I awaken excruciatingly early. In the first shades of pitch and early dawn, I listen. What is it? I lie cautiously; immobile and attending with all my might. The neighborhood sleeps silently under a full moon while October holds her cards tightly to her person. Unblinking.

There it is again; a lush and gentle whooshing sound; the bending and opening of long dormant vents and suddenly the furnace turns on. I stretch and address the presence in the room, “Hello, my old friend, my sound and fury”. She is returned and rested; content with creaking and cracking as chilled summer nails warm up in corners and along eaves. The bedroom carpet puffs and the edging of curtains billow gently.

In minutes, the house feels more intimate and she settles and rests in the company of an old ally. There are old conversations to start over and colder days ahead. The memory of mulled cider, pots of chili with hot buttered biscuits and the sound of grinding coffee beans lies deep in the walls. There is much to be discussed.

As I drive off into pure black and cold air, I look in my rear view mirror at the house; at the roof covered with frost. It is blanketed with the finest layer of honey and coriander seed; lacy manna from Heaven and the foolish birds will attempt to feast when the sun rises. The shingles underneath will disappoint sorely. There will be loud cries overhead as the roof bids farewell to those who would nest and feast.

It is a fine 37 degrees and in the end it will turn out to be a sunny day. But for now, at this hour, steam rises off the flat and swampy waters at the edge of the woods. The fields are caramelized and crispy. The trees explode with leaves, heavy with colors and lingering mere hours away from dropping everything to stretch out into naked and branchy cinnamon air. There is no one around as I cross Frost road and I nod to the quiet deer watching at the edge of the shorn field.

 

He came to school on September 29th. He came to school for the FIRST time, last Friday…September 29th. Where had he been? He shrugged his shoulders and said something about school supplies and day care. What was done was done and the plain truth was that he missed the entire first month of school and there was nothing to do but to start his education on September 29th..

He told me he disliked loud music. He sat at the edge of my desk and I watched him working on writing the numbers 1 to 10 on a worksheet and I asked him, “Do you like loud music?”  “No,” he answered immediately. I sat for a minute thinking. Then I asked him, “Do you like quiet music?” “Yes,” he responded and continued to work diligently. I opened up my laptop and told him I was going to play some quiet music while he wrote. He looked skeptical.

Mozart streamed gently over the room and we both sat comfortably at the desk. I drank apple caramel tea and was lost in my own thoughts. He got up to get a box of crayons and sat back down. The music was still playing and suddenly he looked up and asked, “Hey, do you know Melvin?” “No, I don’t know Melvin. Who’s Melvin?” He looked at me and said, “He’s the stinky one”. He waved his small hand in front of his nose. “Is Melvin in your class?” He shook his head vehemently and said, “No, he’s the one who asks for food and monies but we don’t give him a thing…only one sometimes…it’s a waste of money”. I asked, “Did your Mom say it was a waste of money?” He kept coloring and said, “My sister says he doesn’t stink but he does”. I thought about this for a bit.

“Do you see Melvin every day?” He shook his head yes and stated, “He says funny things. He don’t sleep…I don’t even know where he sleeps”. I tried again, “How does he talk? How does he speak to you?” The child held up two fingers. I said, “Melvin speaks two languages? He talks to you in English and Spanish?” He nodded. I sat envisioning an English speaking Melvin. I considered a Spanish speaking Melvin. I asked the boy what street he lived on but he did not know. The conversation ended.

I checked the calendar later in the day and noted it was a full  moon. A full moon loosens the tongues and behaviors of students. I can’t prove this but I know that it is true. It’s as certain as the opal orb hanging heavily over the city, stretching out toward the horse farms and pink copper colored maple trees and the suburban corner where I reside. I look out the window and it’s just me and Mozart and the boy with the bright box of crayons and this strange interloper…Melvin.

 

 

 

 

 

It’s been six years since I met my husband; six years since we agreed by phone to meet for the first time at a local restaurant. I drove out of the city that Friday evening and lumbered along the length of Jefferson Road in my Jeep, thinking about how dinner might go. My thoughts scattered.

We made first contact in the parking lot on a crisp, rapidly cooling evening with the sky layered in darkening pinks, cold grays and winter whites. It was the final day in September and I carried a black and white checked coat over my arm.

I was surprised. His voice from our phone conversations did not match this man in the parking lot; this flesh and blood person leaning casually with folded arms on the backside of his car. On the phone, he sounded older and more cautious; careful with words and given to long pauses in between thoughts. This man with salt and pepper hair and legs loosely crossed over each other was younger than I imagined,  leaner than expected and wore a grin on his face;  subtle traces of island heritages finely lining brow and skin tone. He wore a black shirt and charcoal jeans. He strode slowly toward me as I got out of the Jeep, reached out his hand and introduced himself. I noticed I was about one to two inches taller than he was. I adjusted the black leather bag over my left shoulder and moved the black and white checked coat to my left arm so I could shake his hand.

I don’t remember much of the opening conversation; the cooling air and the swift darkness covered my shoulders and throat and we both remarked on how chilly it was. We moved closer to his car and he said he had something for me. Lying on the cloth car seat were a dozen pink roses and a manila folder. The flowers were lovely and ever since then, September is no longer lathered in pumpkins and yellows, rather she is bathed in pinks and greens and air thin tissue paper; fragile to the touch, brilliant to the eyes.

The manila folder contained papers; his license, his birth certificate, a certificate of ministerial ordination, proof of undergraduate work at a local college, other papers indicating a clear and free path toward a serious relationship. I opened the folder and thumbed through things, shifting my coat from one arm to the other while thanking him for the roses. He said simply, “These are papers which let you know that I am who I have told you I am. I know how you white people are”.

I am forever surprised at how thin the edge of life’s dime can be; finer than tissue paper, more fragile than a single rose petal; a wispy turn to the left or right in which a lifetime changes.  In the split second of inhaled breath, words wound or heal, direct or scatter, irritate or calm and sometimes there are no words, only laughter. I heard him and I laughed and laughed and laughed. On the razor’s edge of that dime, I summed up more than four decades of my life and said to him, “You are right”.

He sat to the left of me in the restaurant instead of across the table. Eating was uncomfortable for me because I strained to turn left to look at him as we spoke. He did not seem to mind. After a heavy meal; pasta and sauces, salads and bread and wine, we moved to ice cream across the street at a different restaurant. Around midnight, I indicated it was time to go home and he asked whether or not I felt safe returning to the city by myself. I did and he bade me good evening.

That was on the 30th of September, 2011. I married him at the courthouse downtown on the 27th of October, 2011. My moment of hesitation came only when I looked at the name change option on the document we filled out. I felt tremulous and steady; clear and muddied; surprised and relaxed.

It’s been six years and a lifetime. We live well. We live clearly and we live on balanced ground. It was as simple as coming home at the end of a long day to a pair of well worn slippers, a warm fire, and the promise of the beginning of an excellent book. I have read the preface, some commentary and some endnotes. I am now turning the real pages.