is wholly creative. Propagating, expanding from the center. Beginning as a droplet,
it spreads as in a wave, enveloping me in its deep, fluid warmth. My mother taught
No words. A soft current,
lucidity, in the eyes I remember. I close my own to see more clearly. The edges
are not crisp but remind me instead of an old photograph: muted.
vision is more real than what I can reach out and touch with my fingertips. I
cannot caress it lovingly, but I have no need since the image is part of me, my
creation and connection with her. I impose no restrictions as I watch the reel
unwind in my mind. I am not an artist but an observer, here only to view what
my mind creates in spite of me. The image of her, an impression within the folds
of my life much more than letters on the pages of a well-worn novel, perused many
times, never exhausted.
frames click by faster, gathering speed, and coalesce into a sea of flashing motion.
My mother. Feeding my blood, flooding my heart
Flowing, her hair
fanned out and soaking in each of the sun's delicate lapping rays. No vestments
necessary in this natural ceremony. Body undulating in slow rhythmic pulses. No
violets suspended round during this winter season. Her vast casket paints her
with shades of blue as they share the same temperament. Death of her physical
body dispels neither her dignity nor her mystery.
Silence like this, without boundaries, mesmerizes me, makes her mythic. Sacred.
I forget that I interpret her. Create myself through her. Become what I
internalize. There really are no words to explain. It happens quietly, fantastically.
Somebody, perhaps a jogger passing along the lake's edge, tosses an almost-forgotten
pocketful of crushed daisy petals in the water. "Because she is so peaceful,
so pure," he would say. And rather than rush away in anxiety or fear, he
would sit, watching the current weave between my mother's limbs, and wait for
it to carry the petals along with her, gently away from arm's reach.
boys I have ever loved have her eyes. Each with a degree of her omnificence. Narrated
with swirls of brown, deeper than a gash. Honest eyes. Those that hold buckets
of laughter sloshing in their depths, materializing in that off-handed way, in
streams of tears.
I remember a time when I was much younger, when I played
at being grown up. We began at the water's edge, the boy and I. He was a bit older
and surer and wore her crooked smile. We giggled to ourselves and shared peanut-butter
sandwiches. Often we rolled down the scratchy dome of grass at the edge of my
block. I don't remember his name though I'm sure he told me. I remember his mother-lips
best when I eat peanut-butter sandwiches, dangling my feet in the frigid wavelets.
I have not become frantic for words. The hectic, bustling importance of them.
To search for the perfect insidious ones to describe my boy-lover and our wordless,
worryless affair. Sounds that could bear the zooming weight of a merry-go-round
summer I had with the one with the lopsy-lipped grin. There are none. Utterances,
white noise, don't concur with the reeling images that jut up like jagged-craggy
rocks, that loll and roll around in my head like uneaten jelly-beans. Syllables
that bubble up through the mouth-vat are contrived. Formulations. Spoken for an
audience. I have none. Only a partner from time to time.
I would be out
of my element in the log-jam of word traffic. I stay near my mother and soak in
all I can. Oscillating scenes go-go unfiltered. No prying ears and desperate,
The only ones who approach me and my rambling picture-thoughts-the
winding, windy creations in my head-are those who have lifeless, deathless eyes,
sparkling, energized, honest. Nothing spoken. Only a limbo similar to mine to
A while ago I woke to spot a few loose petals fluttering in the
languid breeze, over my head, dancing toward the glassy surface of my mother's
tomb. The jogger?
The commodity of vocabulary rarely bothers me. But
when it does as some interruptions are apt to, I no longer wake, choking as if
on a dusty rag, with an impossible name or sound stuck in my throat. It hasn't
been long. Perhaps years. I am still learning.
Another boy or maybe the
same earthen-eyed one from the green summer slope slept here with me recently,
forever ago. The corners of his mouth lifted solemnly. No words. No judgements.
Hands held: one sweaty palm inside the soft warm other. I don't recall when we
stopped meeting, but I am quiet smiles.
I awoke today to the soft padding
of feet sending vibrations through the ground to the reel in my head laid upon
it. Rolled over, laid my arm across the bed of grass as it was still warm from
his escaped body heat.
I can intuit the calm footfalls and the clean breaths
in the distance. Fainter and farther away. Daisies without stems float near my
toes while summer floats away, unbound, colors becoming indistinguishable.
don't know the jogger's name either, and it does not tug at me.
softly last night as I will again, dreaming a river of snippets and stutter-stops.
Similar stretches of floating photos in his head, I can see them slipping around,
unexpressable. His mother-brown eyes the only window to that world.