Sticks and stones
Sticks
Wow, you really grew up in the middle of nowhere, is what he says when I tell him we are driving past my parents' house. This is possibly because there are no houses visible, just the little brown hills patchily covered in snow. There, that dirt road, I say. If he was brought up by the streets, I was brought up by the swamps.
I think of the time my neon yellow shoe laces came untied and wrapped around my bike pedal when I was riding, and how I fell over and lay in the ditch, trapped under my bike, in the scummy water full of frog eggs, until a neighbour came along and untangled me. I think of the days spent running around the woods with my bow and arrows, pretending to be Robin Hood, hiding behind the massive rootballs of dead trees, and wishing I were deadly accurate instead of a terrible shot. I think of singing old songs in the dark, with my sisters, when the power went out on a stormy winter night.
I don't tell him any of these things, and we go on, and the conversation goes on, and I wonder why I can't trust him with my heart.
And more sticks
We are building a fire in the furnace. There are words in Gaelic for wood that burns slow and hot and long - buauan* - and wood that burns quickly and is gone - diouan. Maple is the first, and so are alders. Spruce is the latter.
I am thinking of a proverb from Belize that runs old firewood burns hottest, which explains falling into bed with old flames. But I am done with that. He is green wood, oh definitely. At least I am making new mistakes. I am dry kindling, and I hoped not to catch, until I saw who held the match.
And stones
Up on the hill behind the house where I grew up, you can see the cut edges in the rock when a long-ago stonemason chiseled away pieces to build the foundation of the old barn at our neighbour's place. I remember that barn, before the new people came and pulled it down. I have had harsh words for them.
I climb the hill alone. The frost is coming out of the ground and it squishes slightly underfoot. It is still good to be alive. I look at cut stone, and think about how the marks of his labour are there, long after he himself has gone down under stone. Things have longer memories than people. Even if I feel burnt down to ash, I'll go through the grinding healing process of time, and I'll come out coal, and burn again.
* I have never seen these words written down, and I am functionally illiterate in Gaelic, so these spellings are no more than wild guesses.
Wow, you really grew up in the middle of nowhere, is what he says when I tell him we are driving past my parents' house. This is possibly because there are no houses visible, just the little brown hills patchily covered in snow. There, that dirt road, I say. If he was brought up by the streets, I was brought up by the swamps.
I think of the time my neon yellow shoe laces came untied and wrapped around my bike pedal when I was riding, and how I fell over and lay in the ditch, trapped under my bike, in the scummy water full of frog eggs, until a neighbour came along and untangled me. I think of the days spent running around the woods with my bow and arrows, pretending to be Robin Hood, hiding behind the massive rootballs of dead trees, and wishing I were deadly accurate instead of a terrible shot. I think of singing old songs in the dark, with my sisters, when the power went out on a stormy winter night.
I don't tell him any of these things, and we go on, and the conversation goes on, and I wonder why I can't trust him with my heart.
And more sticks
We are building a fire in the furnace. There are words in Gaelic for wood that burns slow and hot and long - buauan* - and wood that burns quickly and is gone - diouan. Maple is the first, and so are alders. Spruce is the latter.
I am thinking of a proverb from Belize that runs old firewood burns hottest, which explains falling into bed with old flames. But I am done with that. He is green wood, oh definitely. At least I am making new mistakes. I am dry kindling, and I hoped not to catch, until I saw who held the match.
And stones
Up on the hill behind the house where I grew up, you can see the cut edges in the rock when a long-ago stonemason chiseled away pieces to build the foundation of the old barn at our neighbour's place. I remember that barn, before the new people came and pulled it down. I have had harsh words for them.
I climb the hill alone. The frost is coming out of the ground and it squishes slightly underfoot. It is still good to be alive. I look at cut stone, and think about how the marks of his labour are there, long after he himself has gone down under stone. Things have longer memories than people. Even if I feel burnt down to ash, I'll go through the grinding healing process of time, and I'll come out coal, and burn again.
* I have never seen these words written down, and I am functionally illiterate in Gaelic, so these spellings are no more than wild guesses.