A Week of Centuries

Day 5

Immortal Beloved

The lake at 2 a m seals my ears and skin like a deprivation tank, focusing my attention on the breeze skipping over my wet nose and cheeks and on the dense black sky pierced by luminaries from eons of distance, time, dimension. I blink away tears that mingle with the warm water nestling me. Sound rushes in with the currents, tides from far-off places rushing in homecoming. Silver walleye gills flutter like iridescent butterfly wings beating against spatterdock pads with their yellow lilies. I sink - descend, disappear, dissolve - my tight chest vibrating with the thrum of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonate.

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Day 4

Autograph

She tattooed my personal logo on her left hip, a brand of sorts, declaring to the world that some traits skip a generation; habits broken, chains unlinked, ties unbound—a mother/daughter relationship where the interested parties make love, not war. Hours of labor produced a glowing vessel and a glorious gift - smiles, laughter, relearning joy - a two-way neural pathway of unconditional acceptance - proof that even a broken and smashed heart shapes perfect works of art. With seasons of care, the beauty conceived of my body heals a damaged soul and saves my life. I affirm her as my greatest creation.

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Day 3

Form

She floats in 1961, hot, dry Fayetteville summer. 

Sand delineates her skin, itches and caresses her thighs, covers her knees as it drifts through her toddler fingers, a veil of fine minerals distorting her vision to dreams like flickering frames of old film, internal home movies.

Yellow jackets buzz in her ears, their elongated wings, narrow waists, and hairless bodies, the Gibson Girls of the insect world, the only guests at her afternoon festivities. 

No silk lace, no sweet tea, no gossip, no party favors, no mouth-watering aromas.

Existence is only provable by outside sensations and the world wide web.

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Day 2

Protection

Zoning out; off somewhere in la-la land; brain switched to autopilot; disconnection from the here and now. You call it an antisocial behavior that makes you uncomfortable. X-ray vision is what you really meant, though. Watching. Vigilant. Uncompromising observation. The feel of my eyes, round and wide, dilated, boring into you when you end up in my line of sight. Studying facial expressions, body language, interactions, words spoken and unspoken, inflection, intonation, pitch; signs of danger. Reproof oozes from your pores as thoughts trip and turn like stones in the rock tumbler of my mind, never exiting my mouth. Quiet.

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Day 1

Stems

I, age three, hide alone under the wooden table, a makeshift playhouse decorated with walls of legs and feet: my father’s Army fatigues and black combat boots, my Uropa’s blue and white striped pajama pants and cloth slippers, my Oma’s support hose and worn leather flats, and my mother’s silk stockings and fashion high-heels. Cigarette smoke adds ambient fog in the small room as adult laughter, slurred speech, angry accusations, and grownup stories fill the air. The Madonna statue smiles. In Grimm's original German version, I read Ashenputtel, a cardboard book bound with metal rings, “her white stockings stained red.”