We Pass Each Other On The Stairs

Water A rain-swept parking lot edge. Your face hidden under a wide brim Murray at the Ticket Office I was a cute kid once like this kid who's running around my ticket office. Would you believe it? I was quite a kid like this one. God bless my mother, she is spending my inheritance, is in the nursing home. She should be thankful 'cause I put her there, eats out twice a week, takes cabs everywhere. You know, I was a kid once, where did I go? She is 88 and going strong, God bless her, spending my inheritance. Watch out, kid, you're going to fall. Oops, hope he's okay. My mother, God bless her. Wendel We move in different zones. Every night I play the drums, read a Rumi poem and Kora says she will come. In my twilight moments, just before I dream, I hear her bumping into boxes, bags, tables. As I stumble downstairs, she passes me. I do my morning salutation, play the dumbek, chant and read a Rumi poem. We move in orbits around the boiling kettle, leftover pizza and the sick dog's cage, and after 20 years, even the dead we bury are different. She bumps into boxes, paper piles and tables. We pass each other on the stairs. The oak tree and maples are now giants and the dog is sicker. The front doorbell is broken and the roof is leaking. I park around the corner, grow a goatee. We pass each other on the stairs. Flight A distinguished old penguin, grey whiskers, wise eyes, world traveler, through stormy seas, icebergs and channel crossings. Puffs on a Cuban cigar, skids on slippery peaks. He tells Mrs. Penguin he thinks of hanging up his galoshes. Taking up tap-dancing. Proving to his kids he is hip. Fills his lungs with Arctic air, takes off his tuxedo, surrenders to the wind until frost fills every cell. Forest Shiva A Shiva prayer for cousin Mark, who was hit by a truck. The dead are multiplying, the living receding. Fallen trees encroach on mourners, withdraw their shade. Trunks, split open, crowned by nests, fall into the river. Raccoons flee their hollows. The river carries the trunks downstream away from the mountain. In the forest, terrified deer trample rabbits, hunters on their heels, snap branches, crush fallen bark. Fog blankets the circle of mourners and the forest. e-brim brown straw hat. Your pink blouse ruffles in the wind. Mist rises from the blacktop blurring your shoes and slacks. Your straw hat dissolves into your pink blouse. Low clouds punctuated by streaks of light. Trembling, murky puddles emitting asphalt. Your glasses sparkle. Mount Monadnock floats behind you flanked by evergreen specks. A fragrant pink patch touches the brown and gray haze between your outstretched palms weighing the rain. Cape May Point where you find your favorite blue blouse. The kettle whistling so you can pour your Raj tea. You stumble, dazed from a haunting dream. Chocolate pretzels are on the fridge's bottom shelf just as you left them months ago. The house is ready. Tin fisherman on the shed roof sucks on his pipe. A pair of blacktail seagulls guard the tip of the mossy jetty. The striped mat on the floor by the glass table patiently waits for the dog to come back. Twenty years of daylight savings in Cape May Point. Lavender bush by the front door has tripled in size. The front gate hinges need oiling. Neighbors on both sides moved after the husband or wife died. Your husband stands in a beige suit and blue tie, bare feet, on the mantle. His severe stare has not softened. Masha Grandma Masha is no longer furious at her neighbors. Her face shiny, dressed up for the first time since she came to Israel from Romania in an off-white cotton shroud and blue kerchief. Her denture-less mouth twisted in a smile. Neighbors who shunned her as a crazy witch put on hats. She lies sideways in her son-in-law's narrow fruit wagon. Children who used to break her windows throw apples for a safe passage. Uri, the street hoodlum, wipes his nose. Her daughter Esther says, Grandma Masha was not quite right in the head since she came back from the camps. Hid stinking food all over the house, made the best mamaliga and borsht. She was the best rug beater. Her son-in-law Shmulik swats at flies above her head. Frightened kids turn back at the gate of the cemetery. Child Every morning Snow White Smith stretches lazily shakes her golden hair. Runs to the castle's top to dry her dripping knife. Deaf to her mother's admonitions: Don't wear the black bra. Don't overplay the virgin's part. Innocence has its limits. Her father laughs: You'll never amount to anything. All this business about the prince and the apple is a crock. She puts on the red polka dot dress. Mounts a mule to rescue her child in the woods.