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The drifter barely comes to spend the
night.
He sleeps beneath my porch
Making a bed in yesterday's leaves.
Life that turns indigo in darkened
earth
marks time with every step.
Today's tea is warm upon the stove.
Poured in cups with golden trim
The drifter refuses to be welcomed in.
Instead he comes to sleep
beneath my porch.
Finding life in yesterday's
leaves.
There are stories that we hear with our ears and
stories that are heard with our heart. Heart stories
linger and if they touch us deeply they become soul
makers, staying forever, influencing our inner stories.
The man, a traveler on his way to another place,
had come to spend the night. I spread the well-worn
sheets on the mattress of the guest room bed. It
was mid-winter and I added a flowered quilt for
warmth and the down pillow for comfort. I can't
remember his name anymore but I do recall his sad
brown eyes and I felt honored that he stayed long
enough to tell me his story
In the morning between the steaming cups of tea,
bowls of warm oatmeal and cinnamon toast, he spoke
of his mother. I remember his words, his voice,
the places where his eyes filled with tears. What
touched me most was that he shared his feelings
with me, a mere stranger.
He spoke softly, at first looking into his teacup
and midway through the story he found my eyes.
"She lived to be 78 years old. She grew sad
after my dad died. I believe she could have lived
longer if only she hadn't been so depressed. I hate
to think of her that way. She felt deprived of life
when he died and she did not live another year.
I hadn't seen her since dad's funeral. I lived so
far away. We talked on the phone, it wasn’t
enough. I could hear the longing in her voice; she
needed more to sustain her. Strong body hugs from
me, someone to carry in wood, kisses from dad. We
were the absent men in her life.
"I can't remember who called me. I guess it
was her doctor. "She died in her sleep, a blessing
really”, the doctor said. It wasn’t
a blessing to me. I didn't get a chance to say goodbye
or tell her that I loved her.
"I took the train to Mystic; it took all day.
I hardly remember the trip at all. I thought of
her, remembered her smile and how she hung sheets
on the line and stood on her toes to kiss my cheek.
When I was little she read me stories about animals
that roared and pirates that stole. On that train
ride I hid my face inside my coat. Alone in my self
made darkness, I let the tears roll down my face.
Grief just enveloped my body. I felt life as heavy
enough to drag me to the floor where I could drown
in my own tears.
"I was exhausted as I walked from the train
to Fife's funeral home at top of Taylor Hill. I
had meant to stop at my mom's house to wash my face,
sit for a bit, gather myself but the train was late.
The calling hours at the funeral
home were 7 - 9 and I thought I might be the only
visitor. I didn’t want her to be alone in
that coffin, the one I had ordered with the white
satin lining. I had hoped the pink roses would please
the part of her that had become an angel.
"Mr. Fife opened the door anticipating my
arrival. My coat, still up around my ears, hid my
swollen red eyes. Soft music played. Mr. Fife put
his arm around my shoulder and spoke gently into
my ear as he led me through the mourners to her
side. He had laid the roses next to her. They stood
out against the white satin and the paleness of
her dress. I could not decide if they clashed or
blended with the red makeup on her face. She did
not look like my mother. At first I thought that
he had made a mistake, taken me into the wrong room.
There was enough about her to let me know that yes,
it was her.
"Other visitors, strangers to me, were milling
around. I knelt by her, touched her hand. I did
not know what to pray. When my knees grew tired
I moved to a nearby chair to stare over at her and
to what Mr. Fife thought was a good job, whatever
that meant.
"She looks twenty years younger,
a woman whispered in my ear. I felt my face flush
with outrage. It hit me that my mother is dead and
in that moment a strange thought crossed my mind.
Perhaps old Mr. Fife had robbed my mother. She had
earned every line on her face; they were part of
her. Her sadness after dad died, her tears she spent
worrying about me. Her years of life, mapped out
on her face. Mr. Fife had blotted out twenty years
of my mother's life.
"What the hell! I flung off my coat, moved
closer to her casket. I looked closely, stared intently
and became filled with insane outrage.
"Fix her I said loudly. Fix my mother's face,
I demanded. It doesn’t even look like her,
Mr. Fife. Why did you do this to my mother? Mr.
Fife rushed over to hush me down. I know this
is a hard time for you son, just relax. Do you need
a glass of water or some time to yourself in another
room?
"No Mr. Fife I don't need water, or time out.
I need that makeup washed off my mother's face.
He frowned, shook his head and looked at me sternly.
Without the former softness in his voice, he now
spoke through his teeth.
"Do you have any idea how much time it
took to get her to look this good? They didn’t
find her for 18 hours. Listen, my boy, she is blue
under there…. You don't want that makeup washed
off, believe me son, you don't know what you're
saying.
"I want her wrinkles to show, Mr. Fife. There
is a way to make her look like her real age, isn't
there? Just do that.
"The room that had been filled with soft music
now became deadly silent. The all too proper mourners
stopped their whispers to look at me in what might
have seemed to someone who did not understand like
a moment of craziness.
"Mr. Fife cleared the room as my emotions
flooded me. Before he could stop me, I took the
handkerchief from my pocket, wiped her makeup and
kissed my mother goodbye. It was I, her son, who
closed the cover of her casket.
"The indignant Mr. Fife led me to the exit.
Without a word I heard the funeral home door bang
behind me. I walked alone in the dark down the unfamiliar
road.
"Mr. Fife never did understand what I was
trying to tell him. The wrinkles on my mother's
face were a reflection of the map of her life. I
wanted everyone to see where she had been. In the
end they didn't. All they saw was the shell of a
woman that looked twenty years younger and her grown
son going crazy over something they did not understand.
"Maybe seeing you stand up for her was important
to them. Perhaps through your eyes they saw who
she was and where she had been."
Without another word the man brushed tears on his
arm, washed the breakfast dishes, flung his backpack
over his shoulder and said goodbye. I never saw
him again but his story, stayed with my soul.
I think of him and his mother now and again as
I go about my life, collecting my own wrinkles on
this journey of growing old.
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