Things that are planned are usually birthed in the Spring. I’ve noticed that extremely well organized people have babies always born in Spring. Well laid plans have never been my strong suit. Is it my Winter birth that forever follows me? Winter is the death of Spring perhaps? Maybe the death of something is truly the birth of another. Still it’s Spring, I know because I barely leave the couch in Winter and today there is a bounce, a purposeful vigor about my every step, as if I am showing up to my first day on the job. Today without knowing it, for better or worse the resurgence of a story has been birthed, one that has been writing itself in my sub conscious, finally to be resolved. I can see budding crocus outside my door, just the green tips poking through the recently thawed earth. The color of them a happy reminder of how powerfully perfect nature is. I love the crocus, and planting them, putting this blonde chestnut of hope deep into the ground, once you’ve forgotten them they appear again. I have forgotten what color I chose at the Nursery then my joy blooms double fold -they weren’t just limited to purple alone. The petals shine with white stripes, delicately painted upwards, undecided, against the rules, I like that. If I had time to check my calendar I’d see it was the last day in April.
On this day it wasn’t merely dirt the eager buds busted through; because so much happened to make the world so much bigger that day. So much beckoned to slow me down and tell me “take notice.” The very ground should’ve been worthy of new admiration, that place that started from many layers and earned the importance of being rich like earth not just soil that merely drops from one’s shoes. I was even cleaning up my appearance that day which deserves fanfare; stripping off the old shirt that smelled like me, too much of me, all stretched into a bigger pattern of my body, my own form- the shirt with it’s creases, stretched and mis-shapen was not enough protection and comfort for later events, it hung loosely about me, like my soul that day. I was racing, shoveling spoonfuls of frosted Mini Wheats, thankfully the last they’d been opened the packaged was tightly sealed, I smiled at that, baby steps I thought….the rice milk dripping down my chin. I was the classic under planner where time was concerned I always thought I had plenty.
On this day the birds chirped that much louder. Noise, I was always sensitive to. The sun wanted to shine, the air felt of desperation or so I thought, but the chirping was squawking and fighting, even the birds were quarreling , probably about why the sun couldn’t just shine today, just this once. April Showers……
And As I nervously twirled my hair and scooted across the street, flinging water spatters up the back of my jeans, I tried to avoid the eyes of the homeless men and women that dressed as men, dirty with their pretend gaze of hope, rattling a paper cup below their toothless smiles….I looked to the ground- not today I thought. Seconds later life teetered above me and the crushed metal and the sound of screeching rubber was all consuming, young handsome faces, were there three of them or were my eyes working properly? They must be working I feel their input, stares, mouthing words, “are you okay?” ” Can you hear me?” but the honesty and horror direct from there eyes deep into mine told the real story.
It was still up to me to stop hurrying. I never did. The ambulance slid around the corner sideways, as if the frost had glazed the pavement like a doughnut just about to be dipped in coffee, it all changed. The paper said speed was a factor-not ice. She was so eager to get to the 6th floor, to ride the old rickety elevator with the screen that pulled across and the carved metal and the clanking sounds that made you question whether to take the stairs today or risk not knowing. When it hit her, silence, the world shut down, every one stopped dead, like a trendy moment on you tube; frozen mannequins. The paramedics stepped out with stretchers and the beggars surrounded us too. What spilled forth from her blood on the street made them gasp and step back a moment. There she lay amidst the pavement, the smell of urine no longer a concern, her black velvet shoes pointed at the shopping carts filled with sleeping bags and remnants of attempts at life. They had front row seat to even more sadness, real sadness, hope never realized, a life once cradled in gentle caring hands, the ring leader of drunken vagrants pressed through the crowds that had assembled and peeled off his dirty overcoat, folding it to cushion her head from the hard wet pavement, as if she were a tender thing. When she bled onto the street words fell from her blood, leaked out of her, all over the pavement like the street were a blank TV screen with an early morning children’s program spilling the ABC’s. Words released themselves looking to be caught like silvery jumping fish avoiding a net. Visibly the words spilled as if straight from her veins, airplane, sandwich, heartbreak, guns, Morocco, Retriever, author, philanthropist; dreams dashed when it appeared from the look of her skin and the sheen of her blonde hair there was so much time still? Why an ambulance, why, why?! That was mere frosting on a bitter, bitter cake, why was she rushing to her therapists that day and not to her publisher?