I went looking for the road to our house, but the road had moved, or at least been broken into bits, with each bit set at a different angle. I could not follow it. It was the road that turned east at Yellow Tavern and went up through the Slashes, past the river and the winding creeks, the family plots sinking into the marsh. Sometimes small bones would wash out onto the banks, but we left them there. They were our father’s father’s bones, we thought, or maybe Indians.
I do not know why I left the house. I had a cough, I remember. I was in the kitchen, hiding from my sister. It was November and I remember coughing. Then I was outside looking for the road, only it was summer and the thistles were sweeping up around my legs as I tried to move forward.
The house faced south – we could look across the valley for miles. But it was not there, only traces of the driveway, I thought. Did it burn? Was my family somewhere waiting for me?
The sun was setting and the shadows were so long; I could not see much distance ahead with the low sun in my eyes. I turned my ankle in the marsh but kept walking. I had nowhere else to go. I passed an old wooden fence and came to another brook – Stony Run? I climbed down the bank to try to get my bearing -- I have played here so many times – and saw a bone glistening in the shallows. This must be home.
Thursday
Marsh
I’ve hidden it in a place where it will be found, but not for some time. A few years, perhaps longer.
The landscape is being stripped and leveled all around where I live. Soon, the woods on the other side of the road will be replaced by houses. The corner and two other sites near me on Route 1 have been cleared for retail development. This is the way it is and has always been. I have no illusions about the purity of the land. This road was once a major artery between north and south; it has been bordered by farms and inns since the 17th century, more recently by barbeque stands and motels. But things wear down, are abandoned and removed, and the land returns for a while to its dissolute ways.
Still, some places are harder to tame, even with concrete and steel. They’ll figure out how to do this eventually, when it pays enough to try. In the meantime, I have hidden the doll for the little girl who knows where to find it.
The landscape is being stripped and leveled all around where I live. Soon, the woods on the other side of the road will be replaced by houses. The corner and two other sites near me on Route 1 have been cleared for retail development. This is the way it is and has always been. I have no illusions about the purity of the land. This road was once a major artery between north and south; it has been bordered by farms and inns since the 17th century, more recently by barbeque stands and motels. But things wear down, are abandoned and removed, and the land returns for a while to its dissolute ways.
Still, some places are harder to tame, even with concrete and steel. They’ll figure out how to do this eventually, when it pays enough to try. In the meantime, I have hidden the doll for the little girl who knows where to find it.
Manhattan, Fall
Dear Dad,
Do you miss the city?
You walked it all your life, and took me with you
through catacombs of schist and gneiss.
You showed me where the dead lie.
For what is this island
but the grave of those who came before
and lay down to make room for the new,
Lenape and Dutchman, free man and slave,
the immigrant and arriviste?
Like a coffin, lined by rivers.
I read about a woman who stood and
felt her husband’s body press against hers
in a rain of ash as the towers fell.
He was a fireman, a hero.
This was after you. You did not see this.
The dust settles, forms a new layer
on city fathers in famous churchyards and
long-lost slaves buried with their cowrie shells,
their babies tucked aside them.
I know there will be others.
A backhoe will find them and work will stop
for a day, a month. The potters field, the family plot –
it makes no difference.
The gap will close. New ghosts will join us.
Dear Dad, are you a ghost?
Do you walk the streets at night,
and scare late travelers and drunks against the wall?
Do you look for me?
Do you miss the city?
You walked it all your life, and took me with you
through catacombs of schist and gneiss.
You showed me where the dead lie.
For what is this island
but the grave of those who came before
and lay down to make room for the new,
Lenape and Dutchman, free man and slave,
the immigrant and arriviste?
Like a coffin, lined by rivers.
I read about a woman who stood and
felt her husband’s body press against hers
in a rain of ash as the towers fell.
He was a fireman, a hero.
This was after you. You did not see this.
The dust settles, forms a new layer
on city fathers in famous churchyards and
long-lost slaves buried with their cowrie shells,
their babies tucked aside them.
I know there will be others.
A backhoe will find them and work will stop
for a day, a month. The potters field, the family plot –
it makes no difference.
The gap will close. New ghosts will join us.
Dear Dad, are you a ghost?
Do you walk the streets at night,
and scare late travelers and drunks against the wall?
Do you look for me?
New York II
Two worlds: one above, one below.
No one imagines the 9/11 dead walking around under the wreckage or the pit that replaced it. Most of them were pulverized before the towers hit the ground. These men and women do not walk. They went into the air and across the harbor, lodged on windowsills and in the cracks between bricks. We breathed them in.
But the firemen who died a few weeks ago right next to them -- where did they go? They climbed a ghost tower and died in smoke and fumes, not from fire. They burned inside out.
The miners may still be walking, dead but walking, as well as those who tried to rescue them. But they walk on different paths, and may walk for a thousand years, tapping the wall, trying to make contact.
No one imagines the 9/11 dead walking around under the wreckage or the pit that replaced it. Most of them were pulverized before the towers hit the ground. These men and women do not walk. They went into the air and across the harbor, lodged on windowsills and in the cracks between bricks. We breathed them in.
But the firemen who died a few weeks ago right next to them -- where did they go? They climbed a ghost tower and died in smoke and fumes, not from fire. They burned inside out.
The miners may still be walking, dead but walking, as well as those who tried to rescue them. But they walk on different paths, and may walk for a thousand years, tapping the wall, trying to make contact.
Missing
I won’t hold a grudge – it was over so quickly. One minute I was at the wheel, making a turn; the next, I was dead. I went missing. The guy who hit me is fine. Hung over, of course, and waiting to see if the charge will be murder or manslaughter.
The thing is, the space, the place where it happened, couldn’t stop being itself simply because I died there. It was hard enough diverting traffic just to get the ambulance and cops to the site. Then the guys taking pictures of the skid marks and my brains splashed across the windshield. The city tapped its foot, trying to give me a decent amount of time, but it's Broad and Belvidere, for God’s sake. They can’t close the lane forever.
Forever. I died about 16 hours ago, and I have a long road ahead. Do I stay here and watch folks pass over that spot? It’s not the kind of place you leave a wreath. Just a few twisted pieces of metal.
The thing is, the space, the place where it happened, couldn’t stop being itself simply because I died there. It was hard enough diverting traffic just to get the ambulance and cops to the site. Then the guys taking pictures of the skid marks and my brains splashed across the windshield. The city tapped its foot, trying to give me a decent amount of time, but it's Broad and Belvidere, for God’s sake. They can’t close the lane forever.
Forever. I died about 16 hours ago, and I have a long road ahead. Do I stay here and watch folks pass over that spot? It’s not the kind of place you leave a wreath. Just a few twisted pieces of metal.
Frank
I buy my furniture at Diversity because their stuff comes with good ghosts, the kind of people with whom I feel some affinity.
Take the chair I bought a few weeks ago. An old office chair from the fifties, probably, not a boss’s chair but maybe something you’d have in the waiting area or perhaps around a conference table, one with enormous, multi-notched ashtrays. But it is handsome enough, with its fake burgundy leather and brass tacks. It’s not all that comfortable, but it was not meant to be, so I think it does its job.
And it came with Frank, an amiable guy with the usual worries – wife, kids, mortgage and so on. But he’s pretty upbeat – key to a salesman’s success – and he has a lot to be thankful for. The heart attack was just a blip on the screen and now he’s here with me, although sometimes he does wander off for a smoke.
Frank doesn’t notice the computer or the microwave. In fact, he couldn’t care less. He squirms sometimes; the meeting should have been over half an hour ago, but hey, it’s not like he has somewhere more important to be. It’s fine here.
Take the chair I bought a few weeks ago. An old office chair from the fifties, probably, not a boss’s chair but maybe something you’d have in the waiting area or perhaps around a conference table, one with enormous, multi-notched ashtrays. But it is handsome enough, with its fake burgundy leather and brass tacks. It’s not all that comfortable, but it was not meant to be, so I think it does its job.
And it came with Frank, an amiable guy with the usual worries – wife, kids, mortgage and so on. But he’s pretty upbeat – key to a salesman’s success – and he has a lot to be thankful for. The heart attack was just a blip on the screen and now he’s here with me, although sometimes he does wander off for a smoke.
Frank doesn’t notice the computer or the microwave. In fact, he couldn’t care less. He squirms sometimes; the meeting should have been over half an hour ago, but hey, it’s not like he has somewhere more important to be. It’s fine here.
French Hay II
How long does history last?
The Huguenots of Hanover County were still giving their children French names well into the twentieth century. I saw some of their graves today, next to an old plantation house up on blocks, dying slowly, with broken windows.
Should we mourn the plantation house? So many went through horrors to keep it warm, its larder stocked, its wood and silver polished.
What do we lose when we lose an old house? A woman stands at a second floor doorway, waiting to step into a missing wing, waiting to find out.
The Huguenots of Hanover County were still giving their children French names well into the twentieth century. I saw some of their graves today, next to an old plantation house up on blocks, dying slowly, with broken windows.
Should we mourn the plantation house? So many went through horrors to keep it warm, its larder stocked, its wood and silver polished.
What do we lose when we lose an old house? A woman stands at a second floor doorway, waiting to step into a missing wing, waiting to find out.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)