Memory

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Happy Birthday, Neil

birthday soon
leaves begin their autumn dress
eager wind rushes to receive
only in dreams, summer remains
—Neil, 2021

As many of you know, my dear friend and fellow blogger, Neil Reid, left us last November. Today would have been his 78th birthday. In honor of his kind heart and beautiful writing, I’d like to share with you two poems that will be in our poetry collection coming out next spring. The first one I wrote in honor of Neil, and the second is a favorite poem of his. He had a way of stringing together many different ideas to make you understand a deep truth. The photo above is of his beloved dragon statue which made it’s way to me. It’s magical, like him.

I miss him so much.

If you have a favorite Neil memory, please share it. Or, if his writing is new to you, read more and let me know what you think.

farewell

you are my moose
four legs rooted in soil
stars dancing in dark pupils
sniffing for ripe plums
running from wolves

you hand me threads
wrapped around words
unraveling big pills
not wooden, real live boy
feet kissing earth

you turn toward light
living moss-covered verbs
bowls of ocean water
melt like sugar does
children need sunlight

you wanted Neverland
stories told under willows
hunger turned into warmth
forgetting ancient lost faces
harvest moon dancing

you call me mother
as in honey comb
solid tree branches
bend into dream blossoms
nests, fragile eggs

you remain soft bear
flowing tidal kindness
snuggling soft memories
chocolate cake, closed eyes
embrace salty breath

you return home
tail, fin, gills, scales
shyness turned into galaxies
unafraid of unknown shapes

love is a bucket
we keep filling
forever

—Bridgette

tell me words

when I can’t quite see you.   unclear.   obstructed.
cluttered by stray thought.   sound but no sight.
although more than an arm’s length away.   or,
maybe it’s just smoke.   fine bits of something
recently burnt.   a particulate suspended mass.

     describe smoke


when I called, you came to me.   only a few steps
measured away, but it meant you had to get up,
get out of bed.   something in the dark looked
awry.   my height marked in pencil, ascending
on the doorway jam.   yours by a calming hand.

     describe mother


she was always there.   more than anyone.   her.
feeder of stray cats, any cats.   hands that held
no threats, not to anyone.   a gingham dress.
always.   at least my always.   memory bigger
than me.   mother of mother.

     describe Janet


you come from out of the ground.   you come
from mountaintops.   you come from high and
grey and green and white and dark, clouds we
say.   one drop at a time still makes an ocean
to waiting watchful acolytes.   thirst.   we drink.

     describe water


 check mark all of the above.   a first beginning,
eagerly.   tell me all the stars.   tell me all the
worlds.   tell me about me and about you.   I’m
all ears.   I’ll bring the old cooking pot.

     describe everything

 
you come from the ground when I call.   you answer thirst.
you bake bread.   I comb your hair.   cat’s asleep on the bed.
you are rolling brown grass hills.   my hand knows the curves.
you are a bowl of soup.   you are inside when outside is rain.

     describe loving

—Neil

You’ll forever be my water, Neil. Happy Birthday.

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52 Photo Challenge: Week 51-A Thousand Words

“If a picture is worth a thousand words, then the imagination is worth a thousand pictures.” —J.E.B. Spredemann

This week’s assignment for the 52 photo challenge was to photograph something meaningful to you. As it’s Christmas Eve, I decided to share some decorations around my house that hold meaning for me and my family.

I hope you enjoy these photos and you have a wonderful holiday.

#1: Although this isn’t my grandma Kate’s tree, she had one just like it. You can’t turn it on for too long as the bulbs get nice and hot.

#2: My mother-in-law Janet made this ornament for our family.

#3: I’ve had this tree topper since my first Christmas away from home in 1995.

#4: My parents bought this ornment their first Christmas together.

#5: I’ve had this playset since before the kids were born and I have many fond memories of them playing with it under the tree.

#6: These are vintage and remind me of my children.

#7: Our Christmas cactus bloomed and it reminds me of my mother-in-law.

#8: My mother made this when she was a kid in school and although it’s broken and chipped, it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.

#9: I always put my kids in matching striped pajamas.

#10: This doily belonged to my grandma Pat and it’s draped over my grandma Kate’s chair. Both of them are with me.
  • Photos were taken with Olympus OM-D and edited with ON1 Photo RAW
  • If you want to join the 52 Photo Challenge, you can find all the information at nicolesy.com

52 Photo Challenge
Week 1: Bokeh
Week 2: Silhouette
Week 3: Black and White
Week 4: Motion Blur
Week 5: Texture
Week 6: Framing
Week 7: Leading Lines
Week 8: Negative Space
Week 9: Patterns
Week 10: Symmetry
Week 11: Green
Week 12: Sidelight
Week 13: Sense of Scale
Week 14: One Lens
Week 15: Series
Week 16: Flat Lay
Week 17: Behind the Scenes
Week 18: Water
Week 19: Blurry Foreground
Week 20: Unique Perspective
Week 21: Shadow
Week 22: Food
Week 23: Abstract
Week 24: Reflection
Week 25: Contrast Color
Week 26: Think in Threes
Week 27: Starburst
Week 28: Low Perspective
Week 29: Macro
Week 30: Backlight
Week 31: Big Sky
Week 32: Dominant Color
Week 33: Fill the Frame
Week 34: Spot Metering
Week 35: Handheld Long Exposure
Week 36: S Curve
Week 37: Shoot Through
Week 38: Faces
Week 39: Blossom
Week 40: Environmental Portrait
Week 41: Texture Overlay
Week 42: Details
Week 43: Season
Week 44: Fog & Steam
Week 45: Nighttime
Week 46: Analog
Week 47: Sunrise/Sunset
Week 48: Lens Flare
Week 49: Panorama
Week 50: Street

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poetry: candlelight

if you want to mold something out of beeswax you must first warm it in your hands. tuck fragrant squares between palms. make an oven.

when my kids’ hands were small, we’d combine our warmth. tiny cupped hands held tight in my tired ones. turn hard into soft.

on our first family vacation, the kids filled the backseat with a menagerie of figurines. six hours of fairies and flowers. snails and gnomes.

we carried them stuck on the tops of our suitcases into our hotel room. little waxy travelers. they covered chairs, the mini-fridge, our shoes.

what must the hotel staff thought of these lumpy things. these fairytale abstractions smelling of honey. our fragile childhood treasure.

i don’t know, but each time we returned the scenes were changed. as if they had come to life to play while we were away. magic creating magic.

those days have passed, but this candle brings it back. a bright amber thread i can light whenever I like. motherhood shining in the palm of my hand.

I can’t resist sharing some photos from that first family trip.

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poetry: wander

sometimes i let the neighbor cat 
inside to wander my things. tail
held high he weaves through rooms, king
of the castle, purring. today
he finds grandmother’s wood hope chest
with the carved letter K, for Kate. “what’s
this?” he asks rubbing against my
bare legs. “let me show you,” i say
lifting him from the lid. her smell
is gone, but her things remain, tucked
inside mine. old and older. dear
grandmother and granddaughter. here.
gently i pull out a dark blue
handkerchief, tracing the small K. “see?”
we walk into the backyard, cat
at my heels, and place it upon 
the bright flowers. she loves being
outside. sunlight warms my skin. twice.

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poetry: remember

4/30

time isn’t linear at all. broken
hearts know this truth. concentric
circles might be closer. i drive
into the rice fields to see myself
riding bareback, kicking up dirt
into the water. cranes take flight
scared by hoofbeats and hollering—
‘your eyes can be so cruel,
just as i can be so cruel.’ vultures
watch me traveltime, hissing
‘you don’t belong here anymore.’
i know. circling, i turn back.

More short poems:
1/30: not my cat
2/30: comfort
3/30: ache

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Poetry: The Man to See

he calls my daughter Annie Oakley
placing a BB gun in her small hands
“you got this, girllll” he croons
channeling his inner John Wayne

bravery shines in her blue eyes
as the line of empty cans fall
he tells her she can do anything

seeing man
the man to see

busy hands covered in silver rings
he builds a house in the backyard
a place for his daughter to play
he hangs a horseshoe over the door

I grow up within the wooden walls
dancing with my best friend
knowing he would protect us

tinker man
the man to see

you don’t leave his house
without a pocketful of treasure
a genuine rock from Mars
jewels and books and toys

each item has a tall tale
he’ll tell you if you listen
with a joke and a wink

storyteller man
the man to see

he taught me to fish at 10
with wrinkled moving hands
years later he taught my son
the same casting tricks

he loved my cooked beans
and always made me smile
I’ll forever be one of Earl’s girls

gentle man
the man to see

This poem is a tribute to my childhood best friend’s father who passed recently at 92. I was only a small part of his long life, but he left a big impact on me and my children.

We love you, Earl.

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Poetry: Grandma Kate

I was far too small 
to reach the dusty glass 
jars stacked on the wooden 
shelves of your garage. I’d
skate by wondering what orange

or yellow or green meant
and if you’d teach me
your secrets. I outgrew wanting
to know before your mind
forgot all the things—including 

me. It’s been 17 years 
since you left without meeting
your great-grandchildren and now
I wonder if my persimmon
jam would fit beside yours.

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The Car Wash

“Auntie,” he calls from the back seat.

I adjust the rearview mirror so I can see him smiling from his car seat in his striped footie pajamas. He turns the tiny gold key to my jewelry box over and over in his small hand. We spent all morning unlocking tiny doors around the house, letting out imaginary rabbits to rush around and find carrots in the carpet.

“The van is dirty,” he says.

We make eye contact in the mirror and he giggles. His bright blue eyes are hidden behind my pink sunglasses and he’s wearing a knit blue cap. I play along.

“Are you sure?” I say. “It looks clean to me.”

“Yes! It’s dirty!”

“Well…what do you think we should do?”

“Car wash!”

He says the words with a squeak at the end. His entire body jerks and the sunglasses fall off his face.

“You think so, huh?” I say.

“Yes! Car wash!”

“I don’t know…”

“Car wash! Car wash! Car wash!”

He knows I’m going to give in and I do. When he sees the yellow duck on the sign he claps his hands and kicks his legs. I put on our song, “Working at the Car Wash” by Rosvelt, and pull the shade back from the sunroof so we can see the bubbles all around us.

“Ready?” 

“Yes!”

I watch the joy and excitement on his squishy face as he stares at the green, blue and purple bubbles. We sing, dance, and giggle over the harsh sounds of the water and the fat colorful rollers slapping against the van.

It’s pure joy.

A ritual we’ve discovered together.

An auntie thing.

He turns three on Saturday and I live for these pockets of magic we uncover. 

Our shared treasure.

They feel big and important.

And fleeting.

My own children are teenagers, beautiful and complex. We are close and continue to create new memories, but I miss when they were small enough I didn’t have to share them with school or friends.

When they were mine.

I’ve discovered playing with my nephew allows me to slip back into memories of my own kids in a new and different way; to uncover the feelings and sensations of burying them in the sand, snuggling them at bedtime, and holding them when they’ve fallen. 

These little snapshots of my kids at his age come into focus with surprising intensity. It’s like remembering an old language I used to speak, slipping on an old sweater, or opening a tiny door.

It’s a wonderful and unexpected gift.

All the love.

All the silliness.

All the tears.

All the firsts.

This week my son got his first bank account and started his first job. As I drive him to work it occurs to me it’s the exact route I took to his preschool. The feelings swelling up are familiar too; another moment of letting go and another shifting of our relationship.

The sadness I expect to come, however, doesn’t.

It feels different.

When I pick up him at 10 p.m. he requests a Happy Meal and hopes he gets a Stitch toy. He talks animately about his job and the people he met. He laughs and we listen to “Pump up the Jam” at high volume and sing along.

My boy.

There you are.

The pandemic and his accidents robbed him of growth and some of the firsts he should have had. It put us in a strange place of adversaries, and we’ve both lost the comfortable way we’d always been together. The silly way we could look back and move forward; our own dance.

I’m remembering it.

I hope he is too.

We have a lifetime of firsts left.

First job uniform.