by the water
Sketch
I haven’t been writing my short pieces lately; instead, I have been drawing. Here’s one of my great-nephew, Hudson.
Speck
The crescent moon hung over the bare trees that morning. Its pale shape appeared like a carving in the early blue sky.
Such images startled Lynn, made her stop and wonder. And she wanted to capture the wonder. But when she tried—as in taking a photograph—all she ended up with was a picture of trees and sky. And above the trees and sky, the tiniest dot of light. It could be anything, really—a reflection, even a mistake, but no one would recognize it as the morning moon. She would show the image to someone and say, See—here. That’s the moon. And the person looking would say, Where? There? The moon? Really?
And she could see by their eyes they wondered what all the fuss was about. Just a speck in a huge expanse of sky didn’t amount to much, really.
But that wasn’t it at all, Lynn wanted to say. Still, why bother? You can’t make people see what you see, she said aloud to no one.
She liked the moon far away—the tree tops too far to reach. Something about the distance made sense to Lynn, made the moment matter. Something about the distance was what she wanted to capture.
Maybe a tiny speck of brightness was enough, after all—a photograph of one thing that appeared to be something else. It reminded Lynn of that Breughel painting—the one where Icarus has fallen into the sea. But the painting is not about Icarus, even though he is there and drowning. The painting appears to be about a ploughman and a shepherd, some sheep, a dog, a large ship in the foreground and smaller ones in the background. Land and ocean and sky—people working the land—the movement of earth in its series of moments—
The waning light barely there. The morning moon. The night inside the day.
Washington Street
You are eight years old and already lonely. You measure your walk home from school by sidewalk squares. Your feet have memorized the path. You are walking to the house on Washington Street where the steps to the porch are steep. Your mother greets you at the door, her face as familiar as wind.
Now, years later, you look at a photograph of her from that time; her brown eyes smile, her dark hair pulled back from her luminous face. You marvel at her beauty, showing the photograph to friends—anyone who will look: “See. See my mother. This is what she looked like then”—as if she is someone different, someone you don’t remember, someone you never saw before.
In the house on Washington Street, that same mother—the one in the photograph—does the dishes by hand. It is 1964. She gives you a towel. “Here. You dry.”
In her 80’s now, her hair gone gray, her shoulders stooped, her loneliness beats in rhythm with your own. You hear her voice over the miles, and you listen to her stories—endless stories of what ifs. You ask, “Do you remember the house on Washington Street?” And she answers, “Of course I do.”
If you go looking, you will find sidewalk squares to measure. You will find steep concrete steps leading to stoops and into houses. They are everywhere. But something about that house on Washington Street calls you, reminds you of something you just cannot name. You see it in her eyes when you look at the photo. You want someone to tell you the story of that house and her in it. You were there, yet you need someone to tell the story.
You stare a long time at the photo. Her beauty startles you.
House
You received it as a gift—a ceramic house to set on your mantle or on a shelf or on a table. You hold the house in the palm of your hand—a triangle roof and a square base. No windows. No doors. Just the shape. Simple. The house a child would draw if you said, “Draw a house.” Or the house in a dream with no entrance and no exit. You’re just suddenly there. In the box of it, or you’re looking at it from a distance. Or there it is in a coloring book. You color it blue or brown. Maybe you add windows and doors. Even a dormer. And then the house starts getting complicated, and you can no longer hold it in your hand or remember your childhood or even dream it. Suddenly the house becomes a cape or a colonial or a bungalow. And there are too many words to remember, and too many memories to hold onto, and too much loss. The world is no longer the world you knew, and houses stretch for miles: triangles atop boxes. And you want to hold one in your hand. More than anything, you want to hold a house in your hand. And you reach out for one, but it stays just beyond your grasp. Never simple anymore. It is not the house in the coloring book. It is instead a structure full of rooms and doorways and hallways. The hallways are the hardest. They are narrow and long. You walk down one and push open a door. You hear the creak of its hinges and swear that one day you will oil them. You look inside the room, and maybe there’s a bed and a desk. A lamp sits on a table beside the bed. Maybe it is lit. Maybe a book waits by the lamp. Maybe a person, someone you love, holds the book. And that is familiar. And you leave the hallway and walk toward the familiar. Or you close that door and continue down the hallway and open another door. Its hinges do not creak, and the room behind the door looks like no room you’ve ever seen. All the windows on all the walls are wide open. Wind blows curtains up like wings. The wind takes you, and suddenly you are out the window and flying. You have wings. And nothing is familiar save for the houses below you—so far away you can only see their shapes—triangles and boxes. You want to hold one in your hand.