Broken Thing


Yesterday,
I was sure she was dead.
When the phone rang
and I ran to get it
leaving my mat in the middle of yoga class,
I expected to hear someone from the hospital tell me,
“we’re sorry.”
Instead, it was just a pre-recording about credit card debt
from Washington.
I immediately hung up
and returned to my downward dog.
When I got home,
I called and learned my mother was doing fine,
much better than yesterday.
I started crying.
Not because my mother was doing better,
but rather because
my mind had tricked me,
again.
I had succumbed to the little voice in my head that always tells me
terror is true.
I hate that voice.
It sounds so real.
I always believe it.
I always fall for it.
Like the magician pulling the coin out of someone’s ear,
or the rabbit out of the hat,
no matter how many times I’ve seen the trick, I still don’t know how it’s done.
It is the same voice that tells me
my lover is having an affair,
or that he’s been killed in a car accident when I can’t reach him.
Or that the little mole on my back is Cancer,
or that I’m going blind,
or that I’m destined to be poor.
It is the one that keeps me so tied up in worry,
that I wake up panicked.
But yesterday afternoon,
after sitting and crying and realizing I had been tricked once more,
I told myself, “enough.”
I told myself I was through listening to that little demon
and that I had other things to do.
And that
that was no longer going to be
me.
I do not need to be like the dog
chasing its tail round and round trying to catch it.
No,
I am through taking a bath in flames.
I am through being
this thing,
this worried,
broken thing.

Oranges and Fog


Thursday,
and my father is at it again.
Such are oranges and fog.
The body has forgotten
his social security check
again.
I am mostly toes
walking
along the shore
explaining over and over again
what is out of my control.
Photos of blackbirds
and foam,
the Alzheimer’s won’t let sink in.
It is like that now.
Some men talk,
other’s don’t.
Neither of them can remember anything.
Phone numbers.
Meal times.
It’s all too much.
What happened this morning.
The Saturday afternoon.
The walnuts and cars along the road.
I don’t know
the comedy of old men.
I weigh one hundred and twenty five pounds
in socks.
Each moment is a new beginning
they will quickly forget.
And still,
there’s enough fat to pinch
beneath my blouse.

Silent Picture

Snow
on the branches
and bushes.
Deep white.
Everywhere.
Hanging and melting
and blowing.
The frozen woods
forever
in my eyes.
The vast woods of clouds.
From my chair,
I see the grey.
The dog barks
disturbing my picture,
my silent picture.

Bill

Bill died today.
His wife called me a few hours ago
and said he passed away this morning.
I had a bad feeling when we called last week to ask him about a battery
and they said he’d been in the hospital for five weeks.
Bill kept my Volvo running.
He was always there when I called and needed something.
A few months ago,
when I couldn’t get it started I called him.
I told him the guy in the garage had tried to jump start it but that did nothing.
Bill said, “It sounds like a worn out starter. Try putting it in neutral and see if it starts.”
Sure enough,
it started right up.
He was right.
He was always right when it came to those 240 Volvos.
I could describe the smallest problem
and he would instantly know what it was.
He could have had his own show
like the guys on Car Talk.
He could have called it Bill Talk,
and he would have never been stumped by anyone.
But he was more than a mechanic.
Coming to see Bill was an experience.
You didn’t just get your car fixed.
Bill would talk to you about everything
from philosophy to politics.
And he knew just how things should be run in this country.
I don’t think he was a Republican,
but I’m more sure he wasn’t a Democrat.
Bill was probably an Independent.
He worked out of the garage of a house he owned.
Like some kind of mad genius’ workroom.
There were parts everywhere.
On the walls and on the floor
and on his workbench.
Parts no one had anymore.
Parts hard to come by.
Bill had them all.
Sometimes we’d talk for a long time
before he’d ever get started.
(sometimes I thought he’d never get started)
Usually he kept my car longer than he said he would,
but he’d always get it done.
Old friends would come by with their Volvo’s and ask him questions about why it was doing this or that,
and Bill would laugh and say, “Hell if I know.”
But then he’d always give a suggestion.
He kept my car cool in the summer
pumping it full of freeon they don’t make anymore.
And when my car died on the freeway
just outside of Memphis,
Bill talked me through what to do to get it running again
so we could drive it home to Nashville.
If someone else ever worked on my car, I’d show him what they said and he’d
look at the report and say,
“they don’t know Volvos.”
And he’d be right.
They didn’t.
No one knew Volvos like Bill.
Now that he’s gone,
I’m going to finally sell my 240.
It just won’t be the same without him.