piddling

whittling away at the list of things to do
feeling like I'm hardly getting anywhere
wondering if I can see over the top
still more to do before I can walk through

Rachel's birthday

days before bombs exploded at the Boston Marathon
we explored dinner at Lenoir, as an impulse
and a couple of days later Terrance Mallick's To the Wonder

- life in all its fullness

pushes boundaries
causes us not to keep marching forward
but stop and think about the detritus dropping at our feet

life cut short after celebrating a great moment
actions completed without thought of a future
in the space of two hours, time to ponder
relationships
interactions
purpose

one life begun 22 years ago
on a Sunday in fact
with all these questions laid out before her

Voice from across the street

Today I sit in an unfamiliar pew - the body of Christ stretches in two directions
I listen to a woman sing the hymns of this place
I remember Jane Mitchell who sang before her kitchen window
Her voice crossed the street to the house where I was young
As she practiced for Sundays and special occasions

Tonight an unfamiliar service continues with a bench for kneeling, wafers for tasting
Two people's lives join while family and friends watch and listen
and I remember an evening when I sat in a familiar church with my family
My first wedding - our neighbor's daughter
Jane Mitchell sang the hymns of the church and a song of love
As my brother laughed uncontrollably on the pew between our parents
Tickled by the voice from across the street

A second woman sings "Ave Maria"
I am lost in the words from her lips, the range of the notes
And return to that Baptist Church in Waynesboro with my family and neighbors

her book

I borrowed her book
a student who's name I've lost
I'll call her Hannah
though I know it's not her name

an adaptation of Alice in Wonderland
rode to Arkansas that first spring
Laura lived there

stacked among other things
on the floor behind the passenger's seat

there was a leak
water dripped from the air conditioner
soaked the carpet at the feet on the passenger's side

later I noticed it soaked the stack of things
on the floor behind the passenger's seat
including the book I borrowed
from my student I'm calling Hannah
but who's not

I offered to buy her another
a copy not soaked by water from an air conditioner
"it's a first edition" she said
though I did not replace her copy
with one that was

I never read the book
leant it to students over a few years time
til it went on its way

from 'a storied procession of palms'

the Prado
remnants of a wealthier Lima
where Spanish colonial mansions now house oficinas

an avenida
where two strips of street travel in different directions
palms stand in the green space between street and sidewalk
cars and emissions fill the space beneath the green fronds

I ride along through continuously warm days
surprised that the magnificent now diminished to a roadway
only hints of a splendor that once existed

nine words

I stand beside the back door
on a Sunday afternoon
the light is low

I've just returned from a trip
in my grandparents Rambler
I'm not more than four

a day spent with cousins
whose names I never knew
a wood paneled room
I never visited again
my first Big Red

my dad asks me
"Jamie, where did you go today?"
And I respond
"Daddy, you know I don't know where I went"

If there were a bead for every time my father
told that story
that necklace of beads would stretch
beyond my sight

nine words made what could have been
a forgettable afternoon
more than it was ever meant to be

who are no longer

today I woke thinking of mothers who'd been planning Christmas parties
now there are no children to attend these parties

yesterday my mom mentioned gifts under Christmas trees for children
who are no longer alive

tomorrow something else will cross my mind
and those children will not be here