“Which hand?” you asked,
hiding a tiny marble square.
Then you gave me the soap--
black lavender pure.
I inhaled, over and over,
as deep as I could,
“You’ll smell all the scent
out,” you laughed.
I’ve saved it for months,
on the sill of my window,
wrapped in crinkly
white paper.
Like the Flower Girl photos,
in our Fall wedding album,
it’s full of your laughter,
your tenderness and youth,
your splashes in the pool,
your patent leather shoes.
I inhale and remember,
you cut all your hair,
to give to a stranger,
a woman with bad news.
Now you’re moving to Memphis.
Pack your friends in your heart,
leave behind the Brownie dress,
put your cell phone on charge.
Give your teachers and neighbors
one of your big eyed sighs.
You’re moving to Memphis,
the Odyssey of your Mind.
New Neighbor in the City
Your blinds are drawn --
they finally came!
I live next door
20 feet away.
Our shrub is trimmed
this side anyway --
my welcome to you
on a sunny day.
An odd, but common arrangement--
at home, in our many rooms --
proximity with privacy;
we all live quite alone.
The leaves hang up tight in the trees,
holding back their autumn splash.
You arrived just in time for our block party;
we welcomed you at last.
But we’ve yet to see your colors --
will you be removing your mask?
Or will you keep your blinds drawn down--
sticking to private tasks?
This is life in the city, as I see it,
options, many as the stars --
neighbors, a dog’s-walk away -- or
anonymously passing in cars.
I see you’ve got a new mailbox!
The old name has been set free.
We heard you play the bassoon --
did I tell you my cat loves reeds?
Your blinds are drawn --
they look just great!
I live next door –
twenty feet away.
It’s my pal, ellie’s birthday
and she’s too busy, closing
Yellow Pages ads, to take
a phone call. She's a sales
person you completely trust as
she would not waste your time
or hers simply to make money.
She sells what she believes in,
is proud of the fact that she
can make customers think
about why they should invest
in what she has to sell. She’s
smart, has always been smart,
knows it, isn’t afraid to talk to
anyone about anything. She
will ask any question without
worry. She watches and listens
as she notices the nuances of
people, of their relationships
with one another. This stuff
feeds her soul. I always
lean on her when I need
wisdom. For decades,
when I was single, and
met someone new, I would
call her in Florida to share
my big news. She always
asked me the same thing.
It was muy importante,
yet, I might fail to notice,
right off the bat, if there were
other pulling forces. She’d
listen to me tell her how funny,
how attractive, how romantic
he was. Then she’d make me
wait, while she took a long
drag off of her cigarette,
exhaled and asked, “So,
is his head in a good place?”
el dropped those eight
words over and over
till I got it right.
Maybe They Call it Spring
Maybe they call it Spring
because it's like a leap
across a chasm
from Winter to Summer.
Maybe they call it Spring
since it's like a dream
dripping away at
the shift from night to day.
You tighten your fluttering
eyes against the light,
protesting the loss of your
other life, no matter
how fractured or weird.
Night memories wiggle
out of the bed before you
find your feet on the floor.
Maybe they call it Spring
because it strings together
the two large seasons
we sing out our dharma.
You fight off the darkness
at night...you check your
list, as your lids resist
the urge to rest. You don't
want to leave the day;
it could be your last.
You plead one more icy
glass of kitchen water.
Maybe they call it Spring
because the thrash of rain
is calling your name, back to
the Winter you want to forget.
You fight off the brilliance
of noon day sun. You go
inside and hide in a book,
(the original sun block).
One hour later you check
the clock, change your
clothes, unwrap the hose,
take care of the garden.
Maybe they call it Spring
to draw your face to the earth,
where hyacinths break your
heart, like a one night stand.
Like circles upon circles,
maybe they call it Spring
repeating the lessons,
promising rebirth.
You're Gone Again
You're gone again...
another plane
to catch
before sunrise
before my eyes
are re-delighted
with your smile.
On our front porch,
potted pansies brag
up their little faces
what they know of
Spring and promises.
While hyacinths are deciding
which perfume to release,
you pass back yard daffodils
wearing nothing underneath
their see-through yellow costumes
heads bobbing, in garden gossip.
Forsythia bushes stretch their
freshly blooming stems
towards still-bare trees
above, sketching the sky.
As you glance through
the garage window,
Buddha sees you off,
his unconditional
peacefulness, his loyal
presence and friendship
solid as ancient stone.
Birthday Season
April.
We call it Birthday Season in my family
starting with April 6th: Peter.
My first memory:
"You have a new brother."
Amy: April 12th. John and
I were teenagers. Mom's last
two pregnancies seemed
embarrassingly late. We
were having friends over
listening to music, practicing
the new dances. Who knew
then how much we'd come to
appreciate and love them.
April 16th, me. How amazing
that my husband, Lou and my
sister Mary's husband, Steve would
be born four years after me, 3 years
before her: April seventeenth, 1952.
Then the musicians:
April 23rd: Bernie, eight years after me,
eleven months after Mary. He was six
when the Beach Boys had their first hit,
seven when the Beatles came on the scene.
April 25th: Brian Heveron-Smith. Mary's
middle child. We have Chip in March then
Mary and Scott, Amy's husband, in May.
There are a flurry of cards, emails, phone
calls as the season ramps up every year.
I still remember the day John pointed
out to me that April was exactly nine
months after Mom and Dad's wedding
anniversary. So, that explained it:
They were celebrating!
Seventy Years of Silence
I read about you, Sr. Teresa Maxwell;
your obituary caught my eye.
I saw in the news, in March of this year
that your earthly spirit died.
You were born in Nineteen eleven,
the youngest of sixteen.
Did you choose a silent order as
it promised to be serene?
You took the Habit in
nineteen thirty three.
You made your Solemn
Profession in 'thirty-seven.
Were you able to be wordless
through those years by
envisioning God in heaven?
I imagine seventy years of silence--
I think I'd have gone insane.
Yet when I think of all that I've said,
so much of it is inane.
As life goes on, I promise you Sister,
I will remember your choice.
You gave up what we take for granted--
the sound of your own voice.
When life makes me surrender something,
I'll bow to you in my selfish mind.
Sister, you were a Carmelite nun,
and you lived to be ninety-five.
It's Not Just The Coffee
I know you think it's a waste of money going out for coffee, Maureen; but please re-consider. It's not just high-priced coffee. It's a social life for people who work alone all day at a computer, or own a one-person business, drive a cop beat, or sit in on endless conference calls, or raise little kids.
A quiet breakfast at home with NPR can be comforting; but if you want stimulating variety in your life, find a nearby cafē and make it your clubhouse. The right coffee shop is Cheers minus the alcohol!
After early morning sittings at the Zen Center, we stop at Java's on Gibbs Street for coffee. It's an art gallery with unique music on a good sound system, excellent coffee and baked goods. Mike, the owner, brings arm loads of flowers from the public market. He buzzes around keeping the place looking inviting from morning till night. His beautiful barristas: Tiffany, Amber and Melanie make us feel like family.
We've re-connected with some old pals like Jerry Laufer, a blues harmonica player and jeweler who knows and ministers to everybody. Through "The Rev" and others, we've gotten to know the policemen who stop in, other business owners. Our cousin, Bill Carpenter might drop in with someone from the County in a suit. We love seeing my nephew Brian or other Eastman Music School students starting their day. We catch up with other musicians we know about upcoming gigs, make plans for the weekend.
Each coffee shop has a different personality. At The Women's Coffee Connection on South Avenue, everyone seems to come in with their best friend and not connect to anyone new. But they do great work, hiring and training women recovering from addiction and Peruvian crafts hand made by women.
Boulder Coffee, so named not for Colorado, but because there are actually boulders in the basement and no one knows how they got there. Twice cars have driven through the front of that shop! They put up a huge sign "Bruised but not Broken, " rebuilt the front, re-opened again. A great community resource in the Highland Park area, they have good music at night, art openings, a Summer neighborhood festival.
It's worth visiting Daily Perks to see Bernie Lehman's realistic, yet magical, artwork hanging on dark orange walls. A variety of good music, easy on the eardrums, is available weekend nights at a decent hour for a small cover.
Sadly, the tiny Patrik's Kulinary Creations has disappeared; the yellow building at Benton and Goodman is for rent. Too bad. The place was immaculate, the scones were hot and delicious and Patrik has the best laugh of anyone you've ever met.
I got stuck at a Starbucks near 12 Corners in Brighton once because my car was being repaired nearby. Everyone in there seemed to know everyone else. Very friendly--"How did your math test go?" "Good luck with the interview!" "Great new shoes!" I'm not kidding. It was like being in the lunch room in building 147 at Xerox, minus the hot peppers and clean-up duty.
It was different from Java's where the greeting is more like "Hey 'sup? Can you believe this?!" (pointing to some D&C or NY Times headline), making plays on words, puns. We jump start one another's sense of humor in the early morning. Sometimes you need that push - that, and the thick foam on a skinny latte with two shots.
You better call me next time you're in town, Maureen. I'm taking you to Java's for a chocolate chunk scone, a latte and some laughs.
No TV
For twenty years, people
would say, "You know
that show--where so
and so. ." and I
would say "I
don't have
a TV."
Looks of horror
came on to me.
It didn't comfort
people that I had
a fantastic stereo,
loads of albums, scads
of books. Or that I took
yoga classes, and I loved
to walk/bike/write/cook.
"You don't watch Friends
on Thursday nights?" my
pal Nikki once asked me.
"No, I said "I have friends
on Thursday nights."
As if I was out of food or
water, friends showed up
at my door, unannounced:
"Here," they'd say," a small
old TV filling up their arms:
"Take it." No one got that I
had no such need; it was
the seventies and 80's.
Did I miss anything?
(c) elaine heveron
War Protest - 4 Years in Iraq
Yesterday we stood among hundreds along
East Avenue in the cold, holding signs,
No More War - Thou Shalt Not Kill,
imploring our government to bring
the troops back home from Iraq.
One sign carried the remarkable death
tolls. One read simply: "Wage peace."
We sang "Gonna lay down my sword
and shield . . down by the riverside..."
and other songs of hope and determination.
At one point, the groups on the opposite side
of East Avenue started calling across,
"Tell me what Democracy is!" and we called
back: "This is what Democracy is!"
over and over, over and over.
When we began to sing John Lennon's
"All we are saying . . is give peace a chance,"
my throat started to close up,
forcing ancient tears to spill out
again in this too-familiar place.
All the churches in the area were letting out
and it appeared to me that the vast majority
of passengers and drivers were waving with
their fingers formed into the sign of peace
or giving us a "thumbs up" sign at least.
Who is this man who wants this war to continue
so badly and what will be the price in lives lost,
in limbs lost, in cost, in nightmares, in world
mistrust, in our future, in our karmic debt?
