Eight Years Later

Eight Years Later

Leaving (2004) - Returning (2012)

So many things were wrenched away

I nearly died right then--

the light, the sky, the warmth of home

vanished in the night.

A deep dark void remained within--

the only thing not taken.

Darkness holding back my skin--

no heart, no lungs, no gut, no spleen.

And as the blind learn to hear

and the deaf to touch the world

I learned to feel within the dark

and how to breath again.

Now going back to sky and home

the most precious thing I take

is this gracious, spacious emptiness

within this guise of skin.

Twickenham

22 February 2012

Binders

A piece of lined American notebook paper

fits easily into a three-ring American binder.

But French binders have four rings

and French paper is three centimeters longer than the paper back home.

Back home

I counted my binders: thirty-nine

holding each one in my hands, weighing its worth

take or leave behind

packing only the essential

from five years of grad school

five years of work.

Thirty-nine,

clearly marked

three-ring binders.

Now

I carefully remove some papers

shuffle

rearrange

mix them up with something I’ve just found

printed on that longer paper

forming a new workshop out of the old.

Yet neither binder holds them well:

either four fragile new holes

hover around the worn edges of three holes

or little strips of paper

jut out below the bottom edge.

I have to unfit and refit so many things---

It’s all a jumble in my head

a quavering in my gut--

trying

to fit three-hole papers

into four-ring binders.

                                8 December 2008

                                Paris, France

Box of Binders

I looked upon my cluttered desk

despaired again once more

my life all fluff, nothing done

and now it’s time to go.

I laid the binders on the floor

began to make the piles

of trips and friends, events and fairs

of what I’d planned and done.

I filled each binder carefully

with names, brochures and notes.

Then side by side until all full

I laid them in a box.

I looked around the tidy room

bent down, picked up the case

and held it close, my ex-pat life,

finally noticing, now, its weight.

My Parisian Life

                                                                                              
 
                  My Parisian Life

                              

“We’re moving to Paris, mon amie,” he said.

So thinking of wine, soft lights and the Louvre,

I avoired my friends and boxed up my shoes.

But when I arrived a shock I did find

a sea of new faces—not one person I knew!

I needed some friends—even one would do

 but who would talk to me?  Or like me?

would Margie, Pamela or Sue?

My confidence plummeted—my face broke out, too.

And my clothes, oh my gosh,

in the bin they were tossed!

Yet how would I ever ever fit into size 2?

French classes began—all a big blur

of private and group and conversational, too.

Homework and practice were all required,

but who could concentrate on that when I needed new shoes?

So off I would go to buy shoes, scarves, some wine

never giving a thought to my books or the time.

Surprisingly, somehow, I finally made friends—

I had group--I was in. 

My children would ask me,

“Hey, Mom, what do you do?”

My immediate response, “I go clubbing.  I do.”

I go to art club and hiking club, book club and writing club.

On Wednesdays, however, we volunteer at the Louvre.

I do lunches with some friends, coffee with others

and in between we talk for hours.

I worry over what to wear,

why I’m here and not over there.

Half the time I don’t know who I am,

where I came from or where I’ll end.

I feel like a two-year-old though I cover my grey.

I fret “Can I learn this?” and “Will I know the way?”

In short, I tell them the honest truth--

I’m definitely, absolutely, back in High School, Round Two.

Twickenham

22 February 2012