The Coming Storm

     "It's snowing."

    "Well, barely."

    "Yes, that's true, but there is the white stuff we call snow falling now, as we speak."

    "But, it is hardly snowing."

    "So, what would you call it?"

    "Flurries."

    "Semantics . . . the study of "the logical aspects of meaning" how meaning is interpreted. So, when I say it's snowing, and you correct me, and call it . . ."

    "Flurries!" he shouts triumphantly, "flurries, a more precise definition of what is actually happening. A flurry of snow, not a blizzard or a pelting.

    "But it is still snowing, a perfectly valid . . . and provable . . . description of what is happening as we argue about what is happening." 

    "Discuss...."

    "Which started as a simple observation, not a discussion. Nothing to discuss. Look out the window, and what do you see? The white stuff we call snow falling from the sky, which is usually described by the noun snowing."

    "There are degrees of snowing . . . "

    She nods, mutters something, goes back to her phone.

    "What?" he says.

    She shakes her head, says something under her breath that sounds like a complaint or curse . . . about what? Snow?

    "What?" he says again. "You really think this deserves to be called a snow storm?"

    She shakes her head, and holds up the phone. "Well, it is hardly a snow storm, just a normal snow, but it'll get worse. What is really worse is that Trump just said he's going to annex Greenland! Now that will be a storm!"

    He laughs. "I know you don't like him, but no need to make things up."

    "I don't have to," she says. "I don't have to, it says here . . . ."

    He is still laughing, clearing his throat with that definitive rumble he's perfected and says, as sarcastically as possible, "Well, don't worry about Greenland. I'm going to text him and point out that Canada is a lot closer. . . and much bigger! He'll love that idea--Canada, our 51st state!"

    "Don't even think it," she says, but it's already too late.

Vocabulary Lesson

     It was a luminous day, a day full of possibility, the sun radiant, the air clear--the gift of winter, her mother would proclaim on such a day, "Six above and the glory of the earth shineth."

   Sybil often called up her mother's voice, her mother's gift for pronouncements and proclamations, as if she were quoting a saint, a famous poet, the Bible. "Add an -eth to any word or phrase," Mama had told her, "and you immediately sound smart, learnéd, and widely read."

    Sybil did notice the emphasis on the final -ed in learnéd--another subtle lesson in how to appear smart and, yes, learned. She had absorbed those teachings without thinking much about them, and assumed that everybody's mother was diligently planting vocabulary in her children's unconscious to make them appear smarter than they were.

    Well, it had worked. Adam had visibly brightened when she proclaimed the day glorious, laughed appreciatively when he overheard her describe him as indefatigable. It was easy to embrace her mother's lexicon after that, to casually work anomaly into a conversation, to be loquacious without sinking into garrulousness, and to offer Adam strings of accolades in her practiced and carefully honed mellifluous voice.

    And now, as she walked down the aisle towards a glowing Adam, she realized she should have changed her name to Eve, but grace and the gift of her extensive research dismissed that thought as quickly as it had appeared. Sybil, the prophetess, Sybil, the oracle, was just what Adam, her earthy, well-grounded Adam, needed. It was, indeed, a luminescent day for them both.

Same Old

    "Did I ever tell you about the time I kissed Marilyn Monroe?"

    How do you answer a question like that, a repeated question like that? It is obvious that it never happened, that he was never in the same town or state as MM, that he was in junior high when she died, that it's another story, fable, construction, myth, part of the long, twisting fable of his life, the life, times, and, most certainly, the Adventures of T. K. Smith, the alias he adopted at the age of 12, on the cusp of teen agedness, the precipice of puberty, the entry into unfamiliar urges, desires, inclinations passions (still his favorite word).

    "Why T. K.?" I had asked innocently, before I knew what the power of a simple question ignited in him. "Why T. K. . . . and why 'Smith?' That's not your name."

    "Exactly!" he'd shouted. (Yes, shouted!) "The anonymity of Smith, and introduced by T. K. . . . thank! Think! Subtle, I know, but . . ."

    "So, you," I had said so long ago, as I tried to shift my snort to a tinkle of appreciation, "So you created yourself, your image, " I said, making it sound like a compliment, which he accepted with his characteristic grace, manifest as a quick bow, and that look in his eye of happiness, delight, pleasure, of simple joy which is there again to remind me again why I am still here with this eccentric old guy, who never kissed Marilyn Monroe or any other famous beauty.

    And, to his credit, today was the first time he'd mentioned Marilyn in years. Forgotten all about her, I'd assumed, but just as I shake my head at her resurrection, he takes my hand, "You're still better than Marilyn. Want more coffee?"

    I nod. What else to do? I nod, he gets the coffee, and we continue our long march to happily ever after.

Enough Said

     The old man sat still--two things he was good at, sitting and being still. Gifts of old age? Perhaps.

    But, if you asked him how he did it, how he maintained his serenity and calm, he would laugh, or, depending on the day, just nod, and say, "Practice. Practice."

    If you pressed the point, he'd explain that anything of value comes both as a gift and an intent, with a splash (one of his favorite words, splash) . . . with a splash of patience."

    So she tried it. 12 years old and curious, she was always asking questions, questions that annoyed some with her string of where's and when's followed with how's and whys, but she had her eyes open, that one, and took to sitting with the old man whenever she saw him on his porch.

    Which is where she was, where they both were, when the dog appeared, moving slowly, sniffing at grass, at the roots of the last elm on the boulevard, moving slowly, not in a hurry, just smelling his way down the block.

    "Smart dog," the old man said.

    "But slow," the girl said.

    "Well, they go together," the old man said.

    "Go together?" The girl liked questions and didn't mind raising her voice to show her skepticism (a word she had just learned) to the old man.

    "Slow tells you where you are, what you've seen or done--or, if you're a dog who sees the world with his nose, smelled. Look at him--he's exploring, not in a hurry."

    Which was true. The dog sniffed the length of the roots of the elm, the spotty grass and patches of dirt around the trunk, sniffed slowly and deliberately, then, lifted his leg, peed at the base of the tree, and hurried back the way it had come--job done.

    "Made his mark and moved on," the old man said. "Smart dog--left his mark and moved on."

    "Like a lesson?" the girl said.

    The old man nodded. "Guess so," he said.

    The girl stood up, grazed his hand with her fingers, left her mark, and the old man happy for the rest of the day.

Proof

         A starry morning. 

    It had been a clear night, stars everywhere she looked, even when she went outside and lay on her back in the grass. It was cool, but she had dressed for the stars, long underwear from Calvin (no, not that Calvin), corduroys, then wind pants, a sweater, jacket, hat, the full winter outfit.

    So, she was warm and had lain there all night, sleeping and waking to see if the stars were still there. It was an experiment, a test, to see if the earth really moved, rotated, spun.

    Well, yes, she had to admit that something changed, moved....but was it the earth? The stars themselves?

    She had argued the point with Mr. P so many years ago, 8th grade science, physics with astronomy thrown in. "Because that's where science began on this spinning earth," according to Mr. P. "The whole universe rotates!"

    How could he know? Mr. P. a young first-year teacher, but he was so sure, the way men are, that she decided to test it.

    And now it was morning, 7:12 according to her smarter-than-you watch, 7:12 a.m. and the stars were leaving, blinking out, one by one, saying goodbye, farewell, proving Mr. P. right, she supposed. The stars did move. Or the earth? Or....?

    

    Ah! The engine of the universe moved, rotated, always, continuously, right now, and she had seen it, proven it to herself, which is what mattered the most. No need to mention it to Calvin.....or to anyone...

The Researcher

"Brewer's Blackbird--now there's a bird!"

"Meaning?"

"Well, look at it, standing tall, looking ahead, into the future, alert, stalwart."

"So?" 

He was excited, ready to drone on about a bird he'd never seen or heard of, the Bird a Day on the damn (sorry) Audubon calendar she'd given him for Christmas. She wouldn't make that mistake again. Yesterday, the American flamingo? She'd never heard of American flamingos, thought flamingos were more exotic, more foreign, but there they were in all their pink, bird-a-day glory--and as the weekend birds, so, of course, he talked of nothing else for two mornings in a row.

At least the Brewer's Blackbird was alone on the page, singular, and, from the look of it, (yes, she was forced to look at it), shy and embarrassed by all all the attention and, no doubt,  portrayed larger than life in the picture.

Well, she knew from experience that he'd soon wind down if she limited her response to an occasional nod, even as he continued to drone on about the odd name, Brewers, now wondering if the Brewers Blackbird was connected to brewing, to brews, was a bird that liked beer, that preferred beer over water!? 

"Now there's a bird!" he said, for the second time., and, predictably, wondered if it preferred an IPA over a stout...or, he said, "Probably a plain lager is good enough, do they even have tongues, a sense of taste..." and he was off, launched on his daily, deep dive into Google.

Brewer's Blackbird

Tis the Season

 

"We 

should 

get a tree

put up a tree."

"A tree? Why?" "Tis  

the season....almost 

the season.""Oh, that 

kind of tree, where we go 

into the woods, probably illegally

 because we don't own any woods, cut 

down a tree, a living tree that we have killed, 

a tree that will never grow another half inch, never 

have a bird nesting in its welcoming branches, never 

know the feel of a scampering squirrel ascending its heights, 

never . . . ""Point made. We'll get an artificial one instead.""Artificial! 

You mean a plastic tree. Do you have any idea how plastic is already 

suffocating our oceans, and you want a plastic tree!""Okay. Point made.

 So, let's 

just draw

 a tree.

 

Get a

 long roll of

 paper, compostable

paper," J says in a slightly (only slightly) 

louder voice, but still enthusiastic and hopeful.

 "We can tape ornaments, recycled ornaments, make 

paper chains to encircle it, create our own tradition, a tradition 

that will make our children proud.""But we don't have children," L says."

I know. That was just a figure of speech. I should have said, "Make those who 

come after us proud." J takes a breath, then a second breath, waiting, anticipating, 

L's response...scorn? speculation? relief? at the absence of children and L. is still quiet, 

which 

is unusual 

after one of 

J's statements. 

L 

stands 

there, smiling,

saying nothing as if J 

has made an obvious error, as if 

L knows something J doesn't, standing 

there with her hands on her waist, cradling 

her stomach, which J notices, might have a slight 

protrusion. L is waiting patiently now, unusually quiet, 

not holding up her end of the conversation, but smiling and

 her hands still holding  her stomach...or should he say uterus? J

 blushes, even stutters, "Are we . . . are you. . .? L nods."I vote for the 

paper tree, 

to, as you

 said, to make 

them proud."

All

    The wind blew all morning. She heard it in the trees, heard it unfold the shingles on the roof of the house, dropping them—flap, flap, flap. She heard it against the screen, saw the lines of snow splattered on the window, heard it sweep across the yard, saw it leave a vertical stripe of snow on the trunk of every tree trunk. It was an overwhelming, invisible presence--nothing was spared.

    She stood at the window with her back to the fire and watched the wind, smiled and watched. She was seeing something, watching something invisible, something that nobody could see, but was there, oh yes, it was there. 

    O wind, a-blowing all day long, she sang. "O wind, that sings so loud a song!"

    This wind held the trees, moved the whole trunk, not just the crown, and picked up snow from the frozen lake so by the time the wind reached her at the window, it was a screeching wall of white, a yowling wind, reveling in its very breath, the visible breath of its existence.

    “I felt you push, I heard you call,/I could not see yourself at all..."

    He didn't move, never glanced up from the crossword, never noticed that cosmic forces were shrieking for his attention.

    “It's a message from Jupiter,” she said, “or Uranus, one of the distant, frozen planets where ice and wind are everything. Look at it--it's the all!”

    “Awl?” he said, without looking up. “AWL--a pointed tool....just what I needed!”

    The wind tore off a branch of the ash tree and slammed it against the window. She couldn’t have said it better herself.

© 2024 Kathleen Coskran (citation from The Wind by Robert Louis Stevenson)

The Promise

     There is always light. It was his mother's favorite statement, her daily observation, her proclamation, her promise. He knew that, remembered it, even smiled at how annoying that daily, cheerful sentence could be when disappointment, loss, rejection was pulling him into the abyss his spirit seemed to favor.

    Maybe she knew that about him, the woman who had known him the longest, and who, he would admit only to himself, loved him the most. He'd have to agree that sometimes there was light, light to show the way, to illumine the potential, the hope, the promise, etc., etc., etc....but always?

    He called her Pollyanna when he was 17 and had just learned that word, the designation, the criticism of the perennial optimist. He'd been upset about...about...well, something, and she had said in the bright voice she'd perfected, "Well, tomorrow is another day, and there is always...."

    He'd stalked out before she could finish, maybe even slammed a door, which was made worse by the peal of laughter that followed him, that she knew he would hear.

    Well, it turned out she was right. All these years later, long after the weekly calls, the seasonal visits, long after the monthly letter in her perfect Palmer Method hand, long after she'd turned out the light and gone to her last good night, it turned out she was right.

    It was that promise, her promise, her words, that drew him to the window each morning. Eighty years old, alone, with a knee he couldn't depend on, hearing gone to hell, but his mother's words drew him to the window just as the sun rose and every day, winter, spring, summer, fall, there was light, always light--a new day beginning, and he was grateful.

    There is always light.

Morning Ritual

"Who names the birds?" It was one of her perennial questions, and he was used to it now, 25 years into what was already a long marriage, long in the sense of enduring. You make it sound like a punishment, she had said more than once when he bragged (his word) about their years together.

The daily Audubon calendar inspired unusually frequent conversations about the proliferation of birds in the world.

"King Penguins today," she said with a familiar incredulity coating each word. "Not Queen Penguin, Empress Penguin, no, it's KING Penguin... apparently for both genders." 

Her ability to speak in capital letters always impressed him. How did she do it? Well, he'd never ask, but he did wonder.

She tore the page off the calendar and held it up to the light--four stately birds--flightless birds, she would point out if he called them birds--how can they be birds if they can't fly? It was a logical question, one with an answer no doubt, but he didn't have time to google it.

The penguins were beautiful, photographed against a startling blue sky, all four of them stately creatures with heads held high, looking as majestic, as royal as any head of state he'd ever seen (which, of course, was none, at least none in person, but that was beside the point as he considered his response).

"Penguins are a miracle of creation," he began.

"Yes?" the sceptic said.

"As are you, as, even, am I. All of us alive, breathing, walking, talking..."

"...on this miraculous planet..."

"...we call Earth," he said, just as the coffee was ready and the thump of the morning paper hit their door.

Trump's return to world stage jolts global climate talks

    "Poor penguins," they said in unison.