Do you remember?

A range of memories, this one from years ago on a vacation trip. Ah, the things we do in our twenties. Still, we met the best Chrysler Mechanic in Montana. 

Do you remember

When the night was falling

In Montana

The car headlights

Growing dimmer

And dimmer

We thought we’d never make it

Yet still

We pulled off the road

Found a place to sleep

Ir smelled of cigarettes

But the owner knew

The best Dodge Dart mechanic

In Montana.

He agreed to take a break

From his hunting trip

To fix our alternator.

Do you remember

That trip?

The lights growing dimmer

And dimmer

Yet still

We made it

Yes

We made it’

We barely made it

Off the exit  ramp

In the dark.

Pit orchestra

Twice

I was in

The pit orchestra

For Man of La Mancha.

My hands remember

The fingering

The rhythm

(Almost flamenco)

For the guitar part.

High school

And college productions.

So long ago.

My hands remember.

When I close my eyes

I remember

The sheet music,

Stored in another part

Of my brain.

I think of Dulcinea,

The street woman

Rescued as a maiden

In distress,

A street woman seen

As a damsel.

She saw possibility

And love

In Quixote’s eyes.

My hands remember

The guitar part for

Little Bird, Little bird,

In the cinnamon tree.

The only time I sat

On stage.

My hands remember.

My heart remembers.

It might have been

Yesterday.

Applesauce

Amazing the things that are found when one memory is unpacked. Unpack one today and see what comes.

My daughter thinks

She will make applesauce today.

I remember the Foley food mill:

All those apples

That made their way

Through it,

The finished product

With whipped cream

And a sprinkle

Of nutmeg

On top.

Of course back then

It seemed Macintosh

Was the order of the day,

No fancy apples;

Back then when the eggman

Delivered eggs

From the trunk of his car,

And corn

When it was in season.

I don’t remember

Who delivered the apples.

I do remember

The Foley food mill

Being allowed to make applesauce,

Then the pleasure,

Whipped cream and nutmeg

On top

The mixing it all together

Before the first spoonful.

I remember the owl

There's something about owls... all owls, really.  Last night the great horned owl (and, I think, his mate) hooted as the night came on full.  I left the back doors open, put on a sweater, until they went off to do other things.

This morning:

I remember the owl,

His hoot

As the dusk paled

To dark

Last night.

This morning:

The passing faint smell

Of skunk,

The freight train

Rolling rolling rolling.

This morning:

The morning birds

Are quiet

I remember

The owl

In that fading light.

Rise

I find myself deep breathing, often out of nowhere.  It's almost as if I had forgotten how to breathe, and now I am remembering.  The exhalations take no effort at all.  They carry certain colors with them in the sunlight, like bubbles.

They rise. Memories.

Like oh so many bubbles

Rise. Catch the sunlight.

Bright pink

Amazing to me what brings back memories.  Sometimes it's just a particular color.

Bee balm

Bright pink as the color

Of my favorite summer dress

Age 6.

I wore it

To the San Diego Zoo.

I remember the tigers

The California cousins

My bright pink dress

Just like the bee balm blooming

Next to the backyard fountain

With two children

Holding an umbrella.

The backyard fountain,

Now a planter

With marigolds and celosia,

Even amaranthus

And next to it,

Blooming,

Bright pink bee balm

The exact same color

As my favorite summer dress

Age 6.

Wedding rehearsal

I wait for the rehearsal this afternoon. The wedding itself is Saturday afternoon.  I have a parade of wedding memories, some of which bear repeating... some not.

All the clergy

Are out of town

For the weekend

Except for me

So this one is mine.

I wear a collar

To remind myself

This is part of what

I am ordained

To do.

I remember past rehearsals.

I have a thirty year collection

Of stories.

We all do,

The ones who vacation

And me.

We all do.

This one, however,

Is mine.

Birthday announcement

Sound asleep, I heard the voice on my phone proclaiming a text from my son.  Fuzzily I tried to answer out loud.  It's a text, said the sleepy voice next to me.  It's a text.

The phone is set

To announce messages

In a tinny female voice.

She woke me this morning

From dream-filled sleep

Proclaimed a text

From my son.

He thanked me

For his birth and life

Here

At the end of his 26^th year

It’s been a good life

He wrote.

I remember it was warm

The day before he was born

One of the first warm days

Of spring

No snow on the ground

It was warm

I tell you

Warm.

His dad and I walked

Around the campus

At the University of Chicago.

We hoped to bring on

Those first pains

Of labor.

He was born the next day

Exactly on his due date,

27 years ago.

Blue

After yesterday*s chill and wet, gray skies, today*s blue and white and gold felt like what fall ought to be.  Now it is gray again.  I remember it was blue not three hours ago.

It was a little blue today,

The blue of true blue

Fall skies

Punctuated by white clouds,

Full cumulus,

Gold yellow leaves

Unfallen

Yet.

This morning showed blue

To early afternoon.

I hold on

To this short-term memory

Of blue

Mid-afternoon.

It was blue.

It will be that particular blue

Again.

June

I am grateful for June... all the graduations, new beginnings.  June is the month of my husband*s birth, our wedding anniversary (today)(18 this year), my ordination to diaconate.  Not to mention all those graduation times, even the ones that happened in May (I conveniently move them to June in my mind, so they won*t be forgotten, in the welter of May*s endings).  Sometimes I imagine June as a time to re-color what has become pale during the year.  Sometimes occasions even become a different color in time.

June is a month of celebration,

A warm, often wet, occasion

Of graduations,

Beginnings,

And times begging

Lifelong remembrance.

It is second only

To May

Come to think of it.

In June I remember again

Pieces of who I am

Pieces which pale

Over the year

Only to gain color again

In June

Like the fully purpled clematis

If I only

But pay attention.