"O lost, and by the wind grieved, ghost, come back again." The words
trembled in my ears waking me to a dark day wet with drizzling fog.
Yes, Yes, come back, ghost. My eyes stayed closed, as if stitched shut
by some angry, demanding little man spinning straw into gold. I would
promise him anything for that moment lost; but he, in hobnailed boots,
singing his name just out of hearing, sinking his heels deep into my
grave with every step of his dance. I shiver again. I tell myself, such
an old fairy tale. The words shock me, but these are words only from a
tale by Thomas Wolfe. There are no ghosts, no grieving wind, here.
As the fog thins, the eastern sky turns a pale peach, promising me another warm
spring day, another day to work in my garden, and today, I will dig out blackberry
vines and turn the weeds for garden mulch. Out front, outlined along the walk, tall
weeds hide callas. One, with its yellow spike raging not against the supporting
weeds but its white spathe and the drizzle, struggles to burst into the light
before sunset. Those weeds can stay for another week or two.
My house is empty. And, quiet. The woman with her screeching obscenities, and
her bundles hanging from her shopping cart, and her sadness is gone. The child,
wearing a bright blue coat and carrying the broken tea set, is gone. The dog no
longer crouches in the dark under my porch. My life is ordinary; some might say
normal. I resist the urge to search the rooms for the woman and child, to secure
the windows and doors against them, to look under the bed for the dog. No ghosts,
I whisper.
Instead, I boil water for coffee, an Arabian mix, bought nearby. The clerk called
it a robusta. I like the shop, its small and cosy, but I don’t go often. I cannot
walk too far from my home without rushing to return. Oh, I’m healthy enough, it’s
just that as the sky opens overhead, a fear overtakes me and I scurry back to my
porch and my darkened parlor. While there, I also bought a small coffee cake, with
cinnamon, nuts, raisins, a glazed sugary top, which I cut into small bite-sized
squares just as the child liked. Taking refuge on the window seat's soft pillows,
I rest my eyes, sip my coffee, and savor each bite of cake. Eyes half open, I look
for buds on the plum tree outside the window. By this time, late February, the buds
have opened and cover the ground. This year there are still none and the tree
is quite bare of bud and leaf.
On the pane, the image recedes and only the faintest reflection of a much
younger, happier me, laughing, looks back. At thirty-four, red hair thrown
back, loose and just a bit curly. At thirty-four, my one pure pleasure was
a stick-shift-red-MG, fast-sporty. Downshift to slow through intersections
then rush onto the freeway, top down, wind hums, wheel turns wheel, racing
top speed across the Richmond Bridge at midnight to meet my new found lover,
the one who would stay with me through all eternity. . . But, not laughing now.
A trick of the glass.
Insistent, my mind revisits a night long ago. “Then leave, damn you!” Hasty
words frozen in time, the closing door too quietly, too quickly, I screamed
until my throat was raw. Still, late at night a sob escapes with each deep
breath. Red wine had inched across the floor, staining the oak. Hours spent
scrubbing the spot. Remembering how my ears hurt from listening for the key
click, for the quick hello. Desiring sweeter words never heard, “Come with
me to the peer. Let’s walk and the salt air will scent your hair. Look up,
see the sun, see the moon, pluck a falling star.” To this day, the stain remains
hidden, an emblem under the rug.
Now, adding last week’s Times, with its unfinished crosswords and unread
book reviews, to a stack of weekly newspapers to be bundled for recycling;
searching through a tin of old metal and glass buttons for one of mother of
pearl or oyster shell to sew on my blue velvet dress; feeding my orchids a
mix promising new growth and larger blooms; memorizing lines from Look Homeward,
Angel. The broken teacup. Broken, how? I have forgotten. That night, I ever so
carefully swept it up and placed the broken pieces in the rubbish can. There is
no going back; there is just remembering. I will drape the windows in black to
block all reflection. Tomorrow, if all else fails, I shall try talking to trees.
Let the wind grieve the betrayals and memories hidden in the mist like lost ghosts.
