Lunch

Today, for lunch, I packed myself

a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich,

a classic meal of childhood, daily prepared,

two slices of Wonderbread spread

with Jiff on one and Welch’s grape

on the other, pressed together,

an oozing sticky concoction, but nutritious,

“good for you,” my mother would say,

with a box of juice, a sippy straw,

and maybe, just maybe, a chocolate chip

cookie, home-made, a rare treat,

a reward at the end of a lunch untraded,

so today, for lunch, I packed myself

a peanut-butter and jelly sandwich

because, even now, grown up and responsible,

we need to feed the child within, the little boy

nourished - “good for you.”

One Last Time

The last slam of a locker rings out,

a metallic echo ringing down the empty hall

outside my classroom, empty too, their footsteps

fading away, the soft padding of his sneakered feet

squeaking and the sharp click of heels accompanying him,

hand in hand, leaving, and the school goes quiet,

the desks now straightened, neatly arranged,

facing the center as I like them, a circle drawing us together,

a classroom readied for a new class, not my own,

but I sit here awhile longer, long after the last bell

has rung, dismissed us all, sent is out into the summer,

into our lives beyond the classroom, sitting here still,

the chalkboard wiped clean, a new slate, fresh chalk,

the books accounted for, and stacked, papers graded

and grades tallied, all done but the lights turned off

before I go, the door locked, one last time, but still

I sit here, in the silence of my classroom remembering

Steve and Debbie and Greg and Randy, remembering

a first classroom long forgotten, so long ago,

so far removed from this one where I sit now, remembering,

youthful faces filling the desks around me, years of faces,

and even now their noise is loud in my ears, the ears

of memory hearing them, remembering their drama and victories,

their fears and loss, and my own, remembering their laughter

and shouts, the hallways filled with sound, their sound,

this soundtrack of youth now silenced,

now but an echo played in my head, a song stuck there,

fading away into the memories I carry, memories

packed away as I packed away their papers and

projects and exams, packed them into a briefcase

carried home for grading, and carried back,

a briefcase empty now this last day remembering,

empty except for the memories I keep there, holding on,

so I rise and go, nothing to keep me here longer,

turning the lights off, one more time, the door

locking behind me, my own footprints echoing

in the empty halls, the click of my own heels leaving,

empty halls echoing a career come to an end.

Morning Coffee, Percolated

Growing up, I would lie in bed, warm and too early to rise,

and listen below to my father making coffee,

no Mr. Coffee’s steady stream of coffee draining

into a glass carafe, but percolated coffee,

an old aluminum coffee pot, dulled and spouted,

black handled, and worn, crystal knobbed,

filled with water splashing fresh and cold from the tap

and placed atop the stove on low heat, blue flamed gas

barely touching. The coffee grounds went unmeasured,

eye-balled, knowing by sight the right amount, more

or less, shoveled into the “guts” he plopped into the pot,

the faint click heard below of the lid snapping into place;

and then the waiting, busying himself in morning ritual,

and the low rumble of water left to boil and rise,

carried up to burst, a tiny explosion popping,

water sprayed to filter itself, dripping back black,

turning water, fresh and cold, to coffee,

black and hot, rising tart to our noses, pungent, awakened,

now, to strong and steaming coffee poured into a mug,

sugared and creamed, the soft clink of his spoon

stirring, stirring, stirring, a sign of his day beginning,

alone in the early morning, readying himself for us.

Painting the Outhouse

It serves no useful purpose;

with the plumbing moved inside,

we make no more early dashes

across the morning grass, our feet dew-wet,

nor late night trips at bedtime, barefoot,

gingerly stepping, a flashlight’s beam

lighting our way, making visible our path

to where it rests now, tilted back among the trees,

unseen in the years of growth surrounding it,

keeping it hidden, tucked away unused;

but we can’t bring ourselves to tear it down,

“just in case,” we tell ourselves, “a plumbing disaster,”

or perhaps for old-times’ sake, remembering its place in our lives,

we keeping it, for its charm, its character, its rusticity.

So there it remains, a vital part of our lives,

a reminder of what was, once, long ago, who we were, then,

but it’s in need of a fresh coat of paint,

and some minor repairs, to restore its charm, its quaintness,

a summer’s job for granddaughters, bored and eager to help;

so we sweep away the cobwebs

and replace a rotted board or two,

peel away old paint, long chipped and cracked,

sloughed off under the flat blade

scraped against the agéd wood, or brushed away,

the wood prepared by a wire brush rasping,

a steady snowfall of old paint flakes falling,

till, satisfied, we stand back, bare wood revealed,

weather worn, or stained, decades of green soaked in;

and we begin, a beautifying, a transformation,

a restoration, green paint selected, a careful selection,

a close match to its original color, an authentic green,

outhouse green, because …, because it was always that color,

no need to change, to force us to adjust, update, modernize,

no need to consider new colors, red or brown or blue,

just green, our brushes dipped and raised, dripping,

tickling down the bare wood, and caressed, a rhythmic brushing,

down and up and down, repeated, again, and again,

our brushes dipped and raised, the paint absorbed,

soaking in, the old wood parched and drinking in new life;

and restored and renewed, made bright, again,

bright green, the outhouse tilts back among the trees, still,

a vital part of our lives restored, returned to where we are,

its charm and quaintness, rusticity, restored, “just in case,”

we tell ourselves, for old times’ sake.

The fire crackles to life ...

The fire crackles to life,

paper-fed kindling, tee-pee’d,

dry wood taking hold and snapping,

an explosion of red-embers dying,

cooled in the chill of night-time

and darkness descending, a darkness lit by flames

carefully coaxed and resurrected,

turning black the hardwood chopped and split

I feed them now, hardwood rough and ragged

lightly laid there, one across the other

so’s not to crush out, extinguish

these flames ignited, heat and my spirits

rising in smoke and ash, sitting here as I am,

warmed by the solitary silence surrounding me,

a silence shared by the deep croak

of a bullfrog sounding, echoed by the lone

cry of a loon calling out and a chorus of peepers shrill

and unseen among the trees, the soft lapping

 

of the water on the shore my sole companion.