Chicago

It WAS windy.

From Allison

The Big Heart

"Too many things are occurring for even a big heart to hold."
–From an essay by W.B Yeats

Big heart,
wide as a watermelon,
but wise as birth,
there is so much abundance
in the people I have
Max, Lois, Joe, Louise,
Joan, Marie, Dawn
Arlene, Father Dunne,
and all in their short lives
give to me repeatedly,
in the way the sea
places its many fingers on the shore,
again and again
and they know me,
they help me unravel,
they listen with ears made of conch shells,
they speak back with the wine of the best region.
They are my staff.
They comfort me.

They hear how
the artery of my soul has been severed
and soul is purting out upon them,
bleeding on them,
messing up their clothes,
dirtying their shoes.
And God is filling me,
though there are times of doubt
as hollow as the Grand Canyon,
still God is filling me.
He is giving me the thoughts of dogs,
the spider in its intricate web,
the sun
in all its amazement,
and a slain ram
that is the glory,
the mystery of great cost,
and my heart,
which is very big,
I promise it is very large,
a monster of sorts,
takes it all in–
all in comes the fury of love.

Anne Sexton

Boys!

I am the driver of three little girls. Two belong to me and one might as well. They are all just burst out of school for the afternoon. I am singing to the radio tune. I am tuning-in to the talk in the backseat.

"Boys are big, fat, and stupid."

I cannot let this slide.

"Um, excuse me, but we don't talk like that. Boys are not big, fat, and stupid. What if some little boys somewhere are saying the very same thing about girls? Let's try again."

Eleanor huffs. "Okaaaaay. Boys are just stupid. And then they grow up to be big, fat, and stupid."

The mood I am in, all ideas about what should be aside, I can only mutter something about "you know that is not funny," raise an eyebrow, give her the mom look, and manage to keep my smirk in check. For the moment, well said, Eleanor. May you and I come to terms with boys very soon.

Hello

Hello Again. He says. Neil Diamond he says. Cheesy, I think, but I smile anyway. I hear him smoke though he had quit. And he was so proud.

It hits me that I have spent so much time waiting for this. I have anticipated the day when his voice wouldn't reach into the center of me. I talk. I have so many funny things to tell him. I laugh. I listen. Finally he says he must get some sleep. I hang up and realize. Nothing inside me aches. For the first time in how many talks with him, I'm not in tears or on a rant. Not because I didn't love him. But because I know there is nothing missing about me. No empty space. No shape inside me he should fill. I am complete. As I am.

I think quitting things you love is hard. I am so proud.

Getting from There to Here

I can get stuck. Which in light of how I should be grateful lately is embarrassing. Days I've been stuck in this place I didn't want to be. Days that stretched out just like the impersonal side of this city, seemingly without a beginning or an end, without rest, busy but detached, faceless, concrete grey, and suffering from the sudden onset of afternoon waterworks. Days I have had the same blank stare as I traced and retraced my worn path to work and home again creeping slowly in the gridlock.

HONK.

Surely I am not drifting out of my lane or that distracted. What...

HONK.

I look in my rearview. Nothing. I look to my right.

There he is waving. He smiles. He blows me a kiss.

I laugh.

He drives on.

I drive on.

We all drive on.

Slowly just like before. But.

The back of his car is pearly green as it is swallowed up by the other glowing red brake lights. I look in the rearview mirror again, but this time see my dark brown hair catching the sun and notice my hazel eyes looking back. It's me. I wink in recognition. Outside the ceiling is cornflower blue and puffy white cotton clouds have been glued across its great expanse by a child's hand. I see four and twenty black birds escaped from a storybook swirling against the pale background and then they land neatly, one by one, on a wire. To my left I see the golden yellow headlight on a dirty, dark red train engine and I hear its horn blast and even feel the rumble and clickity-clack as it glides past parallel. I see again. I feel again. In technicolor.

Maybe His name is Clarence and somewhere a bell is ringing still. Merry Christmas, Man. Wherever you are. Thanks.