Scraps of Paper

My mother saved scraps of paper,

the bottoms and tops of letters

and lists torn off as utilitarian,

useful space not to be wasted,

recycled as new letters and lists.

Rare was the full page, the new page;

look closely, that full sheet is an inch

too short, a scribbled sentence

or two cut off from the top.

Her basket of scraps sat by the phone

or she moved it to the table,  handy

when the need arose, as it did

when I left home, her need and mine.

She’d write often, and in my otherwise

empty mail box appeared an envelope

as mismatched as the paper inside,

tiny scraps of paper recycled to bring me news

of family and friends left behind, tidbits

of local information, or maybe something

cut and folded tight from the newspaper,

pictures and captions or whole articles

cut into columns and stapled together,

someone I knew doing something or other,

or perhaps a change in that town called home,

home stuffed in an envelope,

love in a tiny space torn from scraps

of paper, old lists and letters recycled.

Borders

In the dark of night, beyond a border

created by the spot lights that illuminate

my yard, the light divided from the darkness,

separate and distinct, for my own protection

against my fears, eyes are following us.

They catch the beam of my flashlight

and disappear in a faint rustle of dry leaves,

or unseen eyes watch as we circle the yard,

our nightly rounds, the dogs and I,

a quick trip outside before bed, safely tucked.

It could be a fox or a deer, a coyote perhaps,

or a moose, though doubtful, maybe just a raccoon,

a porcupine, a skunk even, or the smaller ones,

squirrels and chipmunks, mice and mole

and mink staring from the woodpile

or peering out from under the shed, a small

entrance to which they scurry if we venture

too close. This is how we live our lives

here in the woods, aware and cautious,

watching, listening, picking up a scent,

and maybe, if we’re lucky, a brief and fleeting

moment where we lock eyes, see each other

passing quickly from light into darkness

through this clearing we call our own,

an acknowledgement of our space and trespass,

our lives shared across this undefined and shifting

border, my yard and theirs, aware and cautious.

Before I retired ...

I had a reason to get up, put on a tie, and go to work,

arriving early, staying late, and filling the in-between

with the energy of students eager to be gone from there,

off on their own, not bound by chalkboards and desks

in neat little rows or homework and tests and assessments,

the world reduced to bubbled answers;

for they know all there is to know about life and living,

believe they do, and perhaps they do, yet know

so much as to be confused, unsure in their surety,

and afraid.

And what can I teach them,

arriving early, staying late, but to be afraid,

to be unsure, to find the answers in all they know,

—- and perhaps in what they don’t —-

to trust themselves, believing, and the future,

directing their energy unbounded by walls for good,

and to remind them they will be tested and assessed

daily in a world that is now their own,

passing it on, as I have, before I retired,

a reason to get up, put on a tie, and go to work. 

Voices

They were kids ...; no one asked their opinion or told them anything. They just had to muddle along and live in the world presented to them, confused a lot of the time because nothing made sense, but certain of their subterranean place on the food chain.

Kristin Hannah

The Great Alone

They come from afar, rising with the sun,
jostled together over rough and bumpy roads,
or from across the street, down the way
and around the corner, bound for school
as we all were in our more youthful years.
And the schools filled our brains with dates
and wars and rules and things we saw
no value in, wondering when or if
we’d ever use this stuff even as we
worried about dates for prom and this Friday’s
battle, how we’d do, points we’d score,
or how to circumvent the rules society thrust upon us, 
keeping us in the neat little rows of desks, 
and quiet, preparing us for what was to come next.
We did our homework, mostly, performed 
and were rewarded with a number or letter 
meaning little. We graduated, deemed 
as educated and ready to take our place
in a world changing fast and leaving us
behind; the math and the history
and the grammar we learned served us
so little then, and perhaps even now.
In the convenience of living today,
our lives made easier with gadgets and gizmos,
and with unemployment, poverty, and a fear
born of hatred and greed and just plain living, 
we seem to have lost something promised us 
in those years of our youth, waiting for a savior.

Today, they come from afar, or across 
the street, down the way and around the corner, 
but they are not us, are more aware and wanting more, 
tired and giving voice as we feared to do, 
or having done so, were shut down; hippies, 
they called us, outcasts, non-conformists,
Communists not worthy of our rights, 
of our constitution, children who didn’t know better;
“Grow up,” they yelled to us, so we did, some
giving in, succumbing, conforming, giving up, and others 
finding their voice, voices raised again and demanding
change, challenging the status quo, as we had, 
but voices grown now and imbued with power and strength, 
voices unafraid to speak out, to speak up, to be heard,
voices that can not, will not, be silenced, not this time.
And we are afraid, perhaps threatened,
full of dates and wars and rules, history 
and math and grammar, and we await a grade to save us,
some letter or number meaning little, forced now 
to confront our own ignorance, hanging on to what 
we have become, forgetting, and maybe a little unsure,
what to do, how to go on, letting go and letting them
take our place, moving forward in the changing times.