Absolution
When will we get there? I’d say
as my parents’ gray Chrysler rolled
over loose stones and weeds in the endless
dirt road that served as driveway. Dust flying
up. Windows open to the melancholy smell
of oranges fallen under trees—sweetness
sinking back into the soil. Those deep, green
shadows my own private Eden. Finally,
the pomegranate tree coming into view,
and their chicken coop—
In the photograph taken on the farmhouse
steps, I gaze at my father’s camera, lean
against my grandfather in his worn overalls—
my hand resting on his knee. I seem to edge
away from my grandmother in the ironed
dress she wears for special occasions.
That tight line of hurt on her lips.
There was the reel of family movies turned
to ash in the Oakland firestorm. Before it
burned, I’d watch myself. Six. Seven. Eight
years old. My skinny shape close
to my grandfather’s wiry frame. Sidled
away from the soft bulk of my mother’s
mother. Me. The eagerly-awaited first
grandchild, whose large, dark eyes,
whose middle name, came from her.
Before my nightly bath, I’d linger
in the porch swing listening to the crickets,
their insistent hum like some thought
you can’t stop thinking—the satin feel
of evening air on my skin, a balm.
.
Shadows Thrown
In his death, my father meanders
among the Rose Garden’s stone terraces in the Berkeley Hills—
…………….that vast amphitheater of wind and shifting light.
He stops, shades his eyes, squints at the Bay
and at the City beyond, its towers of steel and concrete,
…………….its windows that glint in the lowering sun.
…………………..(I once floated rose petals
…………………..down Strawberry Creek while
…………………..he played tennis—set after set.)
He prayed he’d fall dead in old age after
acing a serve, his racquet clattering—
…………….although it didn’t happen that way.
He glides by the courts, now, oblivious
to the cyclone fences and nylon nets.
…………….He gazes instead at the shadows
thrown by roses onto the gravel paths,
or he slips into the small waterfall
…………….where Strawberry Creek spills from
a ledge into a bowl of moss-covered rock. Other times,
he peers up at the living sky, hears traces of bright
…………….laughter from the throat of his child, and quietly
enters the fog that drifts up the hill from the sea,
dissolving in a saline mist that begins to taste of him—
…………….barely recalling the scent of grief.
© Laura Ann Reed
Laura Ann Reed taught modern dance and ballet at the University of California, Berkeley prior to working in the capacity of leadership development trainer at the San Francisco headquarters of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. Her work has been widely anthologized and published in literary journals. Her chapbook, Shadows Thrown, is slated for publication by Sungold Editions. A San Francisco Bay Area native, Laura resides with her husband in western Washington.
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