“I’ve held on to you for so long. Sometimes, I forget to breathe.”
“And I wish I had known him when he was younger
Before he had exchanged his smile for a mask
I would have begged for a ride on his motorcycle
The one he left in pieces on the dirt floor of a wooden shed.”
Once upon a time, two children planted a Lilac bush. Inch by inch the bush grew taller until it towered over the garden. In spring, the blossoms bowed, heavy with rain.
Lost in time, the children crept behind a wall of heart shaped leaves and bloom, playing until contented from perfume. Hands shook the branches, feet crushed the errant petals.
“A path for the bees,” they said.
+ say it
one of life’s great truths, the simpler the better.
Seated at a roadside table
Her knee pressed yours
One timeless moment
You can’t forget
The girl with the rain soaked eyes.
She holds sorrow as a mother holds a newborn babe
And you are young again and safe
In the arms of the girl with the rain soaked eyes.
You’ll say you’ve moved on yet find yourself lost in the folds of her dress,
young again and it’s your first kiss
While night turns away, she circles back
And you are a moth to light
For the girl with the rain soaked eyes.
She paints roses.
I grow them.
She listens to Julie.
I listen to Kat.
She favours lean prose.
I toss word bouquets across the page.
She’s a realist.
I’m a hopeless romantic.
My mother, her daughter.
• Kat Edmonson
• Julie London
The San Joaquin Valley is an endless canvas. Fields of emerald stretch for miles. There’s a cow. Gone. Sheep drift and settle like clouds. Gone. Wind whips my face. Palm trees appear as if out of place. I inhale the sweet smell of citrus.
Is this Heaven? I don’t believe in God. Somewhere else there’s a war. What’s this holy feeling pressing down on me? If God exists, he’s hiding in those mountains. I’ll pray for all you suburban squares and do gooders.
This is truth. The southern sky laces crimson before it turns dark. At this pace, we’ll roll into town ahead of nightfall. Hills bank and the road snakes on. Up and down, up and down. This is life.
My buddy Jack, shouts above the Indian’s drone, “Long, hot summer ahead.”
At the last moment, he’d dropped his tools and joined me on the road. People don’t ask too many questions. We travel light and fast.
I nod. Freedom, man.
There’s no itch for smokes or shots. Cruising an open road is enough of a high. We’ll find a tavern where the drinks are flowing, somewhere after sunset.
~Summer of ’51, ‘tidal prose’
For the French girl or boy in you. Make a simple room diffuser. Choose a bottle or jar. Cut a few rose canes- it’s the perfect time to prune. Add condensed rose water to the bottle and several drops of rose essential oil. Wine and Baudelaire.
― “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Rose water and essential oil are available at most grocery stores that sell natural products.
He was dying.
My fingers laced his.
“I love you,” he said. “I always have.”
From his fog, he painted me six words. Six words that formed a scene of a child and a father.
She reaches up. He reaches back.
Six seconds on the blade edge of time.
He bought her birds and not just any type: Quail, wicker, and one from Spain.
I placed them on top a dresser in her room.
Spring waltzes in: beautiful, hard to describe, sensual. There is something old fashioned in her grace, tender to her touch. She slips off, leaving you lost in a bed of hyacinth.
~ a dove’s call
“Children should be seen, not heard.”
She says it once, her voice stern. I notice the lock of hair that falls loose and softens her face, a strand I want to touch yet dare not. My grandmother’s hands are clasped, hiding her fingers. Fingers that will never touch my cheek or stroke my hair. A cup of tea waits to be sipped.
Fortunately for the two of us, I understand. As seasons surely change, our visits follow a predictable pattern: Cod Liver Oil, silent play, and tea time.
“The child looks sallow,” she says.
Her sister agrees. “She’s pasty.”
“Child. Step into the light.”
“The poor thing,” the aunt says. “It must come from the mother’s side.”
Two sets of eyes swallow me whole. Two heads nod in agreement. The aunt bustles for a spoon. A rattle of cutlery and the thud of a cupboard signal her reappearance. The two women coax me to open wide, their lips form key holes.
“Feed the birdie,” they chirp.
The silver spoon rises and dips, as a wounded bird mid flight. I shut my eyes and wait for the liquid to wash through the gaps between my teeth.
“Now scoot,” she says as her arm sweeps me out the back door. “Mind the cat and stay away from the Italians’ dog.”
Once outside, I’ll spit what is left into her garden. It’s almost a relief. There is no sense in tears. It’s important to please.
It won”t be long until the door opens to summon me inside. The sunroom is filled with Mason jars, some marked Nasturtium. Others house twine or buttons. I want to ignore her and wander over to a wooden table. I want to touch the cacti rooting in soup cans. Instead, I follow my grandmother to the kitchen.
” The little lady looks freckled,” the aunt comments. “Sunshine and tonic is the right mix.”
“Sit for tea,” my grandmother adds, “and remember- this isn’t a playground. There are sugar biscuits on the plate.”
Her words slide like honey and for a split second, I think I see her smile.
Our time together will suddenly end. There isn’t an official explanation. The birth of Madeline creates a fuss. Visits trickle and end on a full stop. There is never an explanation as to why two granddaughters are struck from Alice Jackson’s guest list. Perhaps the Cod Liver Oil has something to do with it.
“But she would want to see me,” I say. I repeat it and repeat it. No one listens. I am surprised by this as my father is a man of diplomacy.
“That’s the way she does things,” he says.
During our absence, I find a way to remember her. With my mother’s help, I mail cards to mark the passing of special occasions. Only the prettiest images will do: wide- eyed kittens tangled in balls of wool, their paws dipped in glitter or wicker baskets filled with pansies- her favourite flower. I hope she’ll smile as she slips the card from the envelope. Inside the card, is my scrawled script: Love, Annie.
I wonder. Does she see that I choose images for her? Can she hear the thump of a tiny heartbeat as it attaches in rhythm to her own? The cat on the card resembles her beloved feline. The pansies aren’t a random choice. Does she notice?
Everything done in tiny moments is to please her.
~ Annie Speaks