Heidi Beth

We are a sea of bodies
each on a mysterious
winding path
We are a sea of souls
no separation
no names
We could reach each other
I stretch my right arm
heavenward
a ballerina
seeking
I am a line
a wisp of smoke
bending
in morning’s
first light
a breath
over and over
day after day
until the veils
are thin
as vapor
What do you see
Long brown curls
green eyes
a smile between syllables
See beyond
ache to reach
what supports
my breath
carries yours
connects us
What do we risk
by not
by hiding
behind
imaginary barriers
pretending
we are
each an island
that another’s story
is not woven
into our own
On my way to a writing group
I walked past despair in flesh
her crumpled form convulsing
in a broken down vestibule
in a forgotten neighborhood
where cars make quick stops
Her head tucked in knees
like arrows gathered in shredded arms
wasting away
shaking
shaking
shaking
I continued
along shattered sidewalks
my tears a stream of sorrow
Where are we?
I closed my eyes
I ached
I reached for her
Through emptiness I cried out, “O God! What can I do?!”
My soul rocked like a child seeking comfort
I went cold
Dusk came on
I stepped inside the library
blinded
by a familiar light
She lives in me now
a constant reminder
we must love
without walls
I am never alone

My husband works long hours. So often, days will pass, days where I am always with my children, when not a single fight or incident between the boys occurs, nor a single break where I am only dancing to the beat of a single drum, my own. When there is easy laughter, grand games of make-believe, no trauma, no heart break, no real battles, there are still matters to be dealt with. Bodies need food, clean clothes, adequate rest. Our kitchen needs to be used, then cleaned. For peace we enjoy to be the norm, my children need to be heard, conversed with, guided, appreciated, given an environment to thrive in. Without a break, I fill up on this richness and empty of inner resources to maintain it.
If I fail to step away and into mental quiet where I am only paying attention to my own limbs, if only for an hour every few days, I begin to tilt, answer questions that have not been asked, address issues that only exist in my sideways perception. Often this results in my children feeling rightly misunderstood – not good for any of us.
Two and a half years ago, when my dad was recovering from a quadruple bypass, my family essentially lived in two homes. I ran extra errands making up for missed details lost in mental confusion. I cooked extra meals, served three unable to completely care for themselves. Fortunately, at the time, we lived one block from my parents. If I’d had to cross town several times a day, I would have given up too soon. We watched a lot of PBSkids in his living room. No one could take a break. Need was only a matter to be considered for children’s well being and the man healing in his recliner, the man whose breast had been split, whose spirit now sagged beneath the weight of realizing what he had lived through and a necessarily slow recovery. We only maintained this pace for six weeks. I know so many who spend years caring for an elder parent or a sick spouse.
Compared to some, my ongoing care giver tasks are light. Compared to others, I carry a heavy load. Comparisons are irrelevant. I once heard a phrase that lodged itself in my thinking and saves me often. “All unhappiness comes from comparison.” I agree. Comparing this moment to a “better” one a year ago is even dangerous. But that’s a discussion for another day.
Earlier today, I came across this passage from “Sabbath, Finding Rest, Renewal, and Delight In Our Busy Lives” by Wayne Muller (p.49). I immediately thought of all the people I know who are care givers – not just for loved ones who are ill, but parents of young children as well.
“Shortly before Jesus was killed, he was sharing a meal with his followers at the home of Simon, a leper. A woman arrived, bearing an alabaster flask containing expensive ointment. She broke open the exquisite flask and anointed Jesus’ head with the precious oil. His disciples were very very angry with Jesus, saying: Why this waste? This ointment might have been sold for a large sum, and given to the poor. But Jesus responded, Why do you trouble this woman? She has done a beautiful thing for me. You always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me.
What is Jesus saying – not to worry about the poor? Of course not; his entire ministry is about service and kindness for those in need. He is saying that a life of compassion must include compassion for all beings, including the giver.
Our reluctance to rest – our belief that our joy and delight may somehow steal from the poor, or add to the sorrows of those who suffer – is a dangerous and corrosive myth, because it creates the illusion that service to others is a dreary thing. Jesus says there will always be opportunities to be kind and generous. Just as there is a time for every purpose under heaven, so is there a time for nourishment and joy, especially among those who would serve.”
May we all find balance in order to enjoy both our time of rest and the company of those we care for.

boy perched sleepily on my hip, i walk softly to a twin bed in the corner, settle us down
we’re easing into the last time this love scene will play out as it has for months into years as you grew
i would carry you
to forever
let this moment
last an always
if only
time stood still
and I could do everything
never let go
if doing everything
were best
and little boys
stayed small
i am ready to be done
there must be a last time
we both know
i rest my back
against the wall
rest you in my arms
in a dark room
sing our bedtime prayer
once you are latched
my milk flowing for you
prayer and milk
weighing heavy
on your eyes
“Blessed is the spot, and the house, and the place, and the city, and the heart, and the mountain, and the refuge, and the cave, and the valley, and the land, and the sea, and the island, and the meadow where mention of God hath been made, and His praise glorified”*
last syllable hangs in the air, a hum
following familiar melody
i see you wholly with my arms
one hand beneath your shoulder
the other brushes
a piece of hair
from your eye
to you
my voice is silk
edge of a blanket
you never caressed
for comfort
as I have
always been here
shadows from a street lamp
allow me to see
your outline
rise and fall
of eyelids
you hoping
sleep
will
wait
just
a
little
while
longer
while I sing again for you, shadows of gratitude and a another prayer – to hold my heart together – mingle in my thoughts
drop by drop
tears land
on your pajamas
i sing again
rock you gently
tears fall like rain
i never rise from beneath your sleeping form
we’re still in the southwest
bathed in silent shadow
lingering on the last hum
still fading slowly
slowly
even as you grow
a child now
who stands in full morning light
years since
telling me the same
knock knock joke
every day for a week
laughing with each delivery
perfection
of new found humor
budding
in your soft gray eyes
dancing
on a face well defined
surrounded by hair
no longer
baby soft

same tune, only slower when i sang him to sleep as a wee one
even now, years later, when his brother and i sing Blessed is the Spot at bed time (we love to harmonize), he yawns big, shifts to a sleep position and gives up his fight to stay wide awake. he doesn’t go right to sleep, but he allows himself to begin drifting off
he’s the boy dancing in the sun upper left on my banner
*Prayer revealed by Baha’u’llah

A summer Saturday afternoon in the 80’s.
But you do it every other day, he won’t know the difference.
“I can’t. He’ll know they’re for me this time.”
“He won’t sell to me anyway, I look ten. He knows you.”
I’m fourteen. I walk downstairs and into the convenient store we live above.
“Winston soft pack please.”
I hand Shocky a dollar, accept my prize, turn and leave. Once outside, I dart up to my apartment emitting a high pitched squeal, as if a ghost is on my tail.
Allison and I race over to Washington school, sure the Winstons hiding in my pocket have some way of announcing their presence to the entire town. Up the wall we scale, onto the roof, tucked in a hidden corner. She lights up first. We’re giggling as if aiming toxins at our lungs is cause for celebration. We’re petrified, thinking as clearly as the tiny stones beneath our feet. I follow. We’re still giggling. We see a cop car, no lights, no hurry, drive down Main street when we peek around the second floor wall. Sure we’re about to be busted, leaving eighteen cigarettes behind, we scramble down the wall and speed back to my place, entering through the front door breathless and excited.
Allison and I like our roof top corner. Every few days we return to smoke a cigarette, just one. Our girlish fear fades. We’re having a now and then adventure, the way we go to the beach a few times a week or slide down my steep front stairs with pillows tied to our seats after school when we can’t think of anything else to do.
—————————————————————————————-
Gymnastics season hasn’t started yet at the high school. It’s 4pm, I’m downtown, out front of McDonalds, hanging out with a newly familiar group of kids. One lights up. Then another. I ask for a cigarette, light up too. Just like on the roof, only we’re not hiding. I’m not a child anymore. The wind lifts my hair, brushes past my smile, colors the scene happy. An hour later I want another cigarette. The next day, I walk into the convenient store and buy two packs of Winstons from Shocky.
—————————————————————————————-
Late Freshman year, barely after dawn, between getting dressed and gathering books into my backpack, I take a last drag off a Newport then squash it into a large, round silver ashtray sitting on my dresser. I’m ready to walk to school.
—————————————————————————————-
Sixteen years old, on my day off from IHOP, I’m in the back room of a downtown cafe, (my haven) behind the dish washing area, next to the bathrooms. I sit alone at a small square table with a half sized spiral, “Johnathon Livingston Seagull,” a latte, an ash tray and a pack of Marlboro 100’s.
—————————————————————————————-
I’m twenty three, living in the bedroom of a girl I never met in a town I’ve never been to until now. Her parents are friends of my mom. She asked if I could live with them while I get back on my feet (again). Before I go out looking for a job each January day, I sit on their front steps with a hot cup of strong coffee, my notebook and a pen. After putting out my morning cigarette, I head back in, drop the butt into their kitchen garbage and head out into the still-too-big world.
After living there a week, Elliot asks me to collect my butts outside and dispose of them away from their house. Their kitchen is beginning to smell like an ash tray. I’m amazed. I can’t smell a thing.
—————————————————————————————-
I’ve been sweating in a green polyester lace-lined dress all day, serving lunch to those who prefer a presentation for their wine service, fine maroon carpets and stain glass views. I’m Twenty four, in my own apartment and finally experiencing a small bit of stability. I’m sitting on the end of my couch. Next to me is a second-hand end table with a black plastic ashtray holding a burning cigarette, a glass of orange juice, a couple sugar cookies and a six inch table top fan pointed toward the kitchen. I’m reading Garrison Keillor’s “Lake Wobegon Days,” laughing at how illogical and fragile people can be.
—————————————————————————————-
Walking to a cafe, I light up a Marlboro. I watch smoke trail from the far end. I take a second drag. I throw the rest down on a broken sidewalk square.
I’m driving down the highway. It’s a cold winter day. I light a Newport, crack the driver side window, take a drag, look ahead at endless road. I wonder why, really, do I smoke? I toss the other half of the cigarette out the window.
I repeat the scene over and over for months.
—————————————————————————————-
Spring has come, summer is around the corner. I wake before dawn. Strong coffee brews in the next room. I write morning pages at a small round table.
I’ve been doing this for eight weeks. Writing before coffee, cigarette, food or water. I’m listening. Pages written, I move to the sofa, cross my legs and pray. Before I get up to pour a cup of coffee and light a cigarette, I read aloud from an index card words in my own handwriting, “I am a non-smoker.”
Then I pour cream in my coffee, light a Marlboro and start getting ready for work. Before bed I read aloud the same words on my index card.
I do this every day, wondering how I’ll go about quitting.
—————————————————————————————-
Two weeks later I’m at a seasonal Baha’i school for my state. Standing outside during break, a friend of my parents, a man I loved playing word games with at Poppin’ Fresh when I was ten, asks me for a quarter so he can call my dad and encourage him to attend. Mike sees the Newports in my hip pack when I fish for change.
“You keep your quarter, I’ll pay you to quit smoking.”
Lightning flashes in my eyes.
“Don’t bring it up again. I have no other vice. I’ll do this on my own time.”
—————————————————————————————-
Later the same evening, I’m playing Tubesockey, darting across the gym with a stick made of a wrapping paper tube with a stuffed sock taped to the end. Out of nowhere, a rabbit comes alive in my chest – a kicking rabbit who keeps perfect rhythm fast and hard. I look down and see my rib cage moving, thump, thump, thump. Sounds of joyful screams fade completely as I set down my stick and walk quietly into the warm night.
Thankfully no one follows and I’m alone outside.
My dad told me how deep breathing helps him relax. I take in a deep, slow breath.
Thump, thump, thump my rib cage dances, rocking my body, so forceful is the movement of my… heart?!
“O God, I will never smoke again, if You will just make this stop.”
I’m a walking meditation.
Thump, thump, thump, rapid movement of my chest is still visible through my shirt.
“O God, please! I promise, I will never smoke again if You will make this stop.”
I don’t want to go to the hospital.
I don’t want to die.
I don’t panic.
I breathe in, I breathe out, listening only to my prayers and my heart.
I find a patch of grass, lay down, stretch my body the way I was taught in relaxation class in eighth grade.
My body jerks up and down.
Measured breathing changes nothing.
Breathe in, “O God, Please!!! I swear, I will never have a cigarette ever again.”
Breathe out, “Please! Make it stop!”
I pull my jerking body up to sitting, cross my legs, rest my hands, palm up on my knees.
Deep breath in, slow exhale… nothing changes.
Rocking to a demanding beat, I sing aloud, “Ya Baha’u’l-Abha,”* over and over, just like my dad used to every night of my childhood, just like he did when he saw that truck right before it slammed into the passenger door the night when he walked away unharmed.
Thump, thump, silence.
I’ve kept my word.
I quit three times before that fateful night. Twice (a week each) to recover from bronchitis, another time for nine months. I haven’t had a cigarette for almost fourteen years.
* O Thou the Glory of Glories

One day, I’ll probably write a more detailed account of growing up in an ice rink. For now, I wanted to draft a sketch. This is a revision of one of my first posts. Even with cuts, it’s still long, but hopefully entertaining.
It started as many extreme life changes, with little knowledge of what we were getting into. I was five. A neighbor gave me her daughter’s old ice skates at the end of a birthday party. I was smaller than all other children my age, blessed with a closet full of hand-me-downs and now this pair of wonderfulness I carried home.
Two steps in the door, I asked if we could go skating. A phone call informed us we could go the following day. Unfortunately for my parents I was not a mild child. I screamed, cried and pleaded endlessly, as if by sheer will I could get my parents to make the rink change their schedule. Life goes on and even whiny children quiet down when waiting is all there is to do.
Next day, my mom, dad, a neighbor, her son and I adventured to the local rec center. (At this point my mother jumps in to tell of our first time, but she’s not here tonight so my memory will have to suffice) My parents’ friend Marie, her son Jonah and my dad, the same people who promised my mom they could help her skate, were all clutching the wall for dear life, waddling and slipping just like her. Irritated but undeterred my mom was also managing along the wall, bit by bit, looking down or no more than one foot ahead. I have no idea what I did.
This worked three quarters of the way around. Fortunately, one side of the ice was sectioned off by orange cones, therefore no wall. When my mom reached this terrifying place she froze, reviewing her choices: get on all fours and crawl to the other wall; turn around and go back (breaking the rules); scream and yell much like I had the day before; do nothing and pretend it was a dream.
My brave mother did finally let go of the wall and carefully wobble, surely whispering a desperate prayer, and in great concentration, upright, all the long way to the other side.
So great was her exultant triumph she went around again and again (still a wall buddy) until she developed a firm belief that if she came back and took lessons, she might learn to glide first on one foot then the next, no hands.
This is how we came to live at the rink for the next eight years.
I don’t know the details of her story or my dad’s, other than they took lessons, competed, performed in shows and could get around real fast. Eventually they both learned to jump and spin. I do know my story, at least an outline of it.
I started in group lessons, quickly tested up the patches of Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta and into the freestyle levels where I had the advantage of a private coach. The fruits of this labor?
My first group performance I hid under an enormous hoop skirt with fifteen other first graders from the beginner class. We emerged to delighted squeels as a spotlight tried to follow us. By eight I had solo parts in both the annual Nutcracker, Spring shows and group performances that involved more skill than toddling out from under a dress. At different times and in no order I was the Sugar Plum Fairy, a Snowflake, a tiny furry mouse being chased by the housekeeper (my mom) and in one act, my friend and I did cartwheels and front walkovers on ice. In same show my mom and her friend, both decked out in grass skirts, carried blazing torches across the ice to the tune of “Princess Pupule has plenty Papayas. She loves to give them away.” Fake skirts, real fire.
Every day after school I pulled the laces of white leather ice skates as tight as possible despite discomfort. I giggled and raced with other children who were always there with me. Much of our time was unstructured when we were expected to practice waltz jumps, spirals, lunges and eventually axels, back spins, flips and loops. This we did, but in our own loose jointed kid way, except for one girl (I’ll call her Sara) who was always with her mom. Her mom skated behind her every day, pushing for perfection constantly. Sara was often in tears. She was better than the rest of us but we did not envy her. We reached out to her in friendship, careful never to mention the obvious.
I was always aware of the concession stand. I’d trot off the ice and dash to the high red ledge, asking for another hot dog, bag of orange salty popcorn and a coke. My parents complained that I spent too much time there and not enough time on the ice they were paying for me to practice on. Maybe, maybe not. Half the joy of those years was in memorizing friends. Sharing a bag of pretzels revealed a different aspect of their personality. And I love hot dogs.
When it was my turn to perform solo in any show, when all was dark save a ring of light following the preceding skater as they executed their much practiced routine, I stood shivering behind an enormous wall that reminded me of a giant black Hefty bag. I was nervously ready to launch onto the ice the moment their music faded. Out there, a million miles from anyone, engulfed in a bubble of terror, I couldn’t hear the cheering section of my peers in the far right corner second floor seating. I heard my blades scratch ice. I was aware a million people with two million eyes followed me, a lone figure in a vast emptiness.
I wish I’d enjoyed those brief moments more, been present, or at least not petrified. If anyone had asked me what I was afraid of I wouldn’t have told them. Too embarrassing. I was afraid of what my friends thought of me. I was afraid they were high in the stands secretly laughing, talking about how pathetic I looked. Back in the changing room, surrounded by encouraging chatter I was over it, until next time.
My feet hurt in stiff white boots that left red dents in my legs and squinched my toes. Taking them off at the end of practice was a high point. But I loved everything about skating: flying for hours every day, spinning fast and jumping in full circles; time with friends having spelling contests as we laced our skates; maneuvering through quick changes in crowded co-ed locker rooms (late seventies, early eighties); eating snacks at tables that remind me of Volkswagen Bugs for their chunkiness in solid bright colors where our mothers also sat waiting for us to finish practice; listening to the mothers talk, the rhythm of their speech, the way their mouths formed words, the way they leaned in to each other listening intently.
There was more to our rec center than ice rink. When I was six, the same year I started ice skating, on Friday nights, in another wing, a local gym set up open gymnastics for all kids who wanted to fly in circles around little bars and fling themselves off the end of runways into a foam pit. I was there every Friday the year that program lasted.
As far as latch key children go, I was lucky. If I wasn’t skating I was at gymnastics (another unwritten story, “How I Became a Competitive Gymnast”) for three hours after school most days. I had somewhere to go regularly where I exercised, made friends, ate expensive junk food and learned skills that still live in my muscles, ready to show off whenever I enter an ice arena, gymnasium, backyard with friends or anywhere with a semi soft floor.
Just last Friday, to impress my five year old niece who would gladly live upside down herself, I was standing on my head while maneuvering my legs into artful positions until I nearly crashed into said niece. I caught sight of her right in my face. She was bent in close, studying maybe? In any case, when I saw her eyeball next to mine, I lost my balance and fell sideways with a twist.

He didn’t cry on his birth day.
He peed on my floppy stomach, nursed energetically, made small chirps from his look out in a swaddling blanket, wandered the hospital room with those large hazel eyes and sighed while he slept in the crook of my arm next to a protective rail.
But no tears.
Ten more days passed at home without a single fuss. When finally, on the eleventh day, he stretched and squirmed, grunting and moaning, I knew this must be very painful gas.
Still, no crying.
Two weeks before his first birthday, straddling my lap at our dining room table, head on my shoulder, arms flopped at my sides, he slept fitfully. His first cold was a serious misery and each time he awoke, his nose still wouldn’t let air through.
For the first time in his little life, he cried. He wailed. He screamed and sobbed. So I rocked, sang and patted my baby back to sleep.
Then I sat perfectly still.
Besides not crying much, my son is determinedly happy, upbeat, friendly, full of ideas and either speeding around trying to carry them out, focused like an inventor in a small area of whatever room he’s in, or socializing.
This is just his way. Tears are only for serious occasions and joy or mischief is to be created wherever possible.
So when I looked down at his stretched out figure on the living room floor, face cradled in his hands, and realized he was convulsing beneath the weight of a river flowing out of his eight year old being, my heart broke. Even more so because there was no apparent trigger.
His dad and I were sitting on the couch, a guitar at my side. My husband had wanted to hear the song I was learning to play. Still a beginner with this six-stringed wonder, “Puff the Magic Dragon” came out one word, one strum at a time. For a while he and I tried to keep pace with my choppy time as we sang along, but really, it’s Puff!
So I set the guitar down, placed the songbook where my husband could easily see the words and away we flew, through a magic land of little boys, mist, fire breathing friends and love. As the last “…a land called Honah Lee,” faded is when I noticed our son’s anguish.
He wouldn’t answer our concern. He wouldn’t turn his face to the afternoon sunlight spread across his back. He simply cried and cried into his sheltering hands.
This went on for several minutes. We didn’t feel right neglecting him in his time of need, but his actions suggested he wanted to experience in solitude, this deep and mysterious pain he was clearly in. But we know our son, so we stayed right there with him, now on the carpet, rubbing his back, letting him know he is loved, letting him cry.
Sweaty and spent, with a small muffled voice, he finally asked, “What about the little boys?”
Right then we knew. As we sang, “A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys,” he went from sailing on the joys of friendship and adventure with Jackie Paper and Puff to being told little boys don’t last. We heard, “people grow up.” He heard, “I’m a little boy in danger of not lasting.”
Once he knew the lyrics simply meant Jackie went away because boys get older and become men uninterested in the stuff dragons are made, he turned his wet face to us and offered a slow smile. We all walked to the couch and he curled up quietly in both our laps at once. “I would never stop playing with my friend Puff,” he declared.
I believe him.

it is really best
if i don’t
tell what didn’t happen
until i can
find a place
in my heart for
pretend
can i have coffee
with my characters
is that what i
need to do
have them over
when i and boys
spend moments
as we know
should i offer them
a bowl of soup
or better
ask them to chop
potatoes
carrots
sit a spell
spin a tale or two
until
through
our supper
would this be better
than first
trying to imagine
a fictional world
enter minds
of cardboard figurines
a stranger
there’s my problem
i put flesh
on parchment
with only dust
in my hands
i care about
the words alone
am merely amused
by my story
this being so
how can i give
the reader a
worthy narrative
how does one
invite invisible
concepts to
dining table
couch
heart
cross legs
close eyes
deep breath
visualize a band
of guests
really i ought
to greet them
one by one
older woman first
then her young neighbor
eventually
i need to meet
girl’s best friend
must i craft her
in letters first
or eyelid pictures
then set myself
before a screen
give her bones
before
next writing class
i will need to know
have spent
time writing
these folks
lives

Scene One
“I know too but I’m not telling,” I answered when my mom’s half grin faded.
“Maybe it’s the same person. Come on, tell me and I’ll tell you if you’re right,” she pleads, well aware I’m stubborn as whatever-is-most-mulish.
“No.” I think the conversation is over but now I’m curious. I pause an extra second at the front door, stare at my mother. I’ve seen the trench coat in my dreams, that much coming back to me afternoons when I’d rather be feeling normal. I only know one man who wears a trench and I’m not sure he’s someone I want to marry, but I’m getting to know him out of respect for a year of visions informing me I’m three steps from matrimony. Since I’m happily single, gave up on the possibility of sane dating two years earlier and shy away from any man who suggests I’m attractive, these visions stand alone in a mind otherwise taken up with staying solvent and sober around my relationship with money.
Several words and a minute later I’m back at her kitchen table, folding a little note with Mr. Trench Coat’s name on it, and passing it to my mom as she passes me a small white folded secret she told herself not to tell until after our wedding.
She looks back up at me after reading the name I revealed, wags her head, clicking, “No no… really?”
I sit with her revealed secret, a knot forming in my stomach. The name she wrote, well, he’s a nice guy and really we are getting to be friends. But marriage? I remember the weekend before when he and I spent the day together avoiding the official meeting room at an all day conference. Instead we sat in the halls reading story books in choppy accents to stray children bored with their own classes, visiting with older Baha’i’s who also had trouble sitting through meetings and laughed almost continually. At one point, after returning from the conference book store, I found him in an empty class room looking at a lesson display. “He’d be attractive if he took care of himself,” I thought, looking at his shaggy hair and faded jeans. “Too bad.” At the time it was a fleeting thought followed by nothing. Now, looking at his name, knowing my mom thinks he and I will one day meet to share vows, well, that is too much.
Laughing, I exclaim, “Mom, I will never marry him!”I mean it too. Then I’m down the stairs and in my car, heading for a marriage preparation retreat being offered in a university town about two hours away (I know, Divine humor perfectly timed).
Scene Two
After the marriage preparation retreat’s introduction session, as everyone heads out for dinner at a Chinese Buffet, I start to wonder if that guy from the halls of last weekend’s conference will be attending. His older brother and fiance are the retreat’s hosts, quite fitting as their wedding is next weekend. I don’t know anyone here very well, having only moved downstate a couple months before. Long ago I was childhood friends with the bride to be, but now we’re starting over, getting to know who we’ve each become. I like her fiance. He’s easy to talk to, reminds me of Tigger (that will be his name from now on) and seems to be always smiling. Tigger’s younger brother is The One in my mom’s mind, but to me he’s just a cool person I laughed with easily and I wonder why he isn’t at the retreat yet. He’s the right age, lives in the same town and all his friends are here.
I approach Tigger, “Hey, will your brother (that will now be his name) be joining us?” I think I’m simply inquiring after a new friend. He thinks I’m interested in his cute little brother (years would pass before I knew what Tigger was thinking as he joyfully trotted off to get his young sibling).
Scene Three
I’m surrounded by red, ornate woodwork, painted bowls and sizzling rice soup. I know the people I sit with by name but only faintly as the individuals they are. I’m happy they accept my presence though I’m new to the group and from out of town. Actually, I know them as a single entity, “the group of twenty-somethings from this university town.”
“He doesn’t have a phone or a car.” says one.
“I could go without a car, but I need a phone.” says another.
“Is it socially responsible to be so cut off?” ponders a third.
They’re talking about Brother. “What?!” I think. “Socially responsible? This is a ridiculous conversation.” Aside from those brief thoughts, I am simply there, another face at the round table, spooning egg foo young into my mouth.
A few minutes later, Tigger and Brother walk up.
Brother looks at me (that woman who lives two hours away) and asks, “What are you doing here?”
“Well you’re here because I asked after you!” I think. But since my mouth is full, I raise an eyebrow, swallow, smile and state the obvious, “I’m here for the retreat.”
Scene Four
Brother and I agree to go on a quick errand to buy ketchup for the next group meal. Now that we’re over an irritating re-introduction from the night before and full swing into the study of marriage through The Baha’i Writings, he and I are laughing easily, probably annoying the facilitator. I see he’s trying to be patient with us, but what can one do when the giggles take hold. No doubt he’s relieved the two of us are out for a while.
There we are in the grocery store, ambling through produce, stopping every few feet, laughing too hard to walk straight, doubled over half the time. Finally into the land of boxes and bottles, I look up.
“What are we getting?”
“I thought you remembered?”
“I’ve been following you!”
“I’ve been following you!”
An hour later we walk into Tigger’s house with a large bottle of ketchup.
Scene Five
Another quiet Sunday. No plans. I call a friend. “Want to go for a road trip? I feel like driving on the highway.” Long drives help me think. I take day trips like this to visit out of town friends almost weekly, but today I don’t want to travel alone.
“Let’s go to university town two hours away.”
“Okay, cool.”
I decide visiting Brother sounds fun. I know where he lives since I gave him a ride home the week before at the end of the retreat.
We arrive at 1pm. Brother opens the door, still coming out of a nap we disturbed. Again, he looks at me like I have a third eye for showing up in a place he knows I don’t live and at an unexpected time, only now he’s smiling.
Seconds after he opens the door, I am overcome with a deja dream. I have experienced this moment before, when I was sound asleep: the cream colored carpet, him surrounded by the glow of track lighting, my friend beside me in the doorway. Only in the dream, Brother’s face was blacked out. In the dream I’m aware that I’m visiting the The One I will marry. Now, I’m wide awake. For a brief second, everything goes silvery and my head feels light as a feather. I pull a deep breath into my abdomen, focus my eyes on a far wall and tell my face to act natural and smile.
In Case You Were Wondering
My mom had to wait until March, when we asked for consent, to get in a good, “I told you so!” What she actually said at that sacred moment was, “Well it’s about time!”

Four seasons before we met, I knew us as an artist knows a painting before a single trace of color graces canvas. If this were not so, I would have been too afraid, let you slip away.
Arms outstretched, facing east, morning light dancing on my face, words I knew, like water, pouring from my lips, “…make of my prayer a fire that will burn away the veils…”* a mirage, you vanished just as I reached for you. I stopped trying to catch shadows, turned back to my prayer and waited as one does when the expected may never arrive, when one needs to let one foot follow the other, begins to keep a sense of maturity tucked in pockets, like bubble gum once stashed between denim and flesh inside a cotton pouch.
Body at rest, cloaked in darkness, eyes seeing only what spirit gives, we spent hours as we would someday. Velvet haze outlined scrolling scenes of more than I could imagine a marriage to be yet every cell demanded I was witnessing my own soon be life, to one day be unveiled from the sheath of night. When I found morning, undimmed was my knowing of us, our something I dare not simply call happiness, or any word as none I knew contained this midnight message.
Night after night, I began to see your form, one detail at a time, until only your face remained hidden. Months passing under such a spell wore on me, and when, in a year, I found myself moving through true space that once occupied my sleep, I couldn’t breathe afternoons alone, knowing you must be near. I would pause mid step, hear each atom sing a familiar melody, catch my breath, gaze on an early autumn limb barely moving outside my bedroom window, balance a single tear, like an almost answered prayer, on black lashes.
Amid casual laughter, walking through reality, I finally saw you, face and all, nearly lost my balance, barely caught before anyone sensed a miracle unfold. Silence asked to be observed, wisdom called me to know for myself, pay attention, meditate, not hang my soul’s decision on mystic allusions. I am known to be impatient, casting aside notions of careful consideration, but this time, I knew there was no other way.
When finally, amid practical dailiness, not under the spell of reliving, as I walked across my living room, I knew my waking wish for us, from conscious knowledge, time with you in flesh. I did not stop, sit where I stood, bow my head and cry. I continued to my destination, let the afternoon unfold, my whole being carried in certainty.
When, days later, you stood in my kitchen, looking for a way to manage words unexpected, unfamiliar with your life plans, when you tried to tell me what our friendship meant, I thanked God I had been given a year to prepare.

from the bedroom you trotted
big green
with satiny edges
trailing behind
right hand
pounding your breast
“nuss, nuss!”
auburn curls flying
in from the kitchen
i handed off tending
brown rice, tvp
(another small voice request)
we met
in grandma’s lopsided recliner
up you climbed
never one to
settle quietly
gaze in my eyes
once latched
your feet began
to walk
along the chair
beside my head
until you were nearly
feet up vertical
holding you steady
down you eased
back into my arms
but only for a moment
small feet must rise
I thought
not knowing yet
how unique
the one I called son
every muscle within
your tiny frame
on assignment
given by a drive
we would later know
your need to create
in whatever sphere
of mundanity
you entered
when on first crawl
across our dining room
how you went
straight for the table
weaved your limbs
in and out
through low steadying bars
one chair
at a time
until the circuit was complete
I may have known
but mothers of the first
know anything
baby does is babies
until they meet
infant sibling
one who studies the air
he greets at dark morning
seconds after
his first breath
eyes looking first to east
then west
every inch of newly
emerged form
serene
cradled in mom’s arms
then I knew again
when only one month new
your brother
studied faces so intently
from a nearly unmoving frame
others squirmed
tried to make light
feeling as if
their soul
had been inspected
by new gray eyes
I sensed their discomfort
awe and delight
all at once
when
as i held brother
my body barely
holding on
wondering how
one finds strength
to navigate
early years
up you jumped
a silly face
not for me
and earned
brother’s first wide
toothless smile
I knew we were all
in love