The dog has grown impatient with my grief. Familiar now with my waves of sorrow, she quietly retreats. This is interesting to me, since I am also (nearly) silent, I wonder what makes her realize that I’m hurting. Her insistance on hiding or softly slipping into another room is also curious. We form a tangled partnership of discordance — between what is tangible and what is elusive, what is acceptable or not, what is expected, what is extracted, added, remembered, forgotten, lost and acquired.
piles of books and many naps
coffee, tea and mushroom caps
deer tracks in the crystal snow
pooh and piglet always know
how to let the happy grow
in you, in me, above, below
the branches of our fevered dreams
that glitter, glow and brightly gleam
one minute,
you were flying free in a dreamy rose ribboned sky with the wind kissing your wings
and the next minute,
you were crashing into a false future,
impersonating a cloudy horizon,
delivering a heart-stopping
ending
to a very small but precious story
At 4:30 I make coffee. Taking the dog outside, we are met by a large buck about 20 feet from the door. All three of us freeze in place. I know he will outlast me in this staring stand-off. I look away, not wanting to be percieved as a threat. The dog growls softly, we slip back into the warm kitchen and hear the buck bound quickly away, snapping branches with his strong gallop. Watchful now, we walk softly, snow crunching and breath rising in the darkness—the day begins.
Dear November,
You are a velvet pouch of rubies and garnets, of golden topaz and magical emeralds. I try to inhale you, deep into my lungs and into my spirit. Your breath of cool, night frost turns to fog in the early morning. Comforted by your crisp embrace, I drive along country roads with my eyes filled by beauty and my heart filled with hope.
my mum: We’re all going to hell together.
me: We’re not going to hell now, we’re safe here. We’re all together and it’s nice here.
my mum: This is hell.
me: Tell me what you grew in your garden?
my mum: In hell?
me: In Ohio, you had a beautiful garden and you grew lovely roses.
my mum: Oh the roses were my favorite, red and pink and yellow roses…
pause
my mum: I want to die.
me: I know mama.
beautiful patterns everywhere— my anxious eyes rest on shadows, running along edges and staring hard until the picture changes, gets defined, becomes blinding and then visible—
changed, altered, simplified,
I am calm once again
in the morning i stand at the window, the steam from my coffee makes me squint—
i think about windows, portals, visions of dreams, of flying
away and above and beyond what we know, through fields of corn and poppy
riding on the back of pick-up trucks to watch fireworks and feel alive again
write something positive–
something about amber leaves
or silver cobwebs
the smell of books and brewing coffee,
or 3:00 am labyrinthine logic
write about her soft whisper
and long shadows on the bricks
as the sun sets on another long October day
“…there were flowers everywhere, roses and carnations and anemones, on his desk, on the table, in the windowsills. The roses were especially fragrant; their smell hung rich and heavy in the air…Breathing deep, I felt intoxicated. Everywhere I looked was something beautiful—Oriental rugs, porcelains, tiny paintings like jewels—a dazzle of fractured color that struck me as if I had stepped into one of those Byzantine churches…”
“Death is the mother of beauty,” said Henry.
“And what is beauty?”
“Terror.”
“One likes to think, there’s something in it, that old platitude amor vincit omnia. But if I’ve learned one thing, in my short sad life, it is that that particular platitude is a lie. Love doesn’t conquer everything. And whoever thinks it does, is a fool.”
All excerpts from the book, The Secret History by Donna Tartt, 1992
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