Twenty perfect pictures
A cry-free four hour drive
Thrilled squeals that last for miles
A dip in the end-of-maze pool
A local restaurant in a sea
Of red jerseys and sauce
On the way to the stadium
With an ocean of red jerseys and lust
It’s summer and the sun has set
On fourteen flights of stairs up
The arch glistens from city lights
Alongside the river of all rivers
Our room sees it and smiles with pride
For we have won, we have won,
Our team, us, them, we have won.
ninety degrees, heading into the sun,
hour three of a dogged day’s drive.
my sweat gives in to my need for
some cool caffeine, even if it means
stopping at the food devil’s door.
i stand in line behind their typical customer:
400 pounds, greasy white hair,
pack of Marlboros tucked into its home
in his back pocket, he orders his
super-sized meal and waddles around
while the too-thin cashier rings it up.
i catch a glimpse (all it takes)
of his 4X gray T-shirt that
bubbles over his belly
like an ashy house dress.
“Fit for Life: Jesus Christ’s Gym.”
when i discover the latte machine is broken,
the irony leads me across the street where
i put $2.46 down on the gas station counter
for a canned Starbucks, the Indian brothers
taking my money, their heavy accents reminding me
of home, home, home.
with the keys trapped inside
and us trapped here,
we have a moment to dwell
or look out at the view of rolling hills,
a distant silo,
and listen to the variety of birdsongs
in the for-once-not-too-hot day.
Lunch will wait, as will we,
and move on with our day
in the same languid way
as natives of Tennessee.
One blog post to write with
Two sleepy-with-summer eyes for
Three sleeping soundly little girls who’ll have
Four days with me in the upcoming fortnight, though
Five days would make us all a bit happier, especially with
Six over-mountains hours separating us, though we can make it
Seven lonesome (for me) days until we meet again, especially with
Eight personally-picked items in each (never do this) gift bag for at least
Nine hours of enjoyment (I’m hoping for more), my heart will crack right at
Ten in the morning as they buckle in and take off, my loves with my lover for
Eleven time-with-extended-family, miss-them-already, counting-down-the-days.
at times it feels like nothing less
than a gigantic pile of work: the
seven sleeping bags, two tents,
four bags of food, two melting-quickly
coolers, dog leashes, rain flies,
camping chairs, shovel, swim bag,
toiletry bag, overnight bag… it sits in
the dirt as we lethargically carry piece
by piece and load up the two cars.
but with one last look through the
glorious green leaves out onto the
cove (waterfront property for a night),
the girls bobbing up and down in
their life jackets, Daddy with his
fishing pole, Uncle Zak dipping the
oars of the kayak into the smooth water,
i can still feel the tingle of it on my skin,
washing away the exhaustion, the work,
and bathing me in memories that will
build up a gigantic pile of love in my heart.
1 bike
1 narrow bridge
1 mile-wide lake
1 dose of fear for your life
2 speeding cars (instead of 20)
3 shots of adrenaline
4 cups of determination
1. Take a picture beforehand so you’ll have documentation.
2. Wait for your moment. The shoulder of the road before the bridge will help you build up your fear.
3. Mix the determination and adrenaline in a hot-as-blood concoction and hit the pavement with your tires.
4. Forget about the forty miles behind you. Focus on the beautiful lake, the white line, and the bout-to-burst heart to get you to the center of the bridge.
5. Let the cars zoom past and try to ignore the semi coming from the other direction. If you pedal with the risk of your life in your heart, you’ll make it before he does.
6. Take a picture from the other side for documentation. You might need it to remember this moment. Or, you might not. Either way, it’s a beautiful bridge.
He is a lonely old man with frayed jeans and two old dogs who look like a combination between Dalmatians and setters. They come up to the girls as they get out of the van and each of them reaches out for them, petting their ever-shedding white and black fur onto the green grass of southern Illinois.
When we arrive at the door, the hours for the adjacent restaurant are posted, and having seen not a soul in the parking lot, and not being within those hours, we are a bit frustrated that we’ve woken the baby for nothing. As we turn to leave, he rushes to the door and in a thick southern accent begs us to come inside.
His black cat moans and meows behind the counter as we look at the half open taster bottles. Before we can begin talking, he asks the girls to come behind the counter and check out his cat named Whine. He spells the name out for them. They look up at him expectantly, not understanding.
“Where y’all from?”
“Colorado!” Isabella pipes up.
His bushy white eyebrows rise up in surprise. “Y’all drove a long way then!” He puts his hand under his chin, only half believing us. “Where in Colorado?” he inquires, somewhat suspiciously.
“Denver.” Isabella shoots me an accusatory look, whispering, “We’re from Aurora.” I explain in a similar accusatory whisper, “No one has ever heard of Aurora.”
“I’ve been to Colorado. Boulder. I liked Boulder, all the nice bike trails.” He has already examined the bike rack, trailer, and Bruce tells him of our ride today. “Yep, Boulder is a beautiful place.”
We stand for a moment like old friends who are recently reacquainted, the years and comfort level lost somewhere between then and now.
“Are y’all just looking, or would you like to try some wine?”
Bruce jumps in with a quick yes and I stare out onto the beauty of the vineyard. A small wooden bridge over a stream leads to its presence on the hill, where the grapevines grow as thick as a leafy forest of taste on this early summer day.
We taste three wines and pick two to take home, but before we can even hand him our credit card he says, “You’re in education, aren’t you?”
We hear the story of his math-teaching career, his superintendent position. Even after we have closed the sale, he identifies with perfect accuracy the ages of all three girls, and proudly shows us an aerial view of his wine bottle shaped pond, pointing to its location on the other side of the deck.
I am walking down the steps toward the car, baby in arms as Bruce clutches the bag of wine, but he beckons us to tour the restaurant.
It is a perfect wedding reception. White linen tablecloths, a wraparound deck, a fireplace in the center of the room, vineyards on all sides and the pond in the forefront. He offers us a somewhat grease-stained menu that is filled with random fonts and what I’m sure is a pathetic web site.
“How long are y’all visiting your sister?” because of course by now we’ve explained the whole situation of the four girls instead of three.
“The whole summer.” His eyes light up, eyebrows rising again, this time in hope.
“Let me show you girls a barn swallow nest.” It is built on top of a security camera, the babies’ yellow beaks opening and closing expectantly amidst the typically fluffy black fur. They are mesmerized. He knows them well, my girls, children.
“Maybe we’ll come back sometime for dinner,” Bruce says aloud, partially to me, partially to him.
But I am thinking of the hour and a half drive, of the trip to Tennessee, of camping and swimming and all of Kentucky that we haven’t seen, of the Frost poem, “knowing how way leads on to way…” and even with the imperfectly edited menu that seems to boast some delectable treats at somewhat reasonable prices, I know that we will likely never return.
We finally part ways from the man who perhaps hasn’t spoken to anyone in hours, days. The gravel road leads us back to the miniature highway, absent of cars, and as I look back, I say, “What a perfect, private place for a wedding.”
“I’m going to have my wedding there,” Isabella replies. “He was such a nice man.”
We come to a small chapel, and I smile back, “Sounds good.”
The two bottles of wine dance together in the back seat, waiting for the right moment to be opened and cherished on the tongue, tasting all over again this day on the road not taken, the road that led us here to brighten someone’s day, to brighten our day.
I saw you dressed in imperfection
Slipping out of the horizon into obscurity
Like an orange Valentine cookie
That my lover took a bite from.
Slowly, slowly you rose up from the dead
And as the Kansas sky tried to swallow you
With its hungry wind and blaring stars, you
Filled the midnight with a semicircle of light.
(a waning gibbous science teachers would say)
But to me, your missing piece made you whole
As you bathed the highway with your persistence,
Your imperfect circle guiding me all the way home.
One downtrodden minivan
Two impatient, scratchy, whiny pets
Three cranky, anxious, bored little girls
Four filled-with-books-and-movies iPods
Five warm-for-summer-weather sleeping bags
Six BPA-free and steel hot-water-by-now bottles
Seven wheels on two bikes, a trailer, and a tag-along
Eight crammed-into-the-carryon pairs of extra summer shoes
Nine months of planning, cramming, shoving, swearing, packing
Ten priceless weeks with the cutest, newest addition to our family.
Snow fell in circular wet flurries
as I drove to work this morning
(not even sticking to the road)
making everyone drive just a bit slower
I revved the engine, seeing no ice,
my mind on the last picture I saw
flash on my desktop (the one of us
all in the swan boat in Providence)
my hair was too short and we were
sleeveless under the scorching sun
grins popping out our cheeks,
eyes squinting to block the rays
The snow will slink away by noon
and summer will still be on my mind
as I sit in my windowless world of work,
keeping my hot imagery close, ready.
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