This is a song
This is Joni Mitchell at midnight
Christmas music in September
Just to make your mind as quiet as those nights around the holiday tree
The little toy train tracks clattering beneath your feet like the pebbles
Slipping from your overflowing hands as you ran to the edge of the pond
To skip the flattest of stones
Towards the fairy house you built of leaves and twigs at the base of the old oak tree.
This is the wisps of steam arising from a cup of hot vanilla milk—taking you back to nights in the rocking chair, freshly bathed, freshly-brushed hair dripping down a nightgown as momma turned pages
Back and forth, back and forth, back and forth.
The way the tired street lamp made the air sparkle when it snowed, made your breathy fog on the window pane glisten
Before your little fingers rubbed it away
Or wrote a secret message
To grandpa, so long gone, and watching you placidly from a nearby frame
Just to say hello.
This is quiet time.
The evenings when the world paused just to listen to the sound daddy’s newspaper made when he turned a page
The padding of sweet brother feet toddling across the wooden floors,
His bubbling laughter when the sticky bottoms of his pajama socks failed and he would slide
And the record player in the corner would echo a velvet put-put-put in response.
This is the space between the antique toolbox and the scalding old-fashioned heater
Where I would crawl and make myself small enough to fold into the sweet spot of a fictitious land
Spilling from the pages of a book thicker than the reverberation of mommy hitting the highest note of Ave Maria
From the kitchen where dinner simmered on the stove
As she quietly muttered about the deal she and daddy made when they married,
To each do half of the cooking, but the turn of her smile nonetheless
When the old wooden porch creaked to the tune of three thumping steps, and Wallace and Gromit keys jingled against a briefcase
Bringing a close to a long day apart.
This is my heart
And how it would ache for as long as I could recall.
The twisting of my stomach and the tears as “I’m sorry,” “I’m sorry,” “I’m sorry,” spilled from my lips
And “For what?” brought no answer--
No reprise, no relief, no remedy.
This is sharp words
And the sourness of your tongue as they crawled out of her lips
The bitter shame of knowing and letting go.
This is a hope to no longer rob air from the old oak trees at the sweet age of 9
Of tissue twisted in palms
Curling myself under the covers my parents tucked me within
Until I felt secure, until my irrationality said it was as exhausted as I,
I was now safe, and it was time for rest.
This is sitting on my desktop, my feet resting upon the chair,
Spinning, drawing fanciful lovelies on paper,
As I listened to his voice
Amen, amen, amen. A poem of sweet hope.
The sigh of the phone line after melancholily winning a game of “You hang up first,”
When he hung up first.
This is the secret that was really a room
A chair, a lamp, a cup of hot vanilla milk
A player piano, the tile in the entryway sweeping bare feet, the softness of Bailey’s sweet fur during thunderstorms,
The weightlessness of water, the hot of the green deck chairs against summered legs,
The little village on the windowsill with the chimney that really worked, the snapping of spearmint gum,
Watching thumbs tapping against a steering wheel from the backseat, tracing Noah’s Ark wallpaper with loving strokes,
Amen, amen, amen.
This is the room that had only one door
That can only be opened in the stillness of the world pausing just to listen to the sound daddy’s newspaper made when it turned a page
In the space between the antique toolbox and the old-fashioned heater
Where I would crawl and make myself small enough to fold into
The fairy house I built of leaves and twigs, like those that crinkled beneath soles at the edge of the pond
Your hands overflowing with pebbles as you ran
Clattering like the little toy train tracks
Around the holiday tree, on nights when your mind was quiet
Where I was now safe, and it was time for rest.
This is amen, amen, amen. A poem of prayers of sweet hope.
When “For what?” brought no answer--
No reprise, no relief, no remedy.
And how it would ache for as long as I could recall.
Until I felt secure, until my irrationality said it was as exhausted as I,
And let Joni Mitchell at 2 am play me home
To the room that had only one door
A window where you could see the tired street lamp make the air sparkle when it snowed, make your breathy fog glisten
Before your little fingers rubbed it away
Or wrote a secret message
And when the record player in the corner at quiet time
Would echo a velvet put-put-put in response
Just to say hello.
