The Rocking Chair

I blame this post on my love of Poe and Browning.  I am always amazed by their ability to jump into the minds of some eerie and slightly (perhaps) disturbed person.  To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure how much creativity this actually took for Poe.  He was probably mostly insane himself.  I'd like to think my thinking process works more like Browning: mostly sane, and a bit creative.  I wrote this on Friday and finally had the time to edit it today.  So, enjoy.

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This morning, the leaves crunched underfoot and the breeze was so dry it tasted of dust on my tongue. It had been forever since the rain, and I am glad it came today. Can you hear the refreshing sound of the raindrops tink-tinking on the roof above? Close your eyes. Does it not sound like the rhythm of tears. If you look here, sir, at the windows, you can follow their paths traveling southward in every direction—a silent mockery of the journeys, which I have never taken.  The rain mocks me, and, yet, I am thankful for its presence.  It washes away that which happened; it cleanses the quiet calm of ignorance which lies here. Oh, where does the story begin, you ask. A month, no, a year it has been, or perhaps a week. Time stands still, as you know, with such events.  Or, perhaps it erases itself in one quick swoosh of the wrist. The slate is now clean.  The mind is now free.  

If only redemption was this easy.  

She sat here with me upon this porch whenever last the leaves were falling. She sat there, she did, in that rocking chair, just there, and we sat rocking two by two, arm in arm. Her hand upon my hand.  Her golden hair now greying twisted with her own delicate fingers into a expertly crafted French chignon.  Each day, it was the same: beautiful, perfect, effortless. Not one strand sat casually on that head.  Each hair knew its place, as I knew mine.  We had been ordered, and for that sweet smiling face that once existed, (and, perhaps, we wished would someday return) we must obey.

"It’s warm today," she said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.

"A cup of tea," she said.

"Yes," I replied.

"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair.

An old hound wandered toward us. I knew not from where he had come. He smelt of sadness, sickness, and thirst.  He nuzzled his head near our clasped hands. I moved to calm his pleading eyes, and to pet his weary head.  Perhaps, I thought to myself, I should go inside and cut up some food, or at least get some cool fresh water for it to drink.  I removed my hand from her grasp and looked into his lonely eyes. He spoke without speaking. But the moment did not last.


"It’s probably diseased," she said.

"Yes," I said

"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair. 

The poor dog stared.

"Looks like rain," she said.

"Yes," I said

"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair. 

Her hand reached out again for mine.  Our knitted fingers meticulously intertwined, so that sometimes I forgot which were hers and which were mine.  We sat like that for a bit of time. When I looked back up, the dog was gone.  The breeze had turned cooler and ruffled the hair on the back of my neck as a few clouds glided into the clear blue sky. I tensed my shoulders and willed it to be warm again, but the sky had darkened and begun to cackle at me. Shots of electricity bounced between the clouds and flashed our faces in bursts of light. The air was still dry.

“Looks like rain,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair. 

"A sweater," she said.

"Yes," I said

"Creek crack, Creek crack" mumbled the rocking chair. 

I stood to get her best blue sweater, which she always stored in the front hall closet on the blue hanger next to the red sweater on the red hanger.  The blue sweater is her outside sweater.  She would wear nothing other than her blue outside sweater. After 30 years I know such things.
Then I opened the door, yes, that door right there. Please don’t interrupt as I tell my story, it confuses me immensely.  Then I opened the door, as I said, and I saw the sky had opened up.  It started to rain as she said it would.  She was right as she always is. I placed my hands on the cold screen door handle and closed it silently. Yet, she must have heard, because she turned to look at me slowly, her eyebrows slightly cocked. And, as she turned, the lightning crackled, so that I saw her face at once outlined. Something was not right, I knew.

A breeze that blew so lazily, yes, the same that had chilled the night, had loosed a strand of her golden-gray hair. It floated free and taunted me.  Oh, it would not let me be.  I could not look away from that strand as it danced beautifully.

“Hand me my sweater,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, but my hand did not move.

Silence from the rocking chair.

“Now,” she said.

“No,” I said. 

She stared at me and I at her within a chilling silence. The rocking chair did not respond, and neither did that woman.  Now you see, dear officer, why I sit alone.

“So, she's gone away,” you say.

“Yes, of course,” I say, "there is obviously no other explanation."

 “Creek crack, Creek crack." Betrayal from the rocking chair.

The Heroines of Our Own Lives

If they had been a curious people they would have wondered at the immensity of life, but they were not.  So they spent their days bustling along merely surviving.  They never looked outward from themselves or inward at themselves to question reality, or to fight a selfless cause.  They survived, which is how some of us do it—live this life.  Not Amelia.  She could sense the greatness of each individual.  She could feel it in the salty aftertaste of a sweaty summer day, and in the tender caress of the wind whistling through her hair. 

An unlikely heroine, much like Jane Austen’s Catherine, or Harper Lee’s Scout.  She had done nothing spectacular in her short life so far.  She had seen no image of ghostly grandeur except the majesty of a newly fallen snow.  Nor had God come down from the heavens and spoken to her in a flash of glory.  No knight had ever magically appeared, fallen in love, and whisked her away to his palace.  She had been born with no exceptional talent for the arts, nor creative intelligence for invention.  But, regardless, life happens, as is custom, even for the most mundane characters of which stories are never written.  We are the heroines in our own lives, after all, even if no one else is watching the story unfold. 

It was a cold day in July when they met.  The air whispered through the ice cream shop sneaking in through a small crack of the door, which never seemed to close, no matter how hard it was slammed.  The sun tried feebly to shine warmth through the window, but failed to do anything other than touch the glass.  Amelia stood before the sink washing the same dishes she had washed only an hour before.  Her hand gliding over an ice cream scoop, Amelia heard the door open and close with a jingle of the bell and she glided silently to the front counter, as shadows often do.

He walked towards her blocking the sun behind him, casting a shadow upon her face.  Which she should have taken as some kind of omen, but in real life, omens are never noticed.  They speak wrongly as often as rightly, and most of the time we’ve moved past them before we’ve even realized they’ve existed.  Amelia cleared her throat, almost soundlessly, as she was habit to do.  There was no other event in Amelia’s life that mattered as much as this one.  If only she could have known this at that moment, she would have paid closer attention.  How convenient would it be to have a copy of our biography to use as a guide for our life?  Amelia thought of this later, but not today.

Today, Amelia served him the ice cream he ordered.  Two scoops, one chocolate and one vanilla as simple an order as he was complicated.  Their hands slowly touched as he handed her the three dollars, and again when she handed him back the fifty cents change.  There were no fireworks, but merely the dinging of cash register buttons, and the clinking of the quarters hitting coins already in his pocket. 

If it had been a movie, she would have accidentally spilt his ice cream and offered to get him a napkin to clean up the mess.  They would have laughed.  They would have connected.  If it were a book, she would have felt the innocent forces of love drawing her into the arms of her inevitable soul mate.  In a music video they would have tangoed across the black and white checkered floor to the crooning voice of Michael Bublé.  His arm would have rested on her back and her lips would have trembled as he dipped her backwards into a tantalizing and soft kiss. 

In real life, none of this happened.  Instead, she smiled casually, and he smiled back, immediately turning around and walking directly out into the now setting sun.  There was no spark; there was no hint of their future together.  They barely spoke, but the wheels of fate were already turning, regardless of whether they noticed, or not.

My Wisconsin

I'm feeling a bit of state pride today, so I thought I'd include the below piece that I wrote while I was a bit homesick and wishing for Northern Wisconsin.

The Beach

I need to get away.  Travel to a calm beach with peaceful waters and the kind of sand that warms your feet while you walk.  I see the sun shining down on my face with a cool breeze blowing just strong enough to keep the air sweet.  There are a few people randomly on this beach, I am not alone, but these people do not know my past, my present, or me.  They only care about living life and having a good time, with no stress and no responsibility.  My decisions do not affect them and therefore they do not act like they do.  If I choose to walk along the beach, they do not care because my walking does not affect their happiness.

            As I sit on the warm sand my hair blows calmly in the breeze.  Occasionally falling across my face and tickling my nose, so that I have to brush it away.  The smell of the water encompasses my lungs and fills my body as if suppressing my intent to scream, squashing it into a million little insignificant pieces.  If I dig my toes into the sand little pools of water appear as if by magic, but then disappear quickly with the melodic rhythm of incoming waves.  A hawk circling over head calls repeatedly to the vast forest as if waiting for its long lost lover to reply. 

            I turn and notice that a man sits quietly down the beach to my right, he seems at first to be living life sweetly.  He is reading a book, which one does not matter, and he has a smile on his face.  Sitting calmly on a yellow tepee chair his nose crinkles as he laughs to himself. As he crisply turns the page I notice the sun reflect off of a watch on his left wrist. I feel a sudden impulse to take the watch that ticks like a bomb and hurtle it into the darkest shadows of the lake. He quickly checks his Gucci leather banded abomination to once again remind himself that his happiness comes contained in little saran-wrapped time slots.

            I think about how much I enjoy this freedom and peace.  Once I have sat on the beach long enough that my skin is turning crimson, or that my eyes burn from the suns rays, and my enjoyment has ceased, only then will I slowly stand up, and dust the sand from my comfortably wrapped skirt, pick up my belongings, and head out to find another place where tranquility and peacefulness rule.  I smile to myself like a young child who has just realized that they get to play outside for just a little bit longer.  The breeze blows calmly across my face and smells of evergreens and tranquility.  

Serenity

I decided to post some prose today, since I haven't done that yet.  I haven't written a lot of prose lately, because it involves a lot more time.    Also, poetry usually comes more easily to me, which may have something to do with the scattering of ideas that is my usual thought process.  Below is the essay I wrote for acceptance into college with some much needed recent revisions.
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Serenity

The quiet breeze is peacefully blowing through my hair.  I can smell the pine needles all around me.  My hands are sticky from the sap, which clung to me as I climbed to the top.  I love this tree.  It is the one place I can go and know it will be completely quiet, except for the constant buzz of the busy bees and the occasional call of one whippoorwill to its mate.  This tree and I are good friends and like all good friends she is always where I can find her.  Even though it can be hard to walk through thick woods to get to her, I know that sometimes you must go through the rough spots to get to the wonderful things in life.

It is pure joy as I get to the foot of her trunk.  Then as if we are performing a graceful dance, I climb her branches to the top as she sways in the breeze.  The hum of silence is our music.  As I climb I know that the perfect spot is up there waiting for me.  A little nook in the tree that is shaped just right.  A relaxing place to sit, rest my arms, and set my head.  As I get closer to this spot accomplishment starts to set in.  I have climbed this tree at least twenty times every summer, but it feels just as great to get to the top each time.  I must be careful not to knock off any bark or needles, because I care for my friend.  When I finally reach the spot I am aiming for, I feel a sigh of relief throughout my body.  I sit and think.  I think about life, love and friendship.  I love this tree.  She is my best friend; no matter how much I talk, complain, gossip, cry, laugh, or reminisce, she always listens.  This tree has taught me the greatest lesson in life.  Be a kind and loving being.  Whenever everything seems to be going wrong for someone, it is my job to be their tree, to stand where they can always find me, and to listen unconditionally.