Honea Express

Archive for the ‘Melancholy’ Category

I’m fairly certain that children double in size on a daily basis. My theory is based upon new shoes that are too tight only an hour out of the box, cuffed pants that suddenly fear high waters, and shirts that decide to stop halfway between elbow and wrist without the common courtesy of listing REO Speedwagon tour dates across the back.

Of course another theory is that China is purposely making clothes that shrink as soon as they touch the sweat of freedom, but that would suggest capitalistic tendencies, of which Mike Tyson’s tattoo would not approve.  It would also suggest that American kids are actually breaking a sweat, but as far as I know there isn’t an app for that. However, it does explain why I no longer need a belt (I tend to sweat freely).

No, I blame the children. They’re growing faster than they should. Granted, it’s most likely due to milk hormones, but I also think there might be something to the old adage, time flies when you’re getting old as shit and you have young children. Pardon me, I paraphrased.

The point is, my little boys spend far too much of their time being big boys, and frankly, I’m against it.

That’s not to say that I want their growth, be it physical, mental or emotional, to be stunted. I just want them to pace themselves. Where’s the damn fire?

Each day, assuming I bother to stop and smell it, is full of rose-tinted milestones. Sure, it’s also full of a bunch of crap, but the moments are there, and I’m fully aware that it is only a matter of time, very little time, until they are not.

That’s the part about parenting that sucks.

It’s also what makes it so fucking glorious that life would pale without it.

They’re growing, and they’re finding themselves, and we’re pushing them, guiding them, holding the net, holding them back, and letting them fail, depending on the mood, on any given day.  You know what I’m talking about.

They say that the body grows while it is sleeping. I’m not a scientist. Hell, I didn’t even stay at a Holiday Inn last night. I’m of no authority to dispute such claims.

But I know what I’ve seen.

For all this talk of growth, time and the fleetingness of it, there are those wee small hours, aptly named, where darkness and silence work in perfect unison with a late glass of water or the lingering echo of movie monsters, and for a moment, one precious moment when you stir from a dream-soaked sleep, children shrink.

They appear at the foot of the bed, hair disheveled, cartoon-covered pajamas taut with the tininess of their stature, and their voice a whisper soft and wanting. They know nothing but need and trust, and there was never any doubt of whom to turn to.

Maybe it’s the abrupt awakening and the adrenaline that accompanies it, or perhaps there is something between the strength of a hairy back and the phases of the moon, but standing there in the still of the night with a bundle of love wrapped tightly around you, they will never feel more light. And nothing will ever be more clear.

You could dance together in small, slow steps somewhere along the hallway, just shadows, breaths and lullabies. No one would ever know, but for you and fading starlight.

My mind wanders through alliterated fields of frost-covered firs. The cat has on her winter coat and she is silently stalking sunshine between the strikingly shrinking shadows of suddenly stark trees. Not the firs, they are evergreen.

The lingering lines left by sun-soaked lumber lean and bend across a sea of long-lost leaves.  Mostly, cherry and maple. I pine for an oak.

I hide behind routine and repetition.

It is a sunny day forgotten by clouds and heavy rain. It should spark something inside of me. I should rise to seize it.  Yet I am weighed down by unknown troubles and those I know all too well.  One day a friend, the next day family, and before them more of the same fighting the cancers inside.  The future holds more fights and harder fists.

Also: The future ebbs and flows on the ballots of ignorance.

And: The future is all we have. We are reckless with our right to squander it.

The process is always and ongoing. It matters more than anything, and it matters very little.

Very little, indeed.

I am graced by the laughter of little boys and the life that they rush into.  I fear to tread, and I am more the fool because of it.

Troubles come and troubles grow, between them breathe the blossoms. Piles are raked of memories, and moving on, and those we could not hold on to.  They are best left for little boys with needs for things to jump in. These are the leaves that fall from my tree, reaching up to meet the downward.

The cat yawns. My branches are bare and beautiful.

There are two cats in the room. One is white. One is black. I’m told that some website with a cheeseburger fetish has a name for them, something about a basement, a ceiling, heaven and hell. It sounds fairly racist to me. The cats are sleeping on a green rug. I feel a sudden urge to play a game of Othello. I resist it. The cats are locked in a heated battle of who could care less. We are all winners.

Through the kitchen, down the steps and into the living room there are two boys turning on a carousel. One moment they tug at war, the next gives peace a chance. It’s up and down and round and round and the echo of their laughter blends with the screams that lead and follow.

The youngest has a cough. Every hack heightens my senses. Every bark burns in my chest. He ignores the symptoms. They are an inconvenience. I feel a tickle in my throat and prepare for the worst.

The oldest is talking about his namesake, the middle one. John Lennon turns 70 tomorrow, or would have, and I tell him to imagine it. To give peace a chance. He tells me that his school had a lockdown drill today and they had to place their faces on the floor and wait there quietly. I try to imagine it.

The other night my wife woke me up sometime after midnight. There were bears on our street, a mother and two cubs. I could see them in the neighbor’s trash. I shone a flashlight on them and we looked into each other but for the darkness around us. I found it unnerving. No doubt they found it annoying.

It is Friday, late afternoon, and my work is not done. There are talks of dinner and shows we recorded after school night bedtimes. There are deadlines unmet and a dog that desperately needs a bath. The lawn could use a good mowing. People I know are losing loved ones. Children in schools are being shot. I have scripts to read and meetings come Monday. It is Friday, late afternoon, and I am sitting here still while the world spins madly on.

__________________________________

And this brought a tear to my eye.

Cheese and wine are fairly good company.  We all improve with age and someday we will all be consumed.  Two of us by the other.  One by worms or hellfire.  It depends on who you ask.

This birthday started like most do, with somebody puking.  However, it was the wrong midnight and things were only technically so and not yet recognized by the committees and panels that decide such things. No gifts had been exchanged. That didn’t stop him from appearing in the hallway with a day’s worth of gruel caked to his hair, an ear full of corn and a body coated in shades of dinner.  His trail read like Hansel on a bender. We followed it carefully.

He was the second son in a matter of days to spend his night reliving that which was once glorious. Neither found the sequel to be nearly as appealing.

The first one woke in the wee hours with the cutting cries — the cries that cut through the stereo, TV, what passes for conversation and what’s left of the night, only to make your heart stop even as your feet start and you run through walls (not around them) getting to your child at the exact same moment that the scream began. He woke like that and he was covered with five pies worth of used blueberries.

The women in the audience screamed. Bossman Bob Cormier take one look at Bill Travis and barfed on Principal Wiggins. Principal Wiggins barfed on the lumberjack that was sitting next to him. Mayor Grundy barfed on his wife’s tits. But when the smell hit the crowd, that’s when Lardass’ plan really started to work. Girlfriends barfed on boyfriends. Kids barfed on their parents. A fat lady barfed in her purse. The Donnelly-twins barfed on each other. And the women’s auxiliary barfed all over the Benevolent Order of Antelopes. And Lardass just sat back and enjoyed what he created. A complete and total Barf-A-Rama.

That’s pretty much how it happened.

And then he was better and life went on and we healed and we lived and we fell down a rabbit hole, and then the other one was standing in the corner covered in tears and culinary memories. Everything is circular.

It’s been sunny since January.  Today it is snowing lightly.  The clouds are grey and slightly heavy and they catch on trees as they roll down the mountain.  It is a temporary melancholy.  A remembrance of what has passed.  It does not cut with cries or stand silently in the corner, but it too has come back from places we’ve long forgotten.  It too will be consumed.

Birthdays are like that — reminders of what once was glorious, a tease of what may be; a temporary slice of melancholy with candles lit upon it.  In between we heal and we live and we pour the wine more freely.  We hope it will all stay down.

The snow is a nice touch.

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Quote from Stand By Me

It is winter. It falls. It is not yet spring.

Twilight dances from dawn to dusk. It is morning. It is evening. It is mid-afternoon.

There is sunshine on my window. There is a lamp shining softly through and out of the day. It was raining. It will rain again. It may be raining now.

There is coffee in a mug to the left of me. It is always there from the moment I rise until the moment I sleep. Sometimes it tastes like whiskey.

There is something of soul and strings on the stereo and it drives me to work and to play and to sit and do nothing but stare at clouds caressing the mountain.

These words fall like so many other melancholy ramblings that have come before them, but they are deeper than that. They are the edge of my contentment and the threat of pending comfort. They are fresh water over old grounds and a cup that never empties.

It is a safe place within these walls. There is love, peace and lingering laughter. There is warmth and a view and a fire always burning. It feels very much like a thing called home.