The Reflection Pool

I suppose there are more spots on them now. They have more wrinkles. Some days they are cracked with the open sores of eczema. The tips of her fingers are slathered in Neosporin and wrapped up in Band Aides. She says to me, “Hon, come cut these tomatoes.” Knowing how much it hurts her hands when the acidic juices reach the cuts, I pick up the knife. Before I cut into the red ball, I look down. For a brief moment her hands are healed. I cut into the tomato, its juice is every where and I marvel, there’s no pain yet.

There are two veins that sit atop the bottom knuckle of her thumbs. They run parallel with each other and down the length of her thumb but are only obvious at the joint. Her thumbs are perpetually curved ever so slightly in towards her palms. They are never still. They twitch at random, never aware of their movement unless you are staring at them. In constant motion but never keeping time.

Some times, even now, she reaches out to hold my hand. An unobtrusive gesture. As she sits by me at the table or on the couch, she reaches out and gently lays her hand in mine. The skin dry but always warm. She gives my hand a squeeze and then pats my palm as she pulls her hand away as if she realized that she is holding the hand of a grown woman, no longer the small girl I used to be. Her wish to be close wins out and she settles her hand back in my palm, all but her thumb soothe the child that even now lives in both our hearts.

I trace the veins on the top of her hand with my finger, remembering this was once a favorite thing for me to do as a child. I follow every vein as far as I can and travel back to her wrist. Slowly, I take the next path, and then the next. She smiles, recalling the same memory. Leaning over slightly, she rests her head on my shoulder. I rest my head on hers, still following the paths of childhood.

It is quiet.

I am sitting on the couch alone. Picturing her hands, wondering what I have missed. I can see them wielding needle and thread as she counts stitches. I see them kneading bread, rolling out dough for Christmas cookies. I see their action as she scolds one of us kids. I see them as she reaches across the table for her scissors. I feel them tap my back as we hug. I feel them as she holds tighter not wanting to let go. I see them. They are resting in my lap.

Her hands are never any older than mine.

(This may be familiar to a few, but it is updated and improved.)

Her daughter looks just like her.

I nodded because it’s true but mostly because I didn’t want to talk to anyone yet. The tears that built up from the service were still just behind the eyes. I promised myself, when I got up this morning, that I wouldn’t cry in front of everyone, especially the kids. They’ve already lived through so many tears as their mother slowly died of cancer. She would have been strong for them. I’ll be strong for them.

When Tom called a few weeks ago with the news that Anna’s time was nearly up, I packed my suitcase and left. Tom said he needed me. The kids needed me. Anna needed me. Sitting in the plane and then the rental car, the needs, their needs began to weigh heavy on me already. I don’t know what I was going to walk into. I just knew that it would be sadness beyond comprehension.

It was a hard two weeks.

All but a few hours each night were spent at the hospital. Tom and I took turns with the kids while the other spent the night with Anna. I feel guilty for that time with her, taking it away from Tom and the kids. He knew that I needed the time. Anna needed the time, the comfort of an old friend. We relived some of our crazier moments. Danced around all of our pains. Laughed. Cried. Sat in silence. We confessed and forgave. We relieved every moment we shared together. We were young again. We were free again.

Yes, her daughter looks just like her.

This is really the first time any of us have been in the house for any period of time. Several of the neighbors came in to clean it and get is ready for the get together after the funeral. One less thing to worry about for Tom. It still smells of her presence. It looks like she should walk in the door laughing and saying, Gosh, people, why the long faces? We want that but it isn’t going to happen. When will it cease to feel like her home? When will the kids forget her voice, her face?

People are beginning to fill the house. Not ready to help host this gathering, I wander further from the crowds to the kitchen where the neighbors bustle around like bees getting the food finished up. I keep wandering for a bit of solitude, finding it in laundry room.

Solitude.
What I really want is time with my friend. A little time to catch up on the moments that we missed in each other’s life. We didn’t have much of that the last few years. It grew less and less and we grew older and more responsible. With her kids growing up and my career taking off, there was less and less time for each other. The rain is falling again. The drops hitting the window break me out of my emotional tail spin. Unwilling to give up my daydream of a little more time, I turn to stare out the water-stained window.

I laugh at what I see. Up leaning on the tree is an old rusted bike. Looking at the bike, the color is no longer obvious but the moment I see the bike I know exactly what bike it is, resting on the tree. Blue. The blue of the fall sky, the sky that never ends. That was the color of that rusted old bike.

.

Anna, wait up.

Anna’s laughter wafts behind her like her hair on the breeze she creates. Always laughing, that’s Anna. She has our two coke bottles in her back pockets.

Don’t be such a poke, Kid. We don’t have all week to get there, she shouts over her shoulder.

Standing up, she peddles hard, dust flying out from her tire. Its one of those summer afternoons where the sun beats down oppressively. Just this ride has worked up a sweat. We’re headed for the lake. She took off from the station before I was even outside. She gets so jealous when I flirt with the check-out boy. He’s a cutie and he’d flirt back with her too if she stopped long enough to say something to him.

What are we gonna do when we get there? We didn’t bring suits.

Laughing again. God, KId! Who needs suits?

What? No! I can’t. I can’t do that.

What an old biddy. Yes you can. That is the whole point of this summer. It’s time for us to grow up.

What does skinny dipping have to do with growing up? I don’t see any connection.

Laughing. Ah, Kid. I sure do love you but we’re doing this. As she says this, she slides a flask out of her front pocket. Liquid courage, she shouts and winks.

We are at the lake. It looks like glass in the still air. A reflection of the sun. It looks hot, not refreshing at all but Anna doesn’t budge. She pulls her tee-shirt over her head. She’s not even wearing a bra. Unzipping her cut-offs, she’s out of her shorts and underwear in seconds. She takes off to water. A few steps in and she dives with a whoop.

I’m still standing, fully clothed, next to the bikes.

Come on, old biddy! Get in here. The water is so perfect.

Annie, I really don’t think I –

Shut up and get in here!

I look around the shore to see if there is anyone around, anyone watching. Not a soul. This is as good a time as any to strip down but I am still not that brave. Annie, I’m not like you. I’m not brave.

Laughing. True, but you are a complete fool who does everything her best pal tells her to do. Her best pal is telling her to stop being a chicken, strip down, get in the water. And while you’re at it, bring the bottles to the water so they stay cool.

She disappears under the water again. I can’t stay here. I can’t let her have all the fun. As quickly as I can, I start stripping. My clothes leave a marked trail from the bikes to the water and I run in as quickly as possible, screaming the whole way.

Laughing.

This is incredible, I shout as loud as I can.

Anna surfaces right night to me, puts her forehead on mine and says, I told you.

We tire quickly and are still feeling bold so we grab our cokes, flask, and lay in the grass letting the sun dry the droplets of water from our skin. To our boldness! toasts Anna.

To growing up!

We took a swig of coke and then two out of the flask. Whiskey. Yuck, Anna why did you grab this.

Whiskey and coke. They’re supposed to go together.

I think literally. You know, in the same sip, I say as I take the flask and dump a load of it into my bottle. I take a swig and try not to make a face that resembles something like disgust.

Better?

Shut up.

Laughing.
Do you think, Kid, that you will ever leave this place?

Heck yeah. First chance I get. I don’t want to stick around in this hole. You’re coming with me.

I don’t think I’ll ever leave. I don’t know what I’d do if I left. I’d just get lost for a while and come back a failure. I don’t what that to happen. If I’m going to stay here, I want it to be my choice not my default.

I wouldn’t let you fail. I’d kick your butt every chance I got, keep you in line.

Ah, Kid, you’d be too busy weighing choices and going with that. You’d be working to become something great. And I’d just wave from the crowd watching your parade. Nah, I’ll be married. Having kids and I can’t wait for that. It’s all I want, Kid. Nothing grand, I know, but perfect. Just perfect. I have to pee.

We swim more. Drink more. Talk more. Less serious this time though. Laughing.

.

Anna was my courage, my confidence. She would do anything for the sake of doing it. I, on the other hand, had to have ridiculously good reason for everything I did and it was always calculated. We all figured that she would travel the world. Blowing us away with her experiences and her stories. True to her word, she never left town. Not even for college. She got married and had her family. I asked her about that, about why she went that route. She shrugged and said, That is just how it played out, Kid. I don’t regret it. Not one bit.

I believed her. She was happy. Her eyes sparkled with it. She lived it. She kept that bike. That summer was huge for us. We did a lot of growing up. My mom died that summer. She had sex for the first time. Life began changing us instead of us changing life.

We had always agreed that summer was what did it. Seeing that bike out in the yard, we both would say it was the bike that was the catalyst. But neither of us have ever spoken about the bikes. Just the fact that she kept it this long, in a place she can see it every time she looks out her kitchen and laundry windows, says she believes this too.

The bike. I want her back, if for only a moment. Without even grabbing a jacket, I walk out to the bike. The rain is cold and unforgiving as it quickly soaks my clothing through to the skin. I just want to take the bike for a quick spin around the block, just to hang on, to remember for a little bit longer.

I pull forward on the bike so that it is upright. Yanking up, the bike doesn’t budge. Yanking. Yanking. Yanking. Nothing. The grasses have grown around the tires, like chains to the earth, keeping the bike firm in its own grave. Keeping it rooted in the past. Yanking. Still nothing.

Dropping to my knees, I pull at the grass around the tires. Hoping to free it, to revive it some how even though I can see that this bike is no longer meant for ridding. It’s chain is rusted in place. The peddles no longer revolve, creating motion. The rubber of the tires is hard and and there is no air in the tubes, if there are tubes left inside.

I pull at the grasses any way. I pull. Yank. Tug. The grasses don’t give up their keep.

With each tug, the tears drop more. The anguish I feel, the desolation, the loss, I am those things.
I cry.
I sob.
I wail,
kneeling at the wheels of the bike.

She said, “write me a story tonight,”

and all the words flew from my brain leaving it empty of every thing but nameless and unspoken feelings. It’s fall. The world looks as if it’s dying. Leaves drop from branches one by one until the wind comes and wipes beauty away.

Days feel like this, and nights are too dark to see. The wind can be heard tearing through the lives around me. A whoosh comes through and I lay in my bed knowing that another life was stripped of its beauty but grateful that my tree still has some leaves. In the dark, in this night, dreams float to an early fall when gold still hangs on the branches

and geese swoop from the sky, drop light as their feathers, and glide across the glass pond. They settle in slow moving circular patterns before they stroll the grasses looking for an late morning snack. We are walking the paths of a city park. Some steps we are together, our own private parade. Other steps we are separated by a thought that pulls at our feet to follow our minds and then leads us back to share our momentary adventure. We laugh at the right moments. Tease during the pauses. We walk together under the slightly warm sun in grasses of green and leaves of autumn shades.

Our passions are written in our eyes, pointing this way and that. Words fail where glimmer and sideways glances speak volumes of dreams and possibilities. A hand on my back is a period, on my arm, a question mark. The conversation is endless.

As we circle back to our place of origin, the geese cross our path and then follow our story as we continue. We laugh at how mean they are but their pillows are so soft. She stops and turns, her back to the sun. All light comes from her. She tilts her head just the slightest and slides her hand through her hair. The corner of her mouth follows the elliptic path and I find my self wishing I were coniferous.