Heidi Beth

I couldn’t know he was/we were going to be a certain gift,
broken love, friendship forever. One summer dusk,
tattered denim cuffs hanging off the curb, me watching as B,
straight blond hair hung over grey eyes,
taught himself to play guitar in the glow
of a Burger King sign and the old clock tower,
each slip of carefully picked sound a ribbon of silk,
as he taught me how to find my melody, open with it,
free my voice, with no further explanation,
no self-abnegation. I could earn a smile, an impression
that imperfection paled in the face of harmony.

It is what I would write when you’re not looking
that I need to say, pressing through the still night air,
not whispers or wisps, but transparent shadows,
their voices the barely-wind, hawk’s call, promise,
long low breath of flute song, a thing being crafted.
I never tell this story.

I don’t even know why I’m crying except that I have to because something hurts so very much, something with a name that I cannot reach. I just turned off the porch lights so the neighbors might not see me out here crying. I know it’s not nothing nor exhaustion. It has a form. A thing from long ago. I’m so grateful to be alone right now, me and my soft flute music. Me and my laptop. There’s a time for me and my children, me and my husband, me and my parents, me and my friends. A time. Oh, this hurts! It’s pulling up from inside, pouring out of my eyes. Tired. Yes, I’m tired. On the outermost edge of panic but managing to stave it off. Sleep will do fine. Prayers with David. Reading on my own. Inner permission to do nothing in particular tomorrow. Here and there I feel parts of my body tensing, then I realize they are simply slightly tenser than the rest. A bath maybe. Better, a small bit, from crying. I’m determinedly trying to do the right thing at every turn, but I see that right now the right thing is to step away, if just for a few hours.

I have never been so grown up and it’s hard, but in the doing each minute, when I can complete a task with relative ease, I don’t realize the effort involved. Bit by bit, day by day, it’s adding up. I give myself permission to be quietly responsible for only my children and myself. Another day I can add again my mother whom I love very much, another day, hopefully many years from now after she has healed and seized every opportunity a second chance provides. Hopefully. But that is not why I cry right now, not from the not knowing for her. I am in tears from losing track of something that must be tended. Day by day, I will again be able to give that temporarily lost thing a name, just like I did in October when I first found it among the Ozarks. Just like that, only however it will be at the time, a something new.

we have kansas sun before dusk
lighting our westward trail,

a case of water, racing winds
calling through open windows
this is what you prayed for

easy laughter,
food in a purple plastic box,
booster packs of gaming cards,
a funny smile on dad’s face,
appreciating of his sons’ antics,

dirty bare feet, stretches of silence,
orange juice in emptied ozarka bottles,
long, slow conversation,
crumby blankets,
bare pillows, boy questions in still-little voices,

every now and then
i-love-you-glances passed
between mom and dad,
and countless miles
of road to cover
together.

Maybe we just need to say nothing for a while,
as the new day rolls out in bright strips.
I’m squinting into the sunrise,
not sure how long it’s gonna take, the rewiring,
letting go of repeatedly rotating within my mind
the contents of a future I cannot entirely control.

If the music has been turned off and our voices
held tight in a kind of sacred gesture,
when we pass a mossy pond,
I will only be considering the glint of sparkle,
art of water plants, how it is there because rain has filled
again and again a hole of unknown depth
and surrounding life has filled it with an invisible world.

If we are silent for a time, giving nothing,
not even a whispering sigh,
then years of unnecessary apologies,
given long before you and I,
memories of wounds I’ve inflicted carelessly speaking,
a recognition that I have been holding up barriers,
all begin to collect, and with a breath, deeply gathered,
slowly released, a portion of these pities glide away.
And when we, after a time, begin to speak,
I will be present.