Tag: Remembering

To Those Who Leave For Hawaii

Rita Sommers-Flanagan1 Comment 

It is the nature of beets and blueberries to leave behind
indelible evidence of their intensity.
Think of this as an endowment of indigo.

It is the nature of beasts and brutish beings to leave behind
broken bones and babies. Don’t think of this at all.

If people tell you to avoid wearing yellow,
remind them of dandelions, lemons, and the brilliant sun.
Wear whatever you want.

It is the nature of evil to imprison the fallen 
so all can be hidden and forgotten. Remember what you can.

When you realize the harsh climate is too much to bear
and you can’t stand the lay of the land even in April,
cut yourself free and leave for the islands.

When you arrive, stay grounded long enough
to find a source of sustenance, and then flare and fade

like the green flash of refracted light
that divides young from old. Day from night.
Think of this as permission to care for your skin.

Where to begin? You’ve come to an end 
in most of the ways that matter. 

Even before you flew, somehow, you knew 
the aloha of the islands would welcome you home
regardless of your failed intentions.

Regardless of what you planted or sowed.
Regardless of yellow or indigo.

Regardless.



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Epilogue: Where do poems come from? Monday night, my dear friend Joyce died gently. Sometime Tuesday morning, her essence floated by to sing her goofy good-bye song. Then I think she may have arranged my next adventure—the reclamation of a trailer abandoned by a fugitive. It had that mystical aura. I pulled it home and opened the door. The interior was bursting with dashed hopes and eerie reflections of my various selves. The sadness settled as I washed blankets, sorted clothes, and pried a petrified waffle from the waffle iron stashed in the microwave. I yanked up the carpet beneath my feet. The rebuilding has begun. When it’s finished, it will shelter generations of newly hatched chicks. That was not the original plan but often, clinging to the original plan will often get you nowhere.

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What You Are Now

Rita Sommers-Flanagan6 Comments

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Sometimes I pedal around town on my bike meditating. The alleys, the streets, even the funky traffic patterns are as familiar as my hands. I’ve lived in dozens of locations and left my DNA all over the place. It’s my town.

God rides along wearing my memories; scarves and beads, seven chickens, a hundred trees. I try to accept the shocking truth that the world goes on without me, but I resent it. God is relatively gentle about this, pointing out how tall the trees have grown.

“What good are these damn memories?” I ask as they pelt me like sheets of sudden rain. I’m drenched. Shivering. Sad. The bygone days are a howling pack of coyotes; phantoms that leave teeth marks, longings without names.

“Not everything is good in isolation,” God says. “You’re not what you remember.”

“Oh, thanks.” My voice drips with sarcasm. “That helps a lot.”

“It will,” God says. “Give it time.”

I stop the bike and sit on the curb beside a large mound of fallen leaves. I remember crawling under a pile like this. October. Centuries ago. But the sound of the rain on the brittle leaves was yesterday. It occurs to me that I would like to be buried in a pile of leaves, here on a side street, in a ceremony so quiet no one is inconvenienced in the least.

“You already are,” God says. “C’mon. Let’s ride. I’m getting restless.”

“Fine,” I say. We pedal toward a steep hill and begin the climb, me seeking perspective, God enjoying the ride. I’m so easily seduced by the idea of my own importance, sucked into the undertow of imagined glory. The view helps. I watch the little city move itself here and there as I catch my breath. Then I turn the bike around. The downhill stretch is littered with rocks and potholes, but my tires are full and the light is good.

God and I gather speed as we cruise back into the thick of it. I think to myself, it’s probably after 3 already, but I check my watch. It’s nearly 5. Too many young people smile at me. Newer model cars zip by. My brakes squeak, and my resolve weakens, but I find solace in the alleys. Discarded grace, throw rugs, pottery, and a pile of sticks for firewood.

God hops off. A thousand wings begin designing the sunset dipping liberally into orange and magenta. I strap the rugs and pottery on my bike, drape the grace around my shoulders, and make a mental note to pick up the firewood later. I wonder if I’ll remember. I wonder if it matters. I wonder whose elongated evening shadow is peddling ahead of me. It’s vaguely familiar, but God is right; I’m not what I remember.