Monthly Theme

While my oldest daughter was growing up we attended Little People of America functions, though only one person in our family was short. We went to city and regional gatherings in Portland and Seattle, and made a vacation of the annual convention.

At this low altitude, there’s still phone reception. With an awkward lurch, the Cessna plane, scarcely bigger than my 2008 Toyota, begins a wild dance in the enveloping tropical fog. Gripping my phone tight, I concentrate on my text exchange. I must distract myself from what I cannot control.

The afternoon following your miscarriage, you’ll resent the book on your nightstand. You lie in bed in your colonial-style house on the Chesapeake, the bay windows opening to the wide expanse of water. The vastness always evoked a sense of possibility, but you don’t see that now. You only see broken promises.

There’s a moment sometimes when you’re trying to make a choice, the safe choice, you think, the right choice. But what you do instead is somehow put yourself—and your sleeping baby—in some crazy, unlikely danger. You don’t even realize this until the danger is upon you, sneaking up on fleet little feet and then announcing its presence. After, you think, if you can still think about it, “But it was so obvious. How did I not see that coming?”

What was her name? I remembered her face. Clear blue eyes, blond hair cropped above her shoulders, that toothy smile. I couldn’t help but return that smile. Sitting at my computer, I tried all the keywords I could think of but could find only her supervisor who worked in the same museum, the man who had joined us on that expedition south. Her name was gone. Only the image of that broad smile remained in my mind.

I walk into a bar to meet some friends and you’re sitting at a table with some work colleagues. You see me before I spot you, but when I do, the spark of recognition warms me to my core. You rise like the sun and walk toward me, your blue eyes scanning my face. “Darlin,” you whisper, “it’s so good to see you.” We embrace, holding on a beat longer than a casual hug. After we separate, we stay close enough to kiss, but we don’t, we can’t. Kissing is outside the boundary you set years ago, in another bar, on another night.

PUP TENT:  A-frame, two persons, flap door with ties, 1974.

First, my memory, not Dad's.  When I was almost five and my brother was a newborn, we had an army-green canvas tent, a hollow wedge with low sloping sides that felt safe and cozy. 

After checking in with the receptionist at the HR front desk, a glance at the waiting area—consisting of four pleather arm chairs the color of weak coffee, one mini loveseat (a tight fit for two grown adults) and two swivel-back-office chairs situated at computer drop-down terminals—tells me that every place to sit is already occupied.

Head bowed, pen in hand, I sit in my sundrenched office, pondering a young staff member’s 2001 performance review. How to suggest a change of attitude in a constructive way?  That’s what I’m thinking about when the phone interrupts. I’m not prepared for a life-changing call.