For Maddie Sue

I accidentally sent you this tear my dear.

I found it while looking for words to make clear

How much I am with you even when I'm not near.

I was bent over thinking when that one sneaky drop

Danced down my face, twirled twice and then hopped

Right onto the page, staining that ribbon up top.

I'd like you to keep it, and know now and again

That in times of trouble you have many friends

Who will have you and hold your heart 'till the end.

And please Maddie Sue, know this too,

This is one of my many gifts to you:

You will see, in time and awhile

it's not only sadness but sometimes smiles

Who bring tears,

Ferrying love across miles.

Bricks

Bricks are hard. You could punch a brick and your knuckles would hurt a lot more than the brick would. You could accidentally crash your bike into a wall of them and the bike would be worse for the wear. You could scrape up against the edge of a brick and draw blood.

They’re not so big, but try moving a lot of them at one time. All together, bricks are heavy. By itself, you could pick one up and easily heft it about - play toss with a brick. Or you could take that one light brick and heave it as hard as you might through someone’s soft skull. Because bricks are hard.

But have you ever tried wearing away at a brick? It doesn’t actually take much. Something harder and a little time will make it give way. I could write your name in a brick with a sharp enough implement. Bricks are no match for water and air, given enough years of rain and wind.

Bricks are why we love fireplaces. It’s not the heat from the flames we feel so much as a brick’s capacity to take in all that energy and give it back to us one little bit at a time. I dare you to lay your cheek against a brick building on the hottest day of the year in the middle of a steamy teeming city. I promise you it will feel cool.

When you met me, I had carefully arranged a bunch of bricks around me to guard against the eventual onslaught of whatever you might bring. I had picked out my best ones and configured a convoluted maze of protection. I sized up your shiny skull and calculated how easy it would be to crush it.

But like rain, like water, you got in. Like wind, like air, you swept some of it away. And the feeling of you seeping in around my cracks leaves me wet and warm and this might be the softest I’ve ever felt.

Hard Rain

Last night, coming home from a girlfriend’s house, the proverbial skies opened up. I laughed as I walked down the street, an unopened umbrella hanging from my wrist.

“Seriously?” I yelled at the sky.

“Seriously,” she answered.

And with every cold drop that hit my face, I smiled a little wider. Because seriously? This is what it feels like when our hearts love a little harder? This is what it feels like when we finally get honest with ourselves and our souls? I thought it would be warmer. I thought I’d use my umbrella.

Remember when we transplanted all those plants last year? You taught me how to firmly grasp each root ball so as to save the center of it all. How to gently massage them, letting them know we were quietly waking them up, moving them to bigger and better places to unfurl. It’s a delicate process. When the rains came last night, they watered all those seeds I planted a long time ago. I didn’t know it would rain that hard. I didn’t know how it hurts to grow.

Last night’s rain took the last of the remaining leaves from the tree outside my bedroom window. This morning I woke to bare branches and missed the amazing yellow I’ve been so blessed to wake to for the last few weeks.

But I know that come next spring, green tips will push their way out of dark soil, strong and sure of themselves, regardless of how far they are from where they came. And they will breathe in the scent of a love well learned and they will bask in the glow of a heart well worn. And we will scatter our seeds again and again and again. Because we are perennial. And we are loved.

Medium

For W.O. and everyone who came before and after him.

You used to ride a Harley. You rode a Harley when we met. You wanted a Harley when we met. You worked on Harleys. You wanted a Ducati. You bought a CBR because you liked to ride fast. You think motorcycles are stupid but your tattoos and everything else about you tells a different story.

I wear a size medium motorcycle helmet. The salesman was surprised. "But you're so little," he protested, because it didn't make any sense to him. "I have a big head because I have a big brain," I explained. I'm not sure he understood.

We rode fast and then we rode slow. Mostly we rode hard and then we crashed. When you think about it, we didn't really have a choice. It was get on or get off, so we got it on. And then we got off.

Looking back on all of you, I laugh at myself. I am nothing if not predictable. I miss each of you. I miss all of those opportunities to score some leather pants. Each and every single one.

When you contacted me the other night, it had been over a decade since we had last taken a ride. I am glad to be reminded of the person I've always been. I am glad my last name rhymes with a brand of hard liquor. I am glad you found me because it made me remember and find myself again.

I ride slower now. I think harder. I am less dangerous and less raw. Upcoming turns are not so scary so I don't need to take them so fast. I've accumulated the requisite amount of gravel beneath my skin. I call them scrapes now. Just like you did.

I hope you are all riding fast and hard and then I hope you get to ride slow too. I hope you all hang up your helmet at the end of the day and thank the entities who need to be thanked for the opportunity to ride another day.

And then I hope you wake up and do it all over again because our roads are long. Because each day presents an opportunity for our memories to imprint some hard tracks in soft asphalt. And because it always feels so fast and so good.

Indian Summer

We wheeled my dad to the beach today. Because we are taking our summer vacation in October we were able to score one of those big homes, adjacent to the shore. So it wasn't a far trip- a smooth ride in the wheel chair across a paved parking lot. Then a fairly straight but bumpy boardwalk until we had to tackle the first set of stairs. Mom helped Dad to stand up, grasped his hand and slowly led him up a steady ascent. The sun is strong here but because it is October it is not too hot. My diffusely pregnant sister took the beach chairs and I clumsily heaved a heavy metal wheel chair up twenty seven stairs. We all paused and took a rest at the top of the dunes. Splayed out before us was the majestic view of the Atlantic ocean, a delicious sea breeze, and a second set of twenty seven stairs that led down to some empty white sand.

If I were to tell you about a Native American man right now, you would think I was taking creative license with this story, you would roll your eyes and not believe me. So I'll simply say that we met a Native American man at our resting place and he was resting too. He explained that he had health problems and that he tried every day to get to the beach, but most days he had to rest here, at the top of the dunes. He said that he tried every day, and some days he made it all the way and others he just stopped and enjoyed the view.

I'm sure my mom and dad smiled and said something polite. My sister was already way ahead of us and I just kept going with my father's metal wheelchair. Eventually we all made it down and settled into our first beautiful day on the beach.

Because it was October, we were able to sit and enjoy the sun for much longer than we could in July. And, yes, the Native American man made it down the second set of twenty seven steps, walked past us and we nodded our collective hello.

"I'm so happy he made it," said my mom.

And we all murmured agreement.

I'm so happy we made it. I'm so happy we made it to this beach. That we can carry heavy things, shoulder our familial burdens and make friends with Native American men. I'm so grateful for this October sun, powerful enough to color my skin, kind enough to give my family a gentle reprieve to sit and watch the tide come in. Thankful for all those who offer us help along the way and inspired by the humor we bring to it all. Some days we make it all the way. And we always enjoy the view.