Tape on my arm...

It is nearly Christmas time and for the first time since I moved, I'm missing my old home. I miss all the lights, all the fuss and the occasional cold front. I'm heading into a Free State summer on the skirts of a drought and wondering if it can get any warmer in my classroom in the afternoon.

I sometimes think I would love to take a turn around the Gardens Mall and buy a few gifts for my family. Stop off at Starbucks to sink my taste into a dark Americano; smelling strong in the cup. Walk the halls, hear the songs, watch the materialism and then go back home to mom and dad's to talk about the day. Yes, I am a little homesick now.

It's okay though. Somehow this will become the new norm. I will still miss my friends and family, facing pensive moments in the shadows of a late afternoon, staring through the burglar bars at the world bidding goodnight. I have always been with my family for Christmas. I have lived somewhat of a nomadic life, but through all the moves and all the change, there was always that foundation there and traditions; the same Christmas ornaments, CD's and decorations. I lived in Florida for the longest of any place in my life to this point. I will be away for the first Christmas season in 13 years.

Now I stand on the edge of a new family. My family. It's a strange feeling; like when you're reading a book and you have enjoyed the chapter you read so much, you're almost afraid to go on in case something else happens to change how you feel at that moment. I look forward to the change, but it's a little like ripping tape off your arm; it's nice when it's off, but the process is painful.

It will be nice having Christmas with Delani and her family (soon to be our family). I will still have my several people with me, in my thoughts and prayers. Namely: Dad, Mom, Jason, Tami, Drew, Tyler, Jamie, Brian, Megan, Katie, Jack, Jenny, Robert and all the friends who always came around. You know who you are, Cilla and Audrey. There are too many to name and I'm going to get myself in trouble. Just know, you are ALL missed.

PS Things are really crazy here right now, wrapping up the year. So, if you haven't heard from me or I haven't responded to your Facebook message or email, it is not intentional.

the gift

Kirk, thanks for the motivation.

The Gift

She lived in a small brick one-story house on the corner of 5^th and Bine. Her mother was a whore. Her mother never even ventured a guess at who her father was. It didn’t matter, she was one of eight. Her mother sat on the narrow cement patio in her faded housecoat with the dirty rose pattern and smoked a Lucky Strike. The flaming ember glowed in the dusky air and the cigarette held jauntily in bony fingers. Hair piled on her head and fell at intervals onto shoulders stooped from years of misuse. She cared nothing for her eight children, nor for the three that had died in infancy. She was unrepentant of the life she had led. Her name was Lucille. She fancied herself a woman of beauty and she spoke to her neighbors only in dissatisfied grunts and curt replies.

The little girl passed her mother every Saturday with a smile and skipped down the flagstone path to the gate that hung loosely on its hinges. She had a red dress that she wore every Saturday. Soft crushed velvet with a white lace collar and one faded cloth rose in the center. She had one foot that curved slightly inward and gave her a pronounced gait that gave many the false impression of retardation. She smiled at everyone. Her greasy hair hung to her shoulders.

Weeds split the sidewalks and trees dropped seeds that fermented in the sun and turned to paste on the porous concrete. Birds sang in the branches causing her to stumble occasionally on the uneven concrete as she struggled to catch a glimpse of the elusive singer. A car passed by and stared at the strange neighborhood princess on her Saturday procession. And he, he sat in a rocker and watched the world unfold like a story he had read so many times and never really understood.

He was 81 or rather he was nearly 81. His khaki pants showed signs his aging body was no longer always able to control its functions. He wore shoes that tattered at the edges and wore inward. The tennis balls on his walker had not been replaced in three years. His flannel shirt was open to his wrinkled chest. Faded tattoos adorned his arms. The outline of a woman standing in a coquettish pose, an anchor and on the edge of his chest, a red devil with pointed tail and pitch fork. His porch chair never moved and his feet scuffed furrows into the grey boards of the porch. He went by the name Walter. No one knew his last name.

The days began to change slowly and her walk looked different as the leaves shed their emerald dresses for gold, amber and orange. They drifted to the ground in a final, slow dance. The air took on a different feel, different smell and the icy fingers of winter began to wrap around every light post, handrail and gnarled tree trunk. Pumpkins took residence on porch fronts and scarecrows became silent sentinels in front yards. Jack-o-lanterns became harvest pumpkins and paper ghosts in front windows turned to pilgrims, turkeys and cornucopias. Fathers and sons ran along the sidewalk throwing footballs and laughing. Old men sat and smoked and old women chided them for the state of the yard.

Winter came without a sound. The children slipped into the dark cloak of an autumn night and awoke to the pure white of sister winter’s welcoming arms. Pilgrims and turkeys disappeared, pumpkins froze and trees began to appear behind the frosty panes. Lights flickered and then stayed. The scarecrows yielded to inflatable Santas and the children watched beneath their trees with expectation. Boxes were shook, guesses were made and parents smiled benignly to inquisition. Carols, excitement, egg nog and lots of sugar were the new order of the day. Everywhere was magic.

Dec. 24^th was a Friday. She knew that she wouldn’t take her walk on Christmas so she set out a day earlier. She skipped, the snow resisted. She walked on with a smile. Her feet made little boats in the frozen surface as she walked. Her nose was red and running. Her cheeks flushed, her eyes bleary in the cold of morning. The sky was grey, somewhat ambivalent and unsure if it should cheer into a welcoming blue or kill its red streaks of a late dawn with the grim dark of winter. She walked with a purpose, head up and hair back. She had a plaid, double-breasted, wool coat that was slightly too large. Her hands were lost in the sleeves and with each stride a couple fingers would take a tentative peek at their winter surroundings. She struggled through a deep drift and dusted off her legs with quick and purposeful movements. Steam rose from her mouth as she walked and the smell of wood smoke came through the air like an old friend.

Walter walked slowly down the narrow passage towards his front door. His shoulder brushed a dusty photograph of he and his wife standing on a stone bridge, the Eiffel Tower stood tall in the background amidst the dusty air of Paris. He walked past rows of black and white photos in age induced sepia tone. Soldiers on the deck of a ship. Helmets cocked to the side, chin straps hanging to their bare shoulders. Fresh tattoos on white skin and smiles on their faces.

He slipped a little heavily into his worn rocker and pulled an old blanket around his shoulders. A dirty woolen cap sat on his head, ear flaps hanging just a bit short of his oversized ears. He cracked the tab on his beer and the sharp report rang in the cold air. He slid his feet into the furrows of the porch and stared with discontent on the world that had left him broken. The cold brought back an old friend; a bullet wound in his right thigh from Normandy and a busted up shoulder from a flipped Jeep in that field in France…the pretty girl that set his arm. The corners of his mouth danced ever so slightly at the memory.

Walter had always lived a life alone. The little girl had always lived a life surrounded. They had something in common, neither had ever felt love, real unconditional love. The three years or so of Saturdays that she had been going past Walter’s house, he had never paid any attention. His gaunt face didn’t soften when she smiled and waved, he never responded to her inquiries and he seemed impervious to her friendship. She never stopped smiling and she never stopped waving. She waved today. She waved and then made a turn into the street…

Those that saw everything that Saturday, or those who say they saw everything all describe it the same. The same silence and struggle for words, the same shaking of the head, the same tears…the same disbelief.

She was walking down the sidewalk, leaving furrows in the snow as she shuffled. She would pause occasionally and look back on her tracks and laugh a little. Walter sat on his porch, the old blanket around his shoulders, hunched just a bit into the wind with a steaming cup in his gnarled fingers. He saw her wave and responded again with the same blank stare, the same apathy.

They said she took a few quick steps and suddenly turned right to cross the street. Her head was down, she was playing with the buttons on the front of her plaid coat. No one had ever heard Walter utter a coherent word, but this time they all heard him yelling. She turned with the absent gaze of a child who has been startled from play to see Walter coming out of his chair. Annie next door said she never imagined Walter could do more than shuffle. The blanket dropped to the porch as he cleared the three steps to the front walk. He didn’t slip. He was still yelling. She looked to see the cause just as an air horn split the silent winter morning. All she could see was the large grill of a semi as it slid along the ice, the driver desperately trying to stop the runaway truck. Somehow Walter made it down his walk, out of his gate and into the street. She was bracing for the impact when she felt the arms. They wrapped around her with surprising strength.

They said that he got there just before the truck and grabbed the little girl swinging a quarter turn to place is withered back towards the truck, clutching the girl in an iron grip against his chest. Some say he flew twenty feet, others thirty. The official police report said twenty-two. The important part wasn’t written in the official report. He never let go.

It took sometime for the police and ambulance to get to the scene. The chief still had a bit of Christmas ham stuck to his tie when he jumped out to survey the scene. The little girl was sitting in the middle of the street, an old man’s head was cradled on her lap, held in her tiny, pink hands. People stood around in small groups. The driver of the truck sat on the side steps of his truck, head in his hands. The chief walked towards the two in the street, his footsteps sounded sharp in the frozen snow. When he got close he heard the little girl singing; “…sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.” The old man was gone.