Retraction

In the interest of peace, I have deleted the previously posted blog and in its stead, offer you this photo of the world's only known living Dodo bird.

Mind the gap

I had one between my teeth, a gap that I was too young to notice much less care about, but apparently was wide enough for my father to request of my mother, take her in and get that fixed.

Done. It should be so easy now.

Now the gaps are in her memory. Deep pot holes in her thinking. Don't forget to bring the paintings with us. Dinner is in the morning and the guests should be here by now. I have to get ready. When are we leaving? I tell her the time is 3:30 in the morning and we're not going anywhere. She looks at me and orders a coke. With ice, please.

Now the gaps are in my thoughts. The word is right there and I can't remember it much less reach it. Cope. I cannot find my planner, so write numbers and notes on pieces of paper and forget them in the kitchen because I don't pass by that counter on my way out the door. I forget my lunch in her fridge. I forget that I was going to pick up those pants and that top when I was at my house over the weekend. I forget the brown shoes. During the weekend, I forget to meet my niece for dinner at 6:00. At the office, I forget to join that conference call at 10:00. During the day, I forget to make the doctor appointments I promised myself five weeks ago I'd make. Where would I borrow the time, from my job or her?

I take time away and forget to return. I spend time there and forget to take a break. The woman behind the counter at the Starbucks by Mom's house tells me that even she has to have a cup of coffee before she goes to work. Mind the gap.

Freeze frame

I set her pillows just so, get onto her bed with her and push Play on the remote. We are going to watch a movie together, one she'll say she doesn't understand what is going on several times throughout but will watch and be entertained by nonetheless.

Cheyenne plops her head on the side of the bed. Mom looks at me, says, She can come up.

As if she understood, Cheyenne leaps onto the bed, worms her way between us and circles once before plopping down beside Mom and resting her head on Mom's legs. Mom places her hand on Cheyenne's back and rubs her. At this, Cheyenne stretches up to Mom's face and returns the affection with appreciative licks.

Mom laughs. She smiles and she laughs!

In my mind, the comfort of simple things. Coffee percolating. Warm cinnamon rolls in the kitchen. Watermelon. Ice melting in a glass of lemonade on a summer's day. Licking the icing from the spoon. This moment.

If you see me, send me her way

I hear my name called out harsh and desperate through a thick mist of bluish black, a slash tearing straight through the middle of my foggy sleep.

Slowly, the thought takes form. She's calling me. Suddenly, I know where I am and who that was.

Flying down the stairs, I'm coming Mom.

Are you okay? What can I get you?

She's trying to get out of her bed, You can get Alison. She's upstairs. I'm ready to go home now.

There is no panic, she recognizes me as someone she knows, just not as her daughter.

Mom, you are home. This is your home.

She looks up at me and shakes her head. You keep saying that, but it's not. This is not my house, this is not my bed. Please get Alison and tell her I'm ready to leave now.

I sit beside her on the bed, point out familiar things, show her the sweaters in her dresser, the painting she painted, hanging on the wall beside her bed. She eyes them with recognition.

Then she shakes her head again, says, I don't know how you got these things here but this is not my home. If you won't call Alison, I'll call a taxi to take me home.

She starts to cry, tells me how sad she is, asks me again to please get Alison. I tell her she needs to get some rest, that Alison will be here in the morning. She rolls on her side, her back to me, falls back asleep with tears in her eyes. I sit with her while she waits for me.

When I imagined it, when I bothered to think about it, I pictured dementia as something in total. I didn't realize the gaps, the recognition of the wallpaper but not the wall, the face but not the daughter.

Six A and B

The first and most obvious thing to notice about him was his uniform with US ARMY in black block letters embroidered on a velcro patch on the pocket flap above his heart. And then the people, mainly men but a few women, who stopped beside him, said Thank you for what you're doing, or nodded and patted him on the shoulder as they walked past. Or the man who set his carry-on bags down, took off his hat and reached out to shake his hand.

Friday travelers trying to get home are an impatient lot. I've seen people roll their eyes in self-important impatience when a mother stopped in the aisle to pick up her child's dropped stuffed animal. But before this soldier, no one waiting to get to their seat so much as batted at eyelash for the delay the shows of respect were causing them in getting to their seat. In fact, the people seemed to be lining up just for the turn to acknowledge him.

Before he took his seat beside mine on the flight from Dallas to Houston, he'd already traveled 22 hours. From Iraq to Kuwait, Kuwait to Bangladesch, and Bangladesh to Shannon, Ireland. Then from Shannon to Gander, Newfoundland, Gander to Dallas, and, finally, on this leg home.

He shows me photos of the base, photos of he and friends swimming in the Persian Gulf on a two-day break. He talks of temperatures so hot that his eyes dry, says it's hard to breathe air that hot when you're not used to it. He talks of sand storms so strong and skies so red he can't see his hands before his face.

He tells me he appreciates when people thank him, shake his hand, pat him on the back. He says he knows that a lot of people are against this war, and some people tell him so, but even they say thank you. He says that means a lot. He says that no one he knows over there has experienced backlash from any civilian, and that they all appreciate it, they all appreciate that they're not treated as the soldiers in Vietnam were when they returned home.

For us, we're just going to work. There's plenty of us who don't think we should be there either. But we have to do our jobs and this is where we were sent to do them.

In two weeks, he heads back to Iraq for two more months. Then, his tour of duty will be over. His first name is Bill. He's a fourth generation Texan, born in an eponymous hill country town his Great Grandfather founded. After nine months in Iraq, he was going home to a wife he's been married to for ten months, and a baby girl due in two days. He is 25 years old.

In baggage claim, he drops his backpack and is enveloped by his parents, dressed head-to-toe in red, white and blue.

Grabbing my bag from the carousel, I turn back for one last look.

Godspeed, Bill. Godspeed.

There's a band playing on the radio

Nineteen years ago, on an empty July night, she gave me a tiny plastic cheeseburger and a pink flamingo, also of plastic. We were on the dance floor, the music loud and pounding around us. Sqeezing my way between the crowd, I hugged her, pulled back and smiled at her, a big open ecstasy-induced love you, love you, love you, grin. She threw her head back, laughed like bells ringing Sunday morning over the music and smiled straight into my eyes in a way that soberly said, I'll always love you but I'll never put you on that pedestal. She looked me dead in the eyes. She meant it. I loved it. We were young, intoxicated and free. And I felt safe.

I heard that look, wanted to seal the moment around us and stay that way forever. I wrapped it over me as if she'd handed me a blanket to shelter the cold, while I shook all over from the honesty that I recognized. I closed my eyes and let the drugs take over. Magic. My friend.

I locked her eyes to mine, made a show of closing my hand around the trinkets, and put them in my pocket. She watched my hands, said something about my never remembering the other gifts I'd gotten that night, only hers. It was a challenge. Though lost in the music, I heard her, knew she was right.

Some expression in your eyes
overtook me by surprise

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

My friend says to me, My mom has now been gone for longer than I knew her alive.

She shakes her head at the puzzle of time.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

I look at the calendar with a watchful eye these days. No one told me there would come a time when I would read the dates beyond the presence of today while fearing the pain of tomorrow. Saturday was her birthday. I wonder. Do I celebrate or mourn? She would have been 43. Soon, very soon, she will be gone for longer than I knew her.

They're playing
oh yeah
on the radio



I shake my head at the puzzle of time.

We danced across our nights together. Siouxsie Sioux got us moving, The Cult and English Beat. We sat beneath wide trees in the dark with our feet in a warm lake, and pulled mussels from a shell to the music of Squeeze blaring from my car parked on the street. We sat in my car with the music in our ears, the burning ends of our cigarettes making glowing lines from our lips along the path to the ashtray. Our anger and energy bursted with Bauhaus and The Replacements. Our angst and depression cut open with This Mortal Coil and Joy Division. The volume going higher with Au Pairs.

And so it came to be our song
and so on through all summer long

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

We ate powdered donuts and drank coffee in the mornings at her place. Taking a bite from my donut, I throw the Classifieds to the floor. Circled jobs discarded. We bemoan our unemployment and lack of money. We answer our sorrow by skating Allen Parkway, winding through downtown, dipping our hair in the cool water of the fountains, and drinking wine at La Carafe. She shares her memories, Patsy Cline on the jukebox.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

There were rivers and rope swings between us, curves and promises. Long roads with words. So many words between us, so many songs. There were moments I'd watch her living, moments I'd sit back and love watching her life. And moments I'd sit still after she'd swim to shore, and I'd hold my breath while watching the water dry from her body, feeling like I was spying but knowing I was protecting. Drop by drop, the round bits of water losing their space of presence on her skin while she slept. There were moments like that where she'd sleep in peace. And I'd challenge the world to be quiet.

So I turn to the sounds in my car

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

This is another year. Another blank page. Every August is this way. She calls me away in August and October. She does it through the music. What I wanted then was to know I would know her now.

She left. This life. And me. She got what she wanted. And she wanted it, to be sure. She wanted out. Every time I hang my clothes in a hotel closet I know it. She wanted out. Ten years later, it haunts me.



There's a band playing on the radio
and it's drowning the sound of my tears

They're playing
oh yeah
on the radio
and so on through all summer long

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

In a silver box with papers guiding my role as Godmother to my niece and nephew, there are two other things: a plastic cheeseburger and a pink flamingo. They are the only gifts I remember from that year. She was right.

Reaching back

The slow reaching limbs of the Willow trees stretch and bow above us. I take a deep breath, close my eyes to absorb the moment, pull the heat of the air out from my lungs and feel it fall over me like molasses. I'm home.

Then the uninvited thought tackles me. She can't feel this grace in that room in which she slumbers. I shake it out of my head, take a sip of my drink, and wait for a pause in the on-ramp of our conversation.

Nothing. My mouth hangs open awaiting my turn to speak... and... nothing.

Earlier today, I feed her rice, half dropping on her chest. She looks at me with ridiculous trust as I pick the yellow grains from the napkin I'd placed on her chest. It occurs to me the spoon might be a better choice.

She thinks my father is here. Here, as in alive. Here as in 1980. I indulge the murky thrill of pretending. I float in the pool, green and blue surrounding me. The absurdity feels warm, feels good. It doesn't last long. In soft and shapeless words that I have to figure out, she sighs, I just don't know why he hasn't come to visit me.

Winnie the Pooh says, But it's still... gulp... very important. Tigger says that people will come from miles around, just to run away.

I smile at the memory. T-I-Double-Guh-er

Yesterday at Apple Valley's equivalent to Starbucks, I picked up a book, featured on the counter. The Little Engine that Could. Glancing upon it, I'm back on my Grandmother's lap, being taught not only the next level of my reading but the lesson of the little train's perseverance. I think I can, I think I can.

Chug chug chug, puff puff puff.

Featured on the cover were the words, Now with a new artist. I flipped throught the book and recognized nothing beyond the shape of the words and the slant of the hill. Why? Why a new artist? That's as if featuring the Mona Lisa with a banner stating, New & Improved - New Artist.

Puff puff puff.

Tonight I am wandering the world, looking for a moment lost.

You said you wanted to know. That's it, this is what it's like.

What I need right now is for Winnie-the-Pooh to come over and say, Could we skip dinner, and have breakfast instead?

Silly old bear.

Shine on

This morning I took a run along a ski trail circling a lake with my name in it. Saw a rabbit with a brown back who also saw me and scampered deeper into the woods. I heard twittering birds and felt long golden rays breaking through the branches above. Mist in a meadow. Tall furry trees with wide limbs like open benches I could have crawled onto and day-dreamed. And bright green leaves shimmering with dew, competing for attention with showly thistle of purple. In the air a scent of trees and flowers unfamiliar but friendly. In the air a new light around every corner, calling me onward.

I have two women on my mind. Neither will ever see what I saw today. One is in my memory; the other my prayers.

55403

When I arrived yesterday, I more than half expected the airport to be wall-papered in that distinct purple and yellow combination otherwise known as the Minnesota Vikings' colors. Sadly, though the colors were present in gift shops and the occasional sticker on a car, I was underwhelmed to say the least. Blame it on a friend named Troy, but if I lived here, I'd probably drive a purple CRV with yellow racing stripes. Which is yet another reason why I love living in Texas.

The whole Twin Cities thing was lost on me from the start. I loaded myself with maps and directions, and when I saw the 7th Street exit, I took it. Just as I was told to do when I confirmed my directions at the rental car counter, just to be sure I knew where I was going. When I took the exit, I chuckled to myself that I'm used to big Texas maps where everything is much more spread out, because this exit seemed to come along a lot sooner than I had expected, though 7th Street oddly seemed to stretch longer than it appeared on my map. Still, I found 5th Avenue and turned right. As I had been told. When I hit a dead end in a fairly industrial area on the Mississippi, I asked of a man in a parking lot, Excuse me, can you tell me where the Guthrie Theatre is?

He stopped to get a better look at me. It's in Minneapolis. You're in St. Paul.

I need to stop thinking that just because I can find the shortest routes in Houston blind-folded, and drive across Texas without so much as a missed farm road, it does not mean I can find my way around in any other city even when armed with maps and directions. Well, okay then, but in my meager defense, why do both cities have a 7th Street exit off of M55?

Oh, right, twins...

Eventually, I found what I was looking for. The new Guthrie Theatre, an architectural wonder by French Architect Jean Novel, completed just six weeks ago. I'd read about in Time Magazine and was intrigued, but did not know then I'd have the opportunity to see it so soon, on an unexpected side tour from St. Paul.

When a screeching alarm went off in the building and I heard two attendees say to each other they weren't sure what they were supposed to do when that happened, and then get into the elevator, I took the stairs down and walked along the Mississippi River to (safely) catch the view from there.

In the beginning

Something clicked during the night. I awoke this morning and was simply happy to be alive.

Cheyenne and I went two miles this morning instead of my typical lazy one mile as of late, and sporadic at that. And we ran this morning. Cheyenne? She turned her head back to me. Want to run? She didn't bother responding but excitedly shot off as a brown blur in front of me.

Down along the edge of the bayou, grapevines swung in the growing light. Brown water swirled and flowed. The winding path and familiar Oak trees stretched out ahead of me. The dawning light fell over and across me. Every moment knocked softly on my heart.

Today is the first day of August. Today is another day in the chain. Today is a day that I won't let my life interfere with my life.