A couple
weekends ago, I was feeling a particular delight in the wonderful late-spring
weather, and on impulse sent a note to my retired nurse-friend:
Yesterday evening, first
night of June, there was still enough blue in the sky at nine o'clock, that
Maxfield Parrish would immediately have set up his canvas and begun capturing
the sight and sense forever… especially for the cold months, and shriveled
days. It was tinted something like this:
…and is part of what I was
crowing about earlier: no bugs to speak of (excluding teeny ants and a few fat
flies), no blazing heat; lovely sky with only puffs of happy cloud…
Given the choice of when I
die, I'd select mid- to late April, with all the blooming trees, and the full
return of light to days. Second choice, I would be the very beginning of June,
I think now, with fingers crossed against the chance of too-much heat.
Also…
You know my big heart,
sometimes helpless and hopeless, and always given to dream and trust even
today, despite scarring and scoring, bruise and betrayal. It's alive and well!
The summer after Beej
and I separated – 1986 – I was burned up and left for ash by a powerful,
two-month relationship. Torie could have been a model, looking like then- Ally Sheedy
on one of Ally's very-best days (less jut to chin, and much more permed, thick
hair). We'd met each other at a dance in April, fell out of touch awhile, as
she gave her failing marriage one last futile try.
We got back in touch –
probably Torie with me – and on the last day of May, drove up from northwestern
Virginia up into western Maryland, ditched another dance, and took a long, secluded walky-talky to see where we wanted to
go on the inside. Midnight found us in a perfect movie scene: full moon
above, thick moonshadow cast on us by the lush trees in that community park,
and standing on a wooden bridge over a whispering creek. There in my arms, Torie's
eyes widened at moon and shadow and stars and couldn't-ever-be-better ambience,
and she gasped in wonder, "You planned this!" And I smiled,
innocently sharing her wonder, and wished I could take credit for the moon, as
I wrote years later, looking back.
And midnight made it the
first of June, of course. The summer quickly became all ours (and our
children's, yes), and ultimately – as I said – the flame between us roared into
a mighty blaze that burned me up completely (and burned Torie out completely).
Almost no ash was left when, two months later, I found my arms and life empty
again, head spinning and heart sore and reeling.
I love June because
sometimes it spurs the muse; the month that escorts us into summer, and paints
storybook weddings… also gives great sweeps of life to fill the grandest canvas
– be it with palette, once-blank paper, musical instrument of choice, wood and
marble and chisel.
I was years healing
from the near-bottomless intensity of dating lovely Torie. To this day (and
there's absolutely no way it was thirty-one years ago), I can't say I regret a
moment spent with her, though I see areas where a little fuel should have been
withheld from the flame.
One of my avenues of
catharsis – as you patiently know – is writing it out. And if it's the heart
being cathartized and cauterized, then the finished canvas is filled with
verse. If there were a market for modern poetry, I'm ready to publish at least
three books of verse; one would be called Verses to a Ghost… I wrote
many about her as I healed.
Ten years after our golden
summer, in mid-September, as summer '96 was about to be rolled up and put away
until after spring of '97, I took up pencil and once-blank book, and wrote:
Verse #37 to a Ghost: Endless Summer: When Time
Stood Still
Each person, I’m sure, carries deep
inside
–
almost safe –
A heart and home of many doors;
behind
the doors, their private rooms;
And in the corners and cupboards and
closets
are
special precious boxes
holding letters, pressed flowers, smiles, tears.
(Some hinges fuse, rust shut;
some, well-worn, slide smoothly;
some rooms bear no doors at all – )
We carry within us sweet moments or
eras
frozen
in time:
Ageless lovers, gentle hands,
skillful dancers.
We bring along, inside, unforgotten
places,
realms
of rain and moon and sun and star.
We close our eyes (or open), and hear
long-gone sounds
of
music, whisper, ocean, thunder, embrace.
We never forget, nor leave long
aside, each tender touch:
caress
of skin, surge of love, leap of faith.
These are things that feed our souls,
that
build our lives, and make us real;
These are our refuge, our comfort,
our hope;
our
beacon, our surcease, our dream.
These are all I have, sometimes, or
can hold,
when
the silence or solitude floods my valley;
Each memory and touch and realm and
voice,
though
frozen, is rich with warmth and life,
...and
some are quite wealthy indeed.
Here, in these pages, this box, this
corner, this room;
behind
unknobbed door on well-spun hinges,
I still feel her lips and hear her
laugh,
hold
her close, feel her silken skin,
smell
her perfume and move deep inside her
– Ever less, I know, ever fading,
ever long ago;
oft
forgotten, far, remote, yesterloved.
Even now those warm days and steaming
nights
are
near-unreal, clutching me no longer.
***
Yet I think there is a land of
Summer:
At times I still can hear it
through closed doors, shuttered windows,
over
forgotten paths and distant hills behind me,
I still can hear it,
whispering in cherished voices,
caressing with old yet freshened fingers,
singing clear notes of songs dim-recalled,
Walking yet behind me
(away?
approaching?)
almost
touching me
with love...
***
...It was the endless Summer
For me the ’leventh Wonder
A Spell I’d fallen under
The Dream without a slumber
Did I mention that I like
June?
Regards,
Gene
Christ
loved us and washed us clean of our sins by His blood, and made us into a
kingdom, priests for His God and Father. — Revelation 1:5-6
Either one of
my astute readers, when they wander back to this teeny blog at some point,
might recognize the heart-parallel with another summer girlfriend, sweet-and-sassy Jane,
1979. And there are some others, of course; this human heart by reflex swims best in the
deep end of the pool, and so my life and heart and summers have been blessed by a
handful – an armful – of wondrous swim-companions.
PS: As always,
unless I say otherwise, my writings – verse, meditations, maudlin meanderings,
and so on – are mine. Feel free to read… but not to take; that's not nice. And
I've got the originals, the drafts, the backstory… and the rights. I may
someday publish; who knows?
Please pardon my
disclaimer though… and enjoy your June. See you in the pool!
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