Boundary

I strayed to your side
of the bed last night.
For a week now I've
only occupied
My half
Of our private square.

I was restless with the heat
And the thrum of the fan
Did not mask the absence
Of your snores.

I felt a little guilty 
stretching out; but
I confess to a certain thrill
As I lay my head
On what should be your pillow.

I am rich with choices
when you are not here.

Sounds Heard on a Friday Summer Night

A/C cranks loud

drowned by wind chimes

that tease in gusts.

Neighbors are drawn out

on stoops and sidewalks

to stare at the sky

with vague desperation

and "storm"

is whispered

with superstitious glances

at a tumbling gray sky.

Thunder rolls.

Sashes squeak upward

to catch every cool breeze.

In the sudden absence of compressors

supper talk leaks

from dining room windows.

Texts trumpet
heralding approaching relief

street by street reporting

drops have fallen!

Impatient rustle of leaves

spatters that dry without witness

follow the advancing line of hopeful

messages.

Creaks and rumbles echo across
the sky until the sound 
is dampened by the patter of

rain.

written in response to a prompt on G+

Roots

Kinnikinick. Fir. Granite.
These are my flesh

my bones.

My blood tumbles like
The stream falling over
Sodden logs where fish
Hide in pools.

The warm vanilla of Ponderosas
Twines with the bite
of pine sap
To make my only scent.

I grew up on stories of pioneers

Who bent iron

And trees to their will.

Their backs rose strong and

straight like the stone towers

That made their homes.

All that's left is the faint

taste of adventure

In recipes made a

hundred times on

the same wood stove 

that still

warms the kitchen.

Soundscape

There's a constant breeze from the south. The house is surrounded by maples. From my bedroom window I look across the road to see the grand old cottonwood and its companion willow. We recently planted two oak trees whose tops are just rising above the sill. The rustling leaves of each tree sounds different, like instruments in an orchestra, blending into a gentle papery symphony.

A cardinal declares his prowess from a high snag, dropping trills and notes to me like royalty dispensing coins. Robins ignore his conceit, sharing their short melody then swooping between trees to offer it again. Other songs are unfamiliar. I listen with my eyes, trying to spot the artists, as if seeing could improve the glory of calls and responses, songs and conversations.

The dogs gallop past, chasing some elusive, possibly imagined, target. Their passage brings to mind the thunder of the racetrack as the horses pass.

Wherever I am the sound of "MOM!" rises like smoke signals, begging an equally loud response. Our family communicates by echolocation. Some days I choose not to respond. The noise moves trainlike around the property, changing tone as the caller approaches or paces in the wrong direction. When not exasperated I find this secretly amusing.

Cyclists and pedestrians chatter past as they tour the scenic byway that runs before the house, gravel crunching, unaware that I watch them from my window. Stanley-dog's voice has shifted to a slightly lower register. He's a talker, responding to queries with grunts and growls. He delights in raising the alarm, bark rising to a yelp that echoes like a gunshot from the trees, or rolling thunder. The passersby startle, then laugh, at his bravado.

An aluminum ladder clanks. A hammer pounds. My husband's expletives pepper down as he works on yet another repair. He clatters down and sighs with satisfaction to cross another fix off the list.

The compressor on one of the refrigerators is failing. In the morning it squeaks and squeals and breathes frosty mist whenever the door is opened. Afternoons it settles to a gentle mechanical snore. I find it somehow endearing, and put off the craigslist search for a replacement.

I close the windows against the chill, and light a fire. It's quiet enough that I can hear the fluttering of flames in the fireplace, like flags on a windy day. The dogs whimper and trot in their sleep. The children lean on me, and I read to them quietly as the sound of their yawns draws me, too, toward sleep.

Bare Cupboards

The cabinets are slowly emptying. The refrigerator contains little more than pickles and condiments. I am washing walls and baseboards in preparation: we leave in a few days to spend the summer away.

It's a splendid opportunity. My husband's family has a traditional summer "camp" in another state which we visit every other summer. There's a lake and sailing and a motorboat. We have a tennis court and a wide array of warped wooden tennis rackets which add a hilarious unpredictability to the game. We've strung a hammock. We have a croquet set. Everyone we know is invited to visit for however long they can. Some do, and there's a delightful confluence of strangers-become-friends eating, playing cards, staying up late drinking and discussing every topic imaginable.

There was a period during which maintenance was sporadic. Leaks developed. Shrubbery became overgrown. Foundations sank. With each visit we make it a little better -- cleaning, repairing, updating. I take before- and after-pictures to document the transformation. Still, we leave with project lists for the next visit, then spend days deciphering what our cryptic notes mean when we begin packing anew.

Packing takes weeks of planning. There are lists and spreadsheets. We make piles in the basement, in the living room, in the garage. Fitting everything into a pickup truck is a jigsaw puzzle made more complicated by the need to save space for four people and two dogs. Over time I've taken less and less. Babies require far more equipment than toddlers and my children are now old enough that they require little more than books and clothes.

Traveling so far away, for so long, requires a paring. A cutting back of wants and needs. At home I have a knife block with ten different viciously sharp knives. There I use two. Five hundred CDs are replaced by a single radio station. Three or four highly recommended novels go into my bag; I leave behind stacks of unread books on my bedside table and dresser. Three pair of shoes cover the entire summer: sneakers, flip flops, and a pair of flats, just in case. Upon my return I will be appalled at the excesses of space and goods in my home, even though I claim to live simply.

I speak enthusiastically about our trip, but there's a hesitation in my heart this year. I believe it's a factor of time and distance. We are not moving, or relocating. That would imply a permanence and sense of purpose. This is a dislocation. Our summer routines will be just the same -- eating, cooking, cleaning, learning, reading, writing, playing, exploring -- but elsewhere. Sometimes I wake from a dream disoriented, unable to find the lines between realities. The same happens with our summers away. Upon our return the weeks seem dreamlike and our regular lives resume immediately, as if nothing happened.

We leave in four days. We will drive unceasing to Ohio, then collapse for a night before pushing on. I hope to arrive in the daylight. We have, in the past, arrived late and with no electricity. By the light of headlamps we did just enough unwrapping so that we each had a mattress, then collapsed into sleeping bags. Morning light squeezed between gaps in the shutters and we woke to the possibilities our our temporary home. Despite my trepidation this year, whatever time we arrive I will wake to a marvelous dream.

The Saddest Superhero

I had to make a report today.

If you work with children you know what that means, and the dread that rises with those words.

A student was sent to me with marks of physical abuse. The child was matter-of-fact. Cheerful, even. The offense, apparently, was lying to the guardian. The consequence was being hit an unknown number of times with a metal-studded belt. The child didn't know how many times because, I was told, it hurt too much to count. This morning the marks were still distinct, like an octopus had wound around the child with cruel suckers. It wasn't some creature from the deep, though. It was a person in a position of trust.

I'm fortunate. We only get a few of these situations each year and some of those are false alarms. Our students are for the most part blessed with healthy, loving, stable homes. I know there are far worse things to witness than the infractions I've seen. Each year every employee in our school district goes through Child Abuse and Neglect training. We dread it. We gripe about how long it takes. We complain about the dull videos and slide presentations. That is true. The deeper truth is we don't want to face the horrors that can be visited on the shining little beings we come to love. 

I spent the morning on the phone with the Department of Health and Human Services. There's a hotline to call, and a form to fill out. I waited on hold for 20 long minutes as other calls were taken before mine. I spent the time wondering just how many reports were being made in one morning. When my call finally was answered I learned that there are eight social workers in the call center, all of whom spend their entire working days listening to stories like mine, or worse. I can't imagine the fortitude of those people. It is, truly, a thankless job.

Making a report is a balancing act. I am by law required to report any suspicion of neglect or abuse or endangerment. It's not always an easy to decide. Having children of my own has made me more far more sympathetic to the difficulties of managing a family. So I wonder: is it really neglectful to leave your ten year old at school long after the bell rings if there are adults around, not actually supervising but still present? If I am completely honest, I must admit to knowing the towering rage that can rise from dealing with an argumentative, self-centered, disrespectful, exhausted, unreasonable child. I have felt the desire to slap my child silly, to yank her after me into a quiet room and force her to do what I want just.this.once without having to reason or cajole or manage. To just make it happen. So far I have swallowed that down and walked away, or found another path. But I understand -- in a horrible visceral way -- why some parents beat their children.

For all its simplicity it's not a light matter, reporting. The lives of parents, as well as children, can be completely disrupted. I've read stories of  adults wrongly accused who spent months fighting to get their children back while their entire social structure dissolved. I would hate to be responsible for that. I worry, too, that I am being culturally insensitive. I've heard people dismiss my discipline style as too touchy-feely granola. Even my own mother has implied that I am not stern enough with my kids. Am I safeguarding the well-being of a child, or imposing my middle-class, small-town, white, bourgeois values on other families?

I fret privately, weighing the distress caused by a call to DHHS against the life-long damage of abuse. I wish Superman or Wonder Woman would swoop in and make everything right. But they don't exist. Today's was an easy decision: there were clear marks and the student repeated the same story to two different adults. So, despite my sorrow, I donned the worn and tattered cape of a very human superhero and made the call.

Bacon and Eggs

Spring is here. The year is winding down. Teachers (and students) are counting how many days we have left before summer break. There's a hopeful listlessness spreading through the school, a strange slow energy of distraction and indifference. Parents feel it, too. Tardiness and absence rates are rising. The sense of purpose that characterized the fall is slipping away as we look forward to next year.

I have felt it this month as well. Instead of getting up to run and make lunches and feed the family I sit on the side of my bed and brush my hair slowly, wilfully ignoring the news broadcast on the radio. The children eat bowls of cereal before I come downstairs and pack vaguely balanced lunches that they don't let me inspect. Our morning routine has evaporated.

All week students have been coming to the office complaining of stomachaches, of being tired, of headaches. An outbreak of strep? Perhaps springtime allergies. I give them water, have them rest for ten minutes, tell them to come back after lunch. They don't. Finally I made the connection and started asking the most important question: did you have breakfast?

No, they said. Didn't have time. I'm learning that lack of time is code for mom's working two jobs or we don't have money for gas or I sleep in the living room and the TV keeps me awake. Spring seems to be a time of transition. Of leaving one crowded home for another. Seeking new. Seeking better. Upsetting the routines and patterns which offered a semblance of stability.

The school offers breakfast free to all students, but when it's a necessity it becomes a point of pride not to go. The hunger doesn't subside, though. So they come to the office. We add ten minutes to the tardy slip and order them to the cafeteria, for which they are secretly grateful. We whisper in the teacher's ear that he didn't have breakfast, and she will slip him a snack mid-morning. In the office we hand out granola bars to tide them over until lunch. We do our best to close the gaps.

I dispense snacks and think about my own lapse. Most every day this year I cooked bacon and scrambled eggs and buttered toast. My family ate together before bustling out to school with no worries other than remembering to bring our lunch boxes. My children and husband are unaware of how blessed we are. As for me, I think I'll get up and prepare breakfast tomorrow.