the lost key

~ FOR MEGAN AND JAMES


in the clearing beside the hall called mercury
amidst the ancient industry of living things,
the buzz and song and whir of insects
and birds, stands a craggy crowd
live oaks and post oaks with sun scorched
wind hardened bodies marked

with many rings, lines in endless circles
rough brown arms and elbows and living hats
of vivid green tip toward earth and eavesdrop
glad, bright and shining in the celebration's glade
where the old fragments we are certain and you are lodged
now reach them and the company gathered below them

now find their way new again, the way of remembrance for,
remembrance of, remembrance toward, forward, beyond 
remembrance because this day when the key is lost is the day
we witness two beings offering words engraved
round and round eternity, the day come, the day gone again
the trees motionless in the blossoming hush of evening
the stars a rising flourish in the southern sky
unlock delight in the vow stay there forever.

the coat

she had been on the verge of leaving for ages, lifting her coat off the hanger, wrapping a scarf around her neck, pushing her feet into boots, planting a hat atop her head.

our young selves—the child i was, that my children were—would hear her calling "go outside. enjoy the fresh air...but it's cold out there—don't forget your mittens and heavy socks," as she attempted to get me, and later her grandchildren, out the door.

winter turns to spring, summer arrives, fall, then winter is once again upon us and she, dressed in her coat, ready to go, lingers.

this image of my mother bundled up in her coat, impatient to move on but stuck and going nowhere, is what i have. it does not exist except that i make it exist. in my possession are real pictures of her—some recent, some from decades ago, some nice black and whites and early color ones that are fading to yellow—but today i don't notice those, i only notice the one of her in her coat and hat.

an abrupt little breath and she is ready, she is prepared for this final departure. "get going," she'd say to us. "you'll overheat and catch a chill if you stand around in the house too long dressed in all those clothes."

but now it's her turn to leave. "go, mom," i tell her. "please go. it's time."

her hand grasps the doorknob and finally—finally!—she turns it and opens the door. she hesitates a moment but does not look back over her shoulder. when i think of her leaving us i am standing in my kitchen viewing the impossible—a procession of snowflakes that defy gravity: the snowflakes don't head obediently toward the ground but fly free like small bleached bugs, higher and higher in the sky of an upside-down world, the world reflected on the granite countertop.

so many weeks buttoned up in preparation, so many hours spent waiting. when my mother steps out on the air to greet snow and sun and moon and stars, i bow my head, my face hot and wet. at last, for her, relief. she had been in that damn coat way too long.



In memory of my mother who recently died peacefully at her home after a long illness.
Dear heart, best friend, I will never stop missing you....

the readers

in these days of ours, these crazy days of ours, when they make an announcement along the lines of yes ma'am, it's true, the big box stores will be open on thanksgiving day (for the first time in history—i'm actually surprised it took them this long to conquer the holiday), i can do nothing but sigh and sigh some more.

does everything, everything, in our society have to be linked to the marketing of products and the spending of the green? i need it, i have to have it, it's the latest, it's the biggest, it's the best, it will be on sale that day, it will be sold out if i don't grab it now and on and on. society's psyche, our very souls, coaxed in specific directions—aided and abetted by those persuasive entities that are paid to get inside our heads—causing us to believe we need to possess a surplus of material objects.

i've decided that instead of ranting about this any more than i already have—i really have no patience for rants, especially after having endured so many nasty political ones lately—i will go on a love spree.

i say, if you have to buy something, buy books. or take turns borrowing and lending books with friends and family. for the love of books, for the love of beautiful words, enchanting art and nourishment for the mind, get books for your children, your spouse, your grandchildren, your parents, your siblings, your nieces, your nephews, your friends.

ye gods, for the love of those you love, be still, stay home, snuggle and read a book.

just like kevin and aidric—hang out together. lift open the covers of books and turn the pages—kevin and aidric highly recommend the giving tree or tiki tiki tembo or fox in socks or chicka chicka boom boom or curious george or make way for ducklings or time of wonder—to name a few—and lose yourself in the vast landscapes that you will discover in there.

we'll see you when you find your way back.


~ photo of my grandson by aidric's mommy, alexandra mcaleer

four fourteen

so this is it, this is what it feels like to be the male of the species, a male who's about to become a father. this is what it's like to be standing on the other side, to be on the outside looking in, watching the person you love pass through a range of stages and emotions—bored, uncomfortable, in incredible pain, distracted, apprehensive, jubilant, impatient—not being able to do much to help, and feeling somewhat invisible, useless, helpless.

a few words—kind, soothing words, softly spoken, mixed with a little humor—that's pretty much it in my bag of tricks, although i suppose that's better than nothing. after all, in the "old days", days not very long ago, i wouldn't even have been allowed this, to be here in the labor/delivery room touching my daughter's shoulder, her head, her hair, trying to come up with the right words to say.

earlier in the day—nine hours earlier, to be exact.....

i hear a ringing sound. ringing—is it that, or is it something else?

my sleep remains heavy and undisturbed on this night and into the early morning hours, the sleep of the dead, as they say. far, far in the distance i hear bells; no it's music—that's it, music, not bells—almost inaudible violins playing beside a river, and the sound is traveling along the water toward me. or is it the sound of guitars, both sad and sweet, that i hear? no, i was right the first time. they are bells, cathedral bells, high above this ancient city built with many hands and heavy sweat and ancient stones.

i stir. sleep lifts. i begin to come out from under muffled slumber and dreams. i realize it's not bells, it's the phone that's ringing, brrrring-brrrring-ing in my head. i have been waiting for this call for what seems like forever—twenty months plus another nine—since the beginning of failed effort, and then when the words infertility and IVF—harbingers of both horror and hope—were introduced, and IVF was considered and tried, failed, and was eventually successful.

when the call comes i am unprepared. i have been prepared for weeks, ready for the call, but now, on this morning when it finally comes, i happen to be in the deepest of sleeps. i am disoriented in my drug-like slumber. why is the phone ringing at such an odd hour? my fingers blindly claw at the table beside my bed. at first i can't find it; when i finally do, the numbers on the dated (translation: ugly—it really should be tossed), 1980's general electric, brown plastic clock/radio/phone shine a bright and cheery four fourteen at me. then i hear her tired, happy, slightly quavering voice. mom, we're at the hospital. my water broke at 1 a.m..... and i wish i had wings and could fly to burlington to be at her side this instant. i am still groggy when i say we'll be on the highway by eight and hang up the phone. but, suddenly, i am wide awake. for me, the world is going to be different from today onward. i am going to be a grandmother.

the drive to vermont feels endless. when we're within a half hour of our destination we have to stop to let alex and kevin's dog, montana, out for a pee, and fill up her food and water dishes before we can continue on our way to the hospital.

and here we are. after many hours of keeping alex company, three of us must leave the labor/delivery room with the bird's eye view of lake champlain—it's time for her to start pushing her baby out. we try to wait patiently. i feel abandoned, left out—once again, male-ish—like fathers must have felt until about 40 years ago when they were finally allowed into the inner sanctum of blood and pain and joy. i wait, staring at the old-fashioned wall clock, watching the second hand's annoyingly perfect round and round promenade, for this most modern of fathers to walk through the door of the waiting room—once he has cut the umbilical cord and done some bonding—and announce the birth of his baby. (i have honestly never glanced up at a clock or at a door so many times in my life.) it will be near sunset when the waiting is over.

i marvel. the tiniest humans, the newest arrivals on this planet, carry with them such small parts—miniature orifices, appendages and limbs—parts that have never before felt the earth's warm air, or their mother's or father's touch. their noses have never smelled this world or any world, nor have their tongues tasted warm mother's milk. their eyes have only known darkness, their ears only muffled vibrations.

in the morning light his eyes open and he gazes at his mother as she holds him in arms that have ached for him. i try to handle my emotions. i blink away tears and blow my nose. i am convinced his infant stare is deep and knowing, like that of an old, old soul. but, of course, that cannot be. that's impossible.

an old soul in a new body. why impossible? maybe it's not such a far-fetched idea. within even the tiniest of newborn babies, under the soft, delicate, brand-new skin, lies the ancient, the unknown, the unfathomable, some small inkling of what we are, where we come from, how we have come to be. hidden inside each infant is a kind of universe, the hint of a thing that is old, very old—the origin of us all—and also a foretelling of what has never been seen, but, in time, may be.

every baby is a beginning, but he also contains the possibility of beginnings—the possibility of life for the next generation—inside him. he is who he is, but he is also the past and the future combined into one. as he journeys into his new world, he brings with him an unbroken link to an old world—those souls in his line who existed before—and an extension into the future, to those who will exist in a time far off, a time which has not yet even been imagined.

welcome, my little boy. welcome.

let pandora play

~  my fat belly girl ~

dust bunnies have been multiplying around here at an alarming rate—but then it's spring, after all, and with spring comes much newness bursting forth hither and thither—and those bunnies are, at this very moment—there goes another fat one now!—hopping under couches and chairs and tables and beds making themselves oh-so-comfy-cozy. eruptions of clutter—books, notebooks, remote controls, magazines, cups, one hairbrush, receipts, shopping bags, nail clippers, scotch tape, mail, one fork, scissors, visine, camera, lotion—have also solidified on every available flat surface and are in dire need of an immediate excavation.

there's a party with friends and family happening on saturday for alexandra and kevin and baby-to-be at our address (but please don't call it a shower or it's off with your heads! BECAUSE it's not a shower BECAUSE it's a regular party—albeit a party with stylish details thanks to christina—BECAUSE this is not going to be a hen thing BECAUSE the men will be present BECAUSE, did you know, they play a major role in the bringing forth of new life? BECAUSE the women can't manage such a simple thing alone—witness the old worn-out-but-true saying it takes two to tango—BECAUSE we need the men to be here BECAUSE, lord help us all, we refuse to sit around expostulating on the best name brands in diapers and breast pumps and nipple creams and BECAUSE un-milk related beverages are good we will be drinking beer and wine and mimosas, well everyone except alex. nuf said...) and things need to be put shipshape in a hurry.

which brings me to this: many situations require music.

and this: for me to be in absolute tiptop form for cleaning the house, for me to get in the groove, so to speak, and to prepare for physical labor (no pun intended), it is imperative that music, a certain kind of music—music to make you move—be on the airwaves.

today pandora will get to play to her heart's content, unleashing her melodies throughout the house, except she will be encouraged to lean toward flamenco jazz latino—latin groove move your body jazz—and a little gipsy kings, carlos montoya, the buena vista social club, armando peraza and mark towns to help get this household in order.

bunnies watch out.

~ the weather is gorgeous and it's supposed to stay that way for days. i intend to get out of this house very soon and enjoy the sun and at the same time tackle the garden and the lawn. i'd so much rather be mucking around outdoors anyway, although i have a feeling that i'll be dipping into the bottle of advil by the end of the day.

go find elephants and kiss them

i saw this somewhere on the internet and unfortunately no credit was given for the image or the colorful sentences. it looks like a frequently utilized classroom activity, this time with maybe first or second graders, where the teacher goes around a circle of students and asks each child the same question—in this case how can people show their love for a child?—and then writes down exactly what the child says.

the wonderful and creative insights that come out of the mouths of very young kids is astonishing.

i would now like to take this exercise one step further.

i think where it says how to really love a child the addition of and also an adult could get us all thinking and behaving in many new new and unique ways.

what if adults—in particular, one's own family and friends—were to always keep the gleam in their eye and be there for each other, invent pleasures together, express their love a lot, search out the positive and try to say yes instead of no whenever possible, go find elephants and kiss them ( i just love that), stop yelling, and—love these, too—giggle a lot and encourage silly? wouldn't that be great?

adults need these instructions on how to love (and live) for themselves as much as for children. i think everyone would be healthier and happier if they incorporated even just a few of these words of wisdom into their lives.

well, i ask you, wouldn't you love to see people in their pajamas at the movie theater? well, okay, maybe not.

nevertheless, when i first came across these sentences i wrote them down with colored markers and stuck them on the refrigerator with a magnet. they are a daily reminder of some little things that i believe are actually much bigger things.

at this point in my life i think my task has become very clear. i need to (1) go find elephants and (2) talk the person in charge into allowing me to kiss them.

yoga and fish oil

~ for all the couples struggling with infertility—who feel like they are the only baby-less ones in a world filled with babies—as they anxiously wait for 9 months to begin.....you are not alone.


there is a woman i know, who, in her teens and twenties, rarely noticed babies. she never oohed and aahed and cootchie-cooed like many women do when they see an adorable infant belonging to a stranger.

then all of that changed. now when this woman is at the grocery store or the hardware store, driving past playgrounds or taking her morning run, babies are all she sees. babies are everywhere. the majority of her friends have babies. she's got babies stuck in her brain and she can't get them out.

so it goes when you're married, in your early 30's, ready to start a family, and the damn clock is ticking and ticking. you've been trying to get pregnant for 20 months. you have a great reproductive endocrinologist who has tested you for everything and there is nothing today's medicine can find wrong with you. the doctor pronounces you physically fit. diagnosis: unexplained infertility.

you've tried IUI. nothing. now you're trying IVF: sticking on patches, popping pills, giving yourself daily injections, emptying out the hormones and filling yourself back up with hormones, trying to swamp your ovaries with lots of lovely eggs with the hope that some of them will fertilize and turn into embryos or blastocysts.

in 20 months you've gone from feeling a roaring panic and anxiety and dread to a dull achy sadness.

a few well-meaning family members and friends try to help you get pregnant (whoa. hold on. i think her husband has that under control!) by saying things like just relax and don't think about getting pregnant (how ridiculous is that? getting pregnant is always on your mind!) or maybe you're too thin or maybe you run too much, honey or my friend got pregnant doing yoga and eating fish oil.

some days you just want to cry.

doesn't anybody realize babies come from sperm and eggs, not fish oil and yoga?

some women are quick to point out you haven't been struggling with infertility that long, not as long as my sister's neighbor's cousin—your situation isn't that bad, don't worry (after all, worrying can make getting pregnant difficult!) you'll surely get pregnant soon.

some days you just want to scream.

other people shy away from talking about infertility; they are at a loss for words, reluctant to navigate into the unknown or mistakenly labeled forbidden-offlimits-taboo territory of infertility.

but, my oldest daughter, you must always remember this: those of us who love you, who are closest to you—your husband, parents, sister, brother, cousins, friends, and other relatives—are there for you, embracing you with gigantic hugs and humongous kisses.

we know the best thing for you is for us to ask how are you doing? and then simply listen, and squeeze your hand, and, on occasion, cry along with you.

and then, as it always does, your mood will turn brighter and you will be hopeful again......

visualizing those handsome little swimmers finding those cute little eggs and dancing the night away.

dream scale

do you remember, daughter, seeing that land
many years ago when childhood ran ahead, skipped pebbles
along the water and never looked back?
when a castle cut out of imagination
and wood from your father's workshop
led you to a magical world of laughter and joy?

measure twice, cut once he declared
a life lesson with glue and paint on our fingers
and long hours that stretched into night.
the instruction sheet with small scale plans
announced a weekend project, which spanned months instead,
built up into a child's world held tight.

you peered into miniature rooms, and with tiny wise fingers
moved delicate furniture around with care.
for weddings you arranged diminutive chairs
down both sides of a carpeted aisle
along the floorboards in the livingroom.
a yellow vw bug arrived with well behaved guests
plastic cakes and champagne piled up to heaven
and not one tummy growled.

do you remember the day you decided
you would sit with your guests
on a wooden chair the size of your hand?
the chair collapsed under the weight
of your heart - you held it, broken, and were healed with words
don't worry, go play, live.......

and so you did.
your own words allowed you to soar
to another place, flying where your hands and heart
create large scale life revealing
a canvas written with wonder.

color phrases holding up images,
bold imagination dancing
each brushstroke caressing
shadow and light layering
an inner life filled up and spilling out
on a dream scale, the hue of what will be.


~ for hannah elise. happy birthday, dear daughter. ~

three hundred sixty-five days

he wakes up. he gets up. three hundred and sixty-five days later, it's another one. another birthday. another day, just like any other. drives to his office. reads a hundred emails. handles one more crisis (or two, or three). listens to some birthday jokes about gray hair, senior discounts, fading memory, aches and pains, viagra.

he says he feels like he's 28, make that 29.

tonight we have other plans in town, a previous engagement, not birthday related.

but tomorrow night when he gets home i'll cook fresh salmon and scoop some ben and jerry's. maybe bake an apple tart? pour a nice dram of macallan. we'll turn down the lights, snuggle up, watch netflix. doesn't get much better than this.


happy birthday, eddy james.

silver halide crystals

sunlight glints off the small, silver framed photograph. two sisters at the older sister's wedding. i try to remember what i felt at the moment the photo was taken. staring into the photo, i slip into a reverie, dappled with light and shadow, and suddenly i am calling up other pictures in my mind, stumbling upon other small glimpses of that day and all that was in it.

press the button and light enters the lens, passes through the shutter and sensitizes the silver halide crystals on the surface of the film. a snap. a shot. a fraction of a second. light on film. a record of life frozen in time.

my two girls, you are not really here. you are faraway. and the images of you held in a shiny silver frame are not the ones i carry, rock-cradle-wrap, every single day in my soul. the images of you i cherish would fill books. i flip the pages in my mind and see all sides of you engraved there. ah, but you are here, my dears, in the precious pictures stored beneath my eyelids and memorized, like the endless lists of french and german verbs i learned in school, neatly spelled out and labeled on a corner of my brain. just here. inside. each a unique spot of bright light, never lost, always found. everlasting.

~happy, happy birthday, with love, to dear alexandra, who is the bride in the photo of my two lovely daughters.~

you said

that afternoon in rome we saw crowds of cats loitering in the colosseum. later that night i danced lightly over your face and neck with my fingertips and whispered the colosseum cats have arrived—i think they like you. you smiled and laughed and you said that tickles. in a fragrant kyoto garden you took my picture. i have a flower in my hair. you said i love you. lying beside me in bed one morning in heidelberg, you stretched and looked at me. you said i feel so good.

on the day we brought our firstborn home from the hospital i said i have never changed a diaper, i'm a little scared. you said i've changed a diaper a few times (long before you met me you changed your nephew's). i'll show you. you changed our baby's diaper and showed me how.

i see a photo on the bookshelf, taken at higgins beach, of the three of us, four if you count the dog. i said i am glad i married you. you said, me too. i look at a photo of our whole family, five of us now, and photos of lots of friends and family (no dogs in these) in a lovely album (photographed and designed by sweet christina), at our 30th wedding anniversary party. you said what a great surprise party alexandra, james and hannah had for us. i nodded and brushed away a tear. and last week in boston, as we were slowly walking along huntington avenue, we held hands. i said this is nice. love you. you said i know. love you, too.

you said you would be here for richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health. and you were right. you are still here. i'm VERY glad.

happy valentine's day.