On June 10th of 2005, my oldest son Kevin, and his wife Mary began the care and feeding of their now 6 week old twins: Boy and Girl. Kevin is 44 and these are his first children. He called today just to tell me that he and Mary are exhausted. "Mom", he said, "they wear us out and suck us dry, demand food constantly and steal our sleep. The sounds of love making have been replaced with the wheezing squirting sound of Mary's breast milking machine all hours of the day and night. It sounds exactly like dying emphysema hold up in the bathroom. We forget to bathe ourselves because we are so tired from continually having to bathe the new babies. Everything on their little bodies, with the possible exception of their precious little ears, regurgitates something of its own many times each day. I have taken to gently spraying off their slippery bodies in the kitchen sink: not the one with the disposal because I have childhood trauma fear that the little man in the drain will come up and snatch them down. Mary insists the kitchen sink is definitely not suggested in the baby book and Mary will not let me hose them down in the backyard where I bathe Sherman (the Jack Russell). Mary insists on wonderful little tie and snap and drape clothing with matching crib sheets and bath towels. I am becoming more and more appreciative of Southern India's method: naked babies lying in absorbent dirt. But here in America our washing machine groans away all day and all night. If I send you an emergency plane ticket you can be here tonight for the 6 o'clock feeding frenzy. Mama, you cannot believe how much we love them."
May,2006: The Twins are now eleven months old. Kevin called. "Mary had to go into work today, so I am on food duty. I have figured it out. I take all of their clothes off and sit them in them in the high chairs and feed them, wash them off good and re-dress them. Mary's fancy baby clothes don't get covered with lost food. Mary doesn't know I do this. Don't you think this is a great idea, Mom? There is a long silence:::Oh, My God, Mom::::Kathryn is covering everything in poop::: Oh, My Go---KATHRYN!"click.
I loved these stories. Kevin should be a comedian.
Dear Son,
I love your mother.
She raises my metabolism
just short of boiling over:
we are a continual foaming, bubbling caldron.
Enough energy lies between us
to drive a steam engine through the Rockies.
It takes all that power to live in the nineties.
You are not used to someone new:
strange to you
knowing her in different ways from you.
Always we think the person we know
is the only one that resides within.
But, dear son of hers,
residing within there could be six or more
maybe even ten of her.
One or two for business and friends;
one is daughter;
one is mother;
one is wife;
such and so forth, the faces of her go.
The one I know is fire, electricity, lightening,
an occasional earthquake, a cool spring breeze,
a blanket of soft new fallen snow.
I love your mother with my life for all my life, for ever after,
and with that love I cover you.
And so, dear son of hers,
be a son of mine.
I sign this letter with my four new faces:
Husband, Lover, Provider,
and (if I may be so bold), a new Father.
She rides
My little angel rides.
Her Palomino blond hair flies
long and straight;
a two tail Palomino
keeping time with the wind.
She rides
astride the Roy Rogers Trigger horse:
advanced in age but stalwart of heart.
Perfect she is, or course,
this blue eyed granddaughter of mine,
learning acceptable feminine goals:
patience,
finesse,
complete control.
She rides,
trot, canter, gallop, walk:
A to C,
K to M to E.
Diligently her tongue darts
from thought to grin
then back again.
Flying changes
as difficult as they sound;
Thwack!!!! BamBum!!!!!
Her bottom bumped the ground.
Rip spun around.
With eyes brown and deep
as universal consciousness
he flicked an ear toward the tears
streaked across her dirty face.
With tenderness from one eye
he neighed and nuzzled her to his side.
"Get back on.
Ride, ride.
The wind is waiting.
Complete the race."
A Palomino knows
life requires more than a pretty face.
This scene takes place four years later.
Palomino Rip & Heather Kay
Grandmother Dear, please do not cry. I did not die. Your blue silk jacket is torn where Rip's hoof went straight through. I'm so sorry your wonderful jacket is torn and covered in hoof prints.
Little child, little child, I cried, the slippery silk and downy feathers slipped those flying hoofs right off and past your tiny body. Sitting here with you in my arms and looking at this jacket, I know you would not be with me had not this jacket been with you.
Grandmother Dear, I knew Rip was not going to complete the jump. I knew I had to jump off and away from Rip, but I could not. My foot was stuck in the stirrup. When my foot came loose I forgot to turn loose the reigns, and then I was flying over Rip's ears. It was so very fast.
I remember looking at his ears and down the top of his nose, then hanging from his neck, holding round, knowing I was slipping under him. I said out loud to myself, "Let go of the reigns; let go the reigns. Jump clear." But I did not let go, I just did not let go of the reigns. I was on the ground and I watched his strong legs come toward me. He was running hard and knew I had gone under him. It was happening fast.
Grandmother Dear, then the wind came. It was louder than a tornado or a train. A wind howling like no other came and covered my ears like big hands. All of the sudden I was in the wind up in the sky. I watched myself tumbling under Rip. I could see me screaming, but I could not hear my voice calling.
The wind filled up my ears.
I saw Rip's hoofs step on me while I flipped around.
The ground was hard and his hoofs were everywhere.
I was watching me and I could not feel or hear.
I knew it was bad, but I did not hurt.
Bill was running toward us, waving his arms and yelling
I could not hear him because the wind was taking all the sound away.
Then Rip was off of me and I was lying on the ground.
Bill knelt down and put his hand on my chest and took my wrist.
I watched from the sky.
The wind got even louder and I began going back into my body.
When I was inside of me again, Bill was holding me and I began to cry.
I was afraid and shaking, but I really did not hurt at all.
I was only scared.
Heather became silent once more and stared out the car window on our way home. I looked at the silk jacket and there were hoof prints at the ribs and the shoulder. Her left erring was smashed into her ear lobe and a skid mark on her forehead. There was a hoof print on her arm and upper thigh. Her ankle was twisted and bruised where the boot came out of the stirrup.
I know that Heather lived through this to tell this story of watching death without pain. We all knew that Heather died, no one knew better than her trainer, Bill. Heather has given up horses for adolescent boys and birthdays. We are all very happy.
He brought her home:
past three brothers
one sister,
his father
and me.
To the upstairs bedroom
that once held:
Herbie, the snake,
Finkers, the Chinese hooded rat,
Red, the dog,
Preacher, the cat,
spit balls
assorted colored rocks,
dirty socks,
one shoe box
full of locks,
no keys,
electric trains,
model airplanes,
legos
love notes.
Framed by the freshly painted door,
they sat holding hands and smiling
on his first double bed
with snow white sheets stretched tight.
There they lay:
snugged up under Mama Gal's granny quilt,
safe in my big four-poster bed.
Two full grown infants
with an infant of their own
fast asleep at their feet.
Outside, in the soft moonlight
I could see
the tightly packed Rider Rental Truck:
a timely covered wagon pointing West
tucked up under the great old Magnolia tree.
The tears still gleamed
on their moon bathed faces.
Excitement, fear, sheer terror
flickered and danced
under the stern grandparent faces
whose determined eyes glinted a smile
from curved glass pictures on the walls.
I sat in the room watching them sleep
listening to the peaceful breathing
of my child, his wife, their child.
Can an
eight to five,
beer
jive,
Levi,
plaid flannel,
sneakered,
G.O.B.
on pot
become a
three piece pin stripe,
company man
in Dad's store:
smiles,
sales,
cocktails,
pipe,
what a bore.
It smells like a hamster cage in here.
Why are our seats
in the end one?
I can't see Ring One,
what are they doing?
The best act
must be in Ring One.
The people in Ring Three
are wearing purple,
yuk!
We have the most
elephants on our side.
At least they aren't
wearing purple.
But they go
to the bathroom.
Look!!
That's why it smells
like a hamster cage in here.
Boy Baby lay
under the tree
crystal and tinsel
reflecting sky-blue eyes
toes in the ribbons
fingers in the bows.
He lives.
Joy to my world.
Full moonbeams quietly lay their way
through the tufted clouds,
and quick-silver slithered
past the winter cold red brick passageway
falling leaf like on the flag stone below.
Loosing an icy glow,
entering the window,
they danced their way
through yards of French lace,
weaving flowers onto the ancient quilt
of Mama Gal's dancing dolls,
who were slowly growing colors
in the pre-dawn light.
Then tiny ribbons
of iridescent fingers
spun crystal cobwebs
into your tousled hair.
Quietly you turned in your sleep
and your adornment gently followed.