Disappointment

7/28/13

My daughter is a really good girl.  Before today, we've never had to actually go to the step of punishment - just the threat has been enough.  Today however, she snuck and ate candy in her room, we caught her, called her on it, then told her she'd not be able to have dessert for the week if she did it again.  Not fifteen minutes later, we found her in her room, door closed, scarfing down a pack of mentos that she had recovered from the trash can of all places.  Self Control, girl!  Anyway, this was especially difficult, because her best friend had invited her over for ice cream after watching a youth production of "Annie"  at a local theater, and we had to tell them no because of the whole candy situation.  There were tears and sobs abound, of course.  To make matters worse, when we went to the play, they were sold out - and it was the last performance.  Isla had been talking about seeing this play for the last month.  Double disappointment and epic breakdown in front of the theater.  I know that this is one of those teachable moments about life and fairness and all that, but there's something pretty heartbreaking about seeing your child experience her first real let down at your hands.  At least we have the DVD and a huge screen with projector for our own performance tonight.


Meanwhile, on the Miles front, while we waited to see if we could get in due to any no-shows for Annie, our little guy went on a dinosaur hunt under the oleander bushes.  After roaring to himself for a few minutes, he actually ended up scaring himself so badly that he rushed out screaming.  From then on, he'd pace in front of the bushes shaking his head and saying "no rawr, no rawr."  This was a day for lessons, apparently.

Foreborn

You first found him under the bed at age 12. 
Too seasoned to be scared by boogeymen,
you watched him watch you with dust-mote
eyes and a vacant smile.  He dissappeared
like sunspots every time you looked, so you
trained your sight to slacken and unfocus.
Awash in grey, your childhood became pixelated.

He grew bold as you aged, moving to your
pocket with the lint and worry-stones, biting
your nails as you reached for subway change,
for the keys to your first apartment, for
condoms.  People noticed your fingers,
bitten to the quick, and commented on hygiene
and dirty habits.  "We all have them,"  You said.

He sat on your shoulder during the wedding,
teeth like broken fifths of gin clacking in your
ear as you spoke your own vows.
His talons left bruises that looked like rings
on the rise of your shoulders, and you cringed
with every clink of every champagne flute.

When you cried flower petal tears
at the birth of your daughter, he
climbed into your throat.  There,
he took up residence in your vocal
chords, playing them with crooked claws,
a master harpist.  Everyone says you
sounded Just Like Him sometimes.

You tried burning him out, leaving
filterless Malboro Light cigarettes
smoldering on your tongue while you slept,
your bedroom smoke detector became
a lullabye, and you slept through your own funeral.

For someone who never believed in Heaven,
you sure looked nice next to those constellations.
Dressed head to toe in white, you shone like a
proud moon, hung against the suffocating darkness.
Draped in silence, where the voice inside you can
finally speak with its own timbre, echoing from the
stars like a soft rain. 

Wheels

I

There was something about
that concrete and metal.
That wood and polyurethane.
Our blood, billowing in our veins
would rush like fools to our heads.

What else could explain this compulsion
to hurl ourselves off tops of staircases,
down rusted handrails into oncoming traffic
like our mortality was a bothersome fly.

And we flew.  Raw palmed and scabby
elbowed, we flew.  Seven-ply maple
wings and grip tape parachutes, we
launched ourselves off ledges like the
ground didn't exist.  We slid and flipped
and lived
and flew. Our bodies, our boards ever once
contemplating the landing.

II

He sits now, immobile in his chair,
legs longing for the vibrations
carried from street to chest.
He used to ride the asphalt until
his feet were blistered and bloody,
These days he tires easily - even
speaking can wear him down.
When it does, he talks in the language
of pavement cracks and parking lots.
His voice swerves in and out of the traffic
in our conversation.

He was the best of us once,
that concave deck seemed an extension
of his body - we'd watch him in disbelief,
360 degrees and straight up like his
lungs were filled with helium.  He'd
laugh his way back to earth.

He still laughs,
his eyes burnished blue, speech clear,
recounting broken bones,
looping wooden waves
and the jettisoning of gravity.

He tells me in hindsight
that the click of the wheels
connecting back to pavement
is the jaws of a beast closing,
is finite, is the almost imperceptible
click of a minute hand falling into place.

His body no longer measures time
in movements, it is a prison of
deteriorating muscle and tendon.
I wonder when he dreams,
does his blood still bloom,
do those peripheral nerves still
send their broken signals
to push, to connect, to fly.

III

I'm skateboarding circles in my driveway,
can feel my age in each flex and turn.
My knees crackle and complain as they loosen.

I hold my son in one arm, and we ride,
around, and around, and around.  He
is mesmerized by the shush of the wheels
on concrete, interrupted by each crack
in a rhythm like the pulsing in his veins -

it is familiar. He laughs when the wind
is in our faces, he likes its playful touch.
And when it is at our back, the wind
whispers of quickening blood and wood,
of polyurethane and gravity,
the wind whispers of flight.