reveal
    the power he alone wills to wield.

-- So then, my astute friend, why did you not
    see and say who he was just then?

I almost did, I think.

-- Almost did? Amost did? You were as blind as I,
    and well you know it.

We saw him different. That's all.

-- We always have.

And maybe always will.
  

DILEMMA

Someone once told me that whenever he hears a siren he pauses for a few moments and offers a prayer in which he calls to Heaven's attention the emergency situation and solicits divine protection of behalf of whomever the vehicle is heading for as well as the driver of said vehicle (or vehicles as the case may be) which struck me as an admirable thing to do and so tried it a few times myself wondering if it did any good for the people involved or if it merely made me feel virtuous and also if in the case of a police car chasing a perpetrator I should pray for his escape or his capture (or hers as the case may be).

THE HOUSE

The house they moved to when
he was two sat at the top
of a hill and was called,
he later learned, the Temperance
House. Years back it had been
an inn whose owner found Jesus
and threw out all his
bottles of booze to the chagrin
no doubt of his formerly
pie-eyed patrons.

At three the house cribbed
a sister. At four he and she caught
whooping cough but survived.

There were more rooms than
they had things to put in
and he was told never to go up
to the fourth floor. He did not
ask why not. He was not
at the why-not stage (that came
later) but one winter afternoon
he climbed the cold back
stairs and looked at the empty
floors and discolored walls
and shadows in the corners
and began to believe in ghosts.

NOMINATION

I propose an award:
    "Most Unnecessary invention of . . ."
No, change that to:
    "Stupidest Invention of the Modern Era."

I also have a nomination:
The Leaf Blower.

Yes, its roar is irksome
and yes, it gobbles fossils;
that merely makes it a pollutant,
not a stupidity.

But if you've ever spent a sunny afternoon raking golden contributions from backyard maples into a hip-high pile and then thrown yourself backwards into its feathery embrace . . .

well, then you understand.