Letters to Kim

On March 23, 2012, my sister suffered a massive and devastating stroke. She is slowly waking up from a coma in Massachusetts General Hospital under the watchful care of incredibly dedicated medical folks and my good and loving brother-in-law, John, and nephew, Ben. I spent a week there, 4 nights of which I  stayed in her room in ICU. I wish I could do so much more.

I may start writing letters to my sister in this blog. Here's the first.

April 4, 2012

Dear Kim,

This morning the air in Portland is cool, nearly white like Pond’s Cold Cream. Remember the blue containers? There was something mesmerizing about gathering the cold on to your fingers in a swirling motion. It felt too light for face cream, too light for something you could see collecting on your fingertips. And the smell was spring but a contrast to the cold in the jar.

One time when I was staying a weekend in the office, where Dad lived when Mom and Dad were freshly divorced, after the fire at our house, I smeared Pond’s Cold Cream on the back of the toilet tank in the bathroom upstairs. It was cold on cold, and maybe that’s what I was trying to do: fit things together that made sense together. When Dad raged and asked me why I did it, I said, “I didn’t know. It felt good.” And those were both true statements. I was so confused when he punished me because, after all, I was telling the truth.

Truth is it’s hard to be here in Portland. Walking around, I’m more cold cream than flesh. This is my second day back, and it’s your day 12. On day 11 you left ICU, which is a really good thing. They were incredibly good with you, and in your single room, you had floor-to-ceiling windows. The light flooded your room, which is a really good thing for your circadian rhythms. The view from Lunder 624 was expansive. The gold dome of the Mass. capitol beamed. The streets of Beacon Hill sped away on a slight diagonal. At sunset I could watch the shadows cast on each floor of buildings on the east side of the streets and then tip up, recede. One of the things you’re missing, which is hard, is the blossoms. The delicate branches were reaching through all those brick buildings. Now that you’re on a new floor, I don’t know what the view is like or what your room sounds like. It’s harder not being able to see and hear and smell where you are.

Here’s what I said to you every morning:

--I love you, Kimmy.

--John and Ben are doing OK.

--John is a rock. When he comes in the room, he says, “Morning, Darlin’,” a little like John Wayne, but softer. He’s taking good care of himself and of you. John comes around 11 every morning and stays to about 6 every evening. He’ll be here soon.

--Ben has Maggie, who clearly loves him. They seem to be a good team. And as you know, Ben and John are an unflappable team. Ben comes for a few hours every day. He’ll be here around lunchtime.

--People are praying for you all over the world.

--Did anyone ever tell you you have beautiful ears? How did you get those ears?

--You have beautiful hands.

--You are the best sister ever.

--I am your favorite.

--You love Obama. Really.

--You’re doing great, and I can’t imagine what you’re going through, but keep fighting, Kim.

--You’re not alone. I’m right here.

The white sky this morning has pink and white blossoms reaching into it. It’s pretty cold here in Portland, about 38 degrees. We’re all ready for warm weather. Maybe next weekend, Easter. You may feel real air today if you get moved to the rehab facility. You love the outdoors, and for the moments you are transported from Mass General to Spaulding, I know you’ll feel the cool Boston air pass over your face, like something refreshing, like something that saturates your skin and feeds you.

I love you, Kimmy.

-Kate

for every writer (with iPads)

Here's a cool app that will help you construct the world of historical characters: Video Time Machine. Since the novel I'm writing now is set in two time frames, 1963 and 1951, and since I was 3 in 1963, I need help visualizing clothes, cars, houses, politics. This app allows me to select the year and then the news, sports, advertizing, and more. Wow, it is amazing. Just saying.

Revision

            Incantation for the Man Outside

In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up

and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed.

~Mark 1:35

There is no silence like the night by the train station

after trains leave, after moonset, after Venus moves

in an arc across the night to a spot blocked by Earth.

There is no silence like the brown bag, crumpled, supple,

drenched, the doorway filled with sack and trash, the way

the viewer’s eye reduces the weather-beaten man to drink.

There is no silence like the one in the tongue

where words wait for tooth and breath and nerve,

where threat floods the brain, knocking thought out.

What silence can there be for him when all sound is threat,

when outside is razor wind, when piss rims the nose, when inside

is forbidden, or inside the mind, a movie plays too loud?

The din stretches dawn to dusk. Pray.

The morning is still very dark. Pray.

Pray, make silence safe.

summit

It wasn't easy, but yesterday, in Mosier, I rode the loop from Dry Creek, down State Road to Mosier proper, east on Rt. 30 to The Dalles, right on Chenoweth Loop Road, right on 10th, right up State Road. The last 2.5 miles were 1800 feet up.(In the picture to the left you can see the summit sign.)  I didn't know my bike could stay upright when I was going so slowly: 3.6 miles an hour, but it did. I did. Slow and steady. No land speed records. Just perseverance.

Saw two sets of hawks dueling it out in the air, aeronautic acrobats, crying and diving.

gifts

This week at Bud Clark the table was nearly full. We had 7 around the table, the most to date. If laughter were people, the table was crowded. During the first long write, though, there were tears. One woman excused herself, took her journal, and left the room quietly. I followed her into the hall, and asked if she were OK, if I could do anything. She held her journal close, the other hand opening her apartment door down the hall, her sobs coming harder. She shook her head.

But she came back. When she came back, she came over to my side of the table and held her hand out with a little something in it. I extended my hand, and she put a book the size of my palm in my hand: Native American Wisdom. And in it was an inscription to me. Here was someone who has so little giving me something. I stopped the tears of gratitude before they rose up.

And it was the same woman who had a great line about the postcards. We write postcards to each writer after each session with very specific comments about their work that week. The postcards are really fun to write. And this week they mentioned them for the first time. The same woman said, "I wondered when I saw it, 'who the hell was writing me a postcard?' and then I realized, 'so cool!'" She was on a roll.

It was a wonderful, raucous, real session.

beautiful March day

Today will be session #4 of the group at Bud Clark Commons, and I know enough to expect nothing. I do hope, though, to see the writers from last week, and the week before. Session #3 of any group tends to turn a corner, and last week followed that pattern. Even though there was only one person from the week before. Even though there were only 3 people. It was sweet. We laughed. We were quiet. We talked about silence.

This evening with its 60+ degrees, with the full moon last night, with the daffodils and cherry blossom buds, who knows what stories or writers will emerge.

Silence (rough draft of a poem)

     Incantation for the Man Outside

 In the morning, while it was still very dark, he got up 

 and went out to a deserted place, and there he prayed. 

~Mark 1:35 

There is no silence like the night by the train station
after trains leave, after moonset, after Venus moves
in an arc across the night to a spot blocked by Earth.

There is no silence like the brown bag, wet, crumpled, worn,
the doorway filled with sack and trash, the way the eye
speaks so loud the man with weather-beaten skin cannot.

There is no silence like the one in the tongue, between fat taste buds
and epiglottis where words wait for tooth and breath and nerve,
where threat floods the brain, knocking thought out.

What silence can there be for him when all sound is threat, when outside
is razor wind, when smell rims the nose with citrus piss, when inside is
forbidden, or more daggers from a daddy’s hand, or food used cruelly?

The desert stretches dawn to dusk. Pray.
The morning is still very dark. Pray.
Pray, make a place for a silence that is safe.