Raking (revised)

Raking

Soon, the neighborhood boys will knock
on my door, ask if today is the day.
For three weeks now, I've put them off,
ignored their knocks, hidden
behind doors so they couldn't see me,

held my breath so even I would stop
believing I existed. Because they wish
to rake my leaves, earn some money,
speak the way excited children do
when someone takes a chance on them,

make my world a bit tidier, I cower? Perhaps
because their eyes belie the facade, my own
cannot rise to meet theirs, to see yesterday
looking back at me, to stare into memory
until she becomes incarnate in her plaid

shirt and worn jeans, and her reluctance
to go home will surround me like the fine
webs which clung to her face as she bedded
down in the leaf piles, no mother calling
her in for dinner from the chilled house.

So, they frighten me, these boys, for all
they are or could be or may possess.
But today I'll answer. I'll go to the potting
shed and dig out two rakes and the leaf
bags from last year. I'll give them an hour

or so of good raking time before I start
the milk for some hot cocoa, watch them
through the back window, allow myself
to disappear into the shadows of a childhood
never fully realized and only partially true.

The Art of Filling In The Hours

The Art Of Filling In The Hours

They would come out of the dryer
wrinkle-free, their blossoms and stripes

asking to be tended. My grandmother took
them from the heat, and gently placed

her loving hands into corners as she taught
me the nuances of sheet-folding--this a message

of certitude in the midst of the storm. I watched
those hands work their magic, those same

loving hands that patted my back when pain
would find me seeking my own refuge and she

would whisper, "There, there now, little
one. It will be alright." She taught me the nuances

of how it was done, this folding of linens, this
unselfish extension of time. I tried to do

what she showed me tonight, folding the gold
800 count Egyptian sheets, but I was all thumbs

and failed miserably in my attempt. Maybe
the trick only works on 200 count Sears

or JC Penney's sheets. Of course, I make
the numbers up. Based on conversations

and memories. I guess it all counts, no matter
the type of fiber, no matter the number of years

that have passed since she and I stood there
by her dryer in the late afternoon light, the smell

of clean linens and roast in the oven. I think
of her this night as I try once more to get a firm

grasp on what matters, whether it be the thread
count or the methodology of folding. I revel

in the message that reveals itself: there is a way,
and there are many ways, and that's what speaks

to me tonight, awake and alone, trying to make
sense out of the things I do to fill in the sleepless hours.

Sunday in Macon (revised)

Sunday in Macon

My mother, nearly blind
from cataracts, follows me
through the courtyard. The pool
is covered in its winter black tarp.

Though I assume she cannot see
this closure of a season, she finds
a reason to remark: "How many
little feet must have trod this path

all summer." And I think, "People
see what they want to see even when
they cannot see." But I only follow
her comment with some helpful

advice. This way, Mom. Step up
here, turn right there, the coffee's
over here, the doughnuts are old,
the milk outdated at the Deluxe Buffett.

And she just follows me, listens to my
advice like I'm a sage or a saint. Gives
herself in her stockinged feet to my
every suggestion. I even tell her

which container is the strawberry
jelly, which button is caffeinated coffee,
which chair is clear of crumbs
and relatively safe to sit in. I almost

unwrap the jelly and start spreading
it on her toast before the oddity of this new
role halts my hand as quickly as a hand-
smack for disobeying, whose phantom sting
haunts the skin's surface long after childhood ends.