From The Book Of Alchemy

Today’s topic was written by a surfer. He described sitting on the board, reading the water, and feeling the wind. He said that when he is in or out beyond the breaks, he waits and remembers. Little memories. Parcels and pebbles of moments. Today, we are invited to sit in the breaks and remember.

I remember exploring the junk yard with Peter. Walking a ridge of bent metal and dirt. Of a chute carved in the garbage and Peter wanting me to jump through it. And his ebullient pride when I did.

Smashing snow and ice drifts bridging glacial runoffs in the fields above the treeline in the Swiss Alps. Just what felt like hours of chipping away old winter snow and so it could tumble in the water and turn gray. And then translucent. And then surrender into water.

Painting carousel horses in the winter. Listening to 80’s rock on a staticky radio in the Lake Accotink workshop and mixing colors. Picking out the beading on the horse’s bridle and saddle. Making up stories about each antique horse that I covered in coats of paint. Living in the musical silence. Being invisible in my herd and the c[r]ool boys unable to find me.

Sitting in Mermaid Rock in Hintersee, Germany. My father struts through the woods and we are all hiding. I’m not hiding. I’m watching the wind skitter over the lake’s surface. I’m staring at the chair sized rock fifteen feet from me. It has a grassy saddle. A spray of daisies. It is where the lonely mermaid slips from the water and combs her hair.

Hiking and bouldering in the gushing creek with Peter. Wolf spiders stretched across the rocks and Peter knocks them off. The spiders cartwheel over and off the water. I’m going to die. Spiders are Jesus and can walk on water.

The same exploration trip with Peter. We plunged into the water. With no path, we blazed our own route, forging through the water. Climbing over slick boulders. Dismissing the easy path to ford our own. Water washed away our footprints. But I still remember the cold sluicing against my thighs.

Disney trips with my daughter. Fishing with my father. Paddling through the mists with Dad to fish for sugar trout out by the crab pots. The spumey spray when a dolphin slips its head over the water’s edge. My mother making thread x’s. Cross-stitching a dragon for me. My oldest child sprawled on the floor, grinning at the girl beside them. They are Hamlet. They are Laertes and Ophelia. They are the dead king demanding revenge. They are chasing dreams and vaulting over obstacles.

Classrooms on the last day of school. Fibrous with dust clumps and bits of paper. The vibrations of departing busses making the windows shudder. My bones sagging. I gave my all. It was enough. Maybe? God I’m going to miss most of them. And those I wouldn’t have still changed me.

My brother’s final days. In a quiet room with a view of the mountains. A baby blue blanket covering his thin body. I keep silently telling him that I love him. That I will always love him.

Kissing him goodbye. Twice. On. The top of his head. His closely cropped hair prickles my lips. He is asleep. I must leave or I will never let him go. Staring forward as my beloved drives out of the neighborhood. And then my pink bandana shadows my face.

Writing. The callous on my right ring finger. Ink in my thumb’s whorls. Syllables and phonemes stretched across the shells of my ears. I hear words when I sleep. When I breathe. In my heartbeat’s quiet rhythm.