AT THE HISTORY CENTER

 

After exploring the wood-paneled rooms furnished with black rotary phones, cocktail trays, and TV consoles the size of refrigerators, my daughter and I climb the narrow ramp into the belly of a World War II C-47 aircraft, sitting for a moment in dim uncertainty, as the ghosts of this craft did decades earlier. We can see the light outside shifting from amber to gray and back again, sense the angled approach of large water, before the wing catches fire and the voices of those men -- hopelessly young -- return, bellowing above bomb blasts, terrified, cursing every God under the sun with words we do not use at home. My daughter clutches my arm, wonders aloud which of her classmates, soon to be entering third grade, would survive such a perilous mission. Only two or three, she decides solemnly. When the silence returns, it is jarring and final, the silence of all those lives, barely begun, layered on top of one another. But I can hear the cries of the soon-to-be dead behind us, starting up again, the same explosions drawing closer from every direction. We walk back into the sunlit lobby, wondering what we will have for lunch. Our sky is blue, and this day -- soon to be part of our past -- open before us.

ASHES

 

For weeks, then months, they sit undisturbed

on a makeshift shelf in your brother's musty garage,

the gray-white residue that once answered

to your name packed neatly into a surprisingly

small cardboard box, unadorned and anonymous.

Drums of exterior paint and car exhaust

surround you now, boxes of tools, and bulky

winter clothing packed in large plastic containers,

the ordinary stuff of life in process.

This is not the respite that I would have wished

or imagined for you, dear friend; though

you will be relieved to know that this stop is not

final, only a way station before the long drive

out of state where you will be scattered,

per your request, out near the railroad tracks

which run the length of your old hometown,

where your mind -- always too sharp and too busy

for its own good -- could wander with neither

weight nor interruption, and your body

could walk and walk never losing its way back.

It's a walk I can't make with you; but should I hear

the call of that Illinois Central, rising

above the chatter of birds and traffic hum,

declaring its own speed and distance, at just

the right angle, I'll say they're playing our song,

as if I could remember the words or tune,

as if the grain and grit of your slender bones

were somehow able to dance again.

THE PAST

 

So much of life is past tense

these days, even when spoken of

in what passes for the here and now.

So much becomes after the fact,

though the facts themselves

remain anything but clear.

I still look for you when I enter

those musty white rooms,

my mind waltzing between what

I know and all that I cannot.

You know I never learned to dance,

or to feign forgetfulness.

But the past no longer requires

our presence, no matter how often

we wander through, touching

one item, then another, as if we

might be found within them.

Our fingerprints stick to nothing.

CEMETERY GRASS

 

I remember, too, you brushing your hair

in the morning, never gently, but with a quiet

vengeance, as one would rake a field

full of fallen leaves. I imagined, still half asleep,

the sound of claws digging through

deep undergrowth, sparks of electricity

thrown this way and that, lightning flashing

with your frustration below the surface.

"I'm a hag!," you would call out,

and on a good day you would be laughing,

throwing that calico brush to the floor

like a weapon no longer of use.

But I loved your hair, thick and stubborn

its springs and tendrils always reaching upward,

shining like sunlight through whiskey,

threads of silver arriving much too early

for your liking. You said they were your ghosts

returning to have their say, too many

forgotten lives for you to keep track of.

Now, I dress for an early autumn, no matter

the weather, a far cry from the young man

you once loved; and you have become

another ghost to walk beside me, stirring

the trees, brushing the clouds aside as easily

as spider web, curtains, or breath.

TURBULENCE

 

Flying into New York for the first time,

all those years ago, the plane gliding through

wisps of white cloud, waving and vanishing,

before the gray and the darkness

rose to meet us, rough knots of wind

jolting us one way, then another, as if God,

having failed to reach us through other means,

was again trying to get our attention.

Lightning broke like a crack in the glass,

the plastic curtain of the window falling shut,

while my anxious mind immediately began

to map out the details of our demise,

engines coughing and sputtering into silence,

the passengers behind us praying without reserve,

the strangely serene drop from 40,000 feet

to some abandoned field, your thin summer skirt

with its pattern of daisies blending into

the long, wet grass, the shapes of our bodies,

appearing to be running -- whether toward

each other or away -- imprinted into the earth.

But just as quickly, the darkness gave way

to sunlight, the clouds began to erase and rewrite

themselves, shapes of commas and ellipses

trailing off, above and below, the brief story of

our life together -- part comedy of errors,

part tragedy -- still being written, still in search

of an ending that would make sense.