fall notes: roadtrip

You leave town later than you'd planned,
nearly 11 by the time you fill the gas tank
and point the car north.  But the day

is radiant, and entirely yours. 
Your daughters sing along
from the backseat; The Lumineers,

Modest Mouse, the Avett Bros. 
Familiar landmarks stand
a bit taller than usual
against the brilliant
blue of sky.  The highway

unfurls beneath your tires
in limitless possibility.
It is Sunday
and you've packed a lunch,
bathing suits, a camera.
An adventure is in order.


 

Picnic at the Lewis and Clark Caverns.

 

Dark skies on the way to Norris.

 

Weary traveller.

 

Waiting for the storm to pass at Norris Hot Springs. Nearby lightening cleared the pool.


Yes! Mom, the pool's open!

 

Recharged and perhaps fueled with a bit of junk food.

 

Dropping into Ennis for dinner.


The day's last light. And many miles still to go.


Sandhill Cranes above, wet highway below.

From your booth at the diner in Ennis, 

you watch the windows grow completely black.  

There are three small televisions 

on the walls, all showing the same football game.

The girls alternately cheer for Chicago,

then Pittsburg, amusing the quiet tables

of flyfisherman and cowboys.  You give them quarters

to ride the automatic horse, the little train

with seats for two.

It is after 8 when you drive back

onto the highway.

In the backseat, the girls nestle

beneath their blankets

and close their eyes.

The going is slow.  Heavy clouds

and rain, a nearly empty highway,

lousy windshield wipers, the possibility

of hormonal deer charging into

your headlights.  You squint, grip

the stearing wheel.  55 mph 

for the next two hours.  

Gillian Welch sings her sad

songs as the occasional

semi sends waves of rain

into your windshield.

You can hear the girls

breathing quietly from the backseat

and you remember how,

as a child you loved 

driving at night with your parents,

how safe and warm, and protected

you felt moving across black

landscapes long after bedtime.

You take a deep breath,

relax your grip

and put your trust 

in the miles of dark highway

ahead.

singing hallelujah

We roll into the empty parking lot, 

windows down, afternoon light all 

angled and golden.  In the backseat, the girls 

are "singing hallelujah for the first time," 

along with The Head and The Heart.  

It is the begining of the first weekend of the school year 

and so we come to the river.
 

Wading in, I try to memorize the feel 

of moving water against my legs 

even as the current crawls to a whisper.

I lean deep into 'lasts' this time of year.  

Maybe I shouldn't.  Maybe I should be 

someone who lives easily in the present, 

devouring the seconds and minutes 

as I move  through them.  

But the end of summer 

makes me nostalgic in ways I can't ignore.  

This could be my last river swim until next summer.

This could be the last week we sleep

with every window in the house

open.

This will be the last summer

my children look this small,

need me 

in this particular way.

I float on my back, 

feet pointed downriver the way 

you're supposed to.  

I watch and listen as the girls

play orphan cave sisters, 

gathering seaweed for the long

voyage to the north shore.

And for a second

I get a glimpse 

of the perfect completeness

of this moment, this perfect arc

of sunlit afternoon, of ending summer,

of my daughters; exactly as they are

today.

And I remember that this day is ours,

and so is the next, that the future is one 

enormous mystery to move through.

Lucky us.*

 

*My friend, Nici, wrote a blog post last spring that ends with these same two words.  Simple as they may be, I think about them often.  Lucky us.  Helps keep everything in perspective.

first grade

Dear Amelia,

You start first grade in a few hours.  You chose a backpack covered with different colored stars and asked me to put chicken noodle soup in your new thermos for lunch today.  Your clothes are laid out; brand new pink Mary Janes and a sparkly shirt.  For weeks you've been telling me that you're nervous about this new year, but last night as I tucked you into bed you looked into my eyes, tucked your fists under you chin and told me I'm so excited for first grade.

We have had such a good summer.  You learned to really swim and how to tie your shoes.  We camped, floated rivers, spent time on the lake with grandparents, welcomed lots of our family for a week here, a weekend there.  I will miss hearing you slowly thump down the stairs in the morning after the sunlight was woken you, wrapped in your blanket, your body still warm and heavy with sleep when I hug you and tell you Morning, Bird.  I will miss slowly easing into another warm summer day with you.

I know that I will think of you all day long.  I will try to picture you crossing the monkey bars at recess, or sitting beside your friends during lunch.  And I will wait for the big yellow bus to bring you home to me this afternoon.  I'll want to hear all about your first step into this new year.  

just before august ends

Today is another beautiful summer day.

Amelia and Aven change directly from nightgowns

into swimming suits and we pack the car effortlessly.

It is the end of summer and I don't even have to think 

about where towels or water bottles are.  Our days

have become streamlined; garden, river, campground, lake;

by the end of August I feel so graceful

in our happy summer orbit.  

In a week this all will shift into something else.

I am telling myself several different versions

of what this fall will look like.  I see myself running alone

puffs of breath made white by cold mornings,

I see myself in the campus library, 

my laptop and flourescent lights.  I see the yellow

school bus pulling up to our driveway as I watch

through a frosty windshield as my girl climbs

the steps and disappers. 

We've talked about changes

the last few days.  What it will feel

like to walk into new classrooms,

meet new teachers.  We talk about

being afraid 

to leap into the new.

I wake in the middle of the night

and feel this longing,

but I'm not sure 

for what.

There is something so lovely

and heartbreaking in this time

of year.

midsummer notes

i climb from bed 

to feel cold  morning air,

every window open and the sudden

summer shiver of bare feet 

on the wood floor.  I dress

quicky for my run,

flip on the car's heater 

as I drive the quiet early miles

to my favorite dirt road.

I pass two velvety looking bucks

their heads down, graceful in a sea

of alfalfa.

I run east, toward the smoky

outline of the Tobacco Root range,

not turning back until the sun

starts to rise, a thick vibrant pink

a color that says

I'm used to getting what I want.

I chase the retreat of purple shadows back

toward my car.   

Even here, 

just over a month past solstice

there are reminders everywhere:

a patch of yellow in the cottonwoods,

the river current crawling into lull, 

exposing roots and thirsty stones,

the perfect V of geese flying overhead,

Even now,

in the lush fullness of midsummer

there are reminders-

in the mountains of Montana

winter never feels

too

far away.

june dance

There's a place I love on the Birch Creek Rd where, after winding around a few small hills, the road rises and drops again, leaving you with the view of the entire north side of the Beaverhead Valley, the Tobacco Root Mountains, the Highlands.  It's breathtaking every time you see it.  The graceful blue transition of foothills to mountains, the velvet soft roll of hay fields.  This land doesn't often look soft.  But at the beginning of June it changes.  There is this surprising lushness on the desert, the smell of cottonwoods, and the impossible blue of sky.

Today, as you drove past this spot, you stopped.  

You left all the windows down, turned the radio up, 

and whooped to your girls to climb out and dance.  

"And we should consider every day lost 

on which we have not danced at least once."

 -Friedrich Nietzsche

for amelia bird

You walked out
of your kindergarten classroom
for the last time today.

This year has felt
impossibly long
and also
like the blink of an eye.

Being a parent stretches
your capacity for instant nostalgia,
for attempts to wrap
your arms and mind
around something that was here

just a second ago
and is now gone.
It bruises your heart

the way muscles bruise
when you push them
to run faster,
carry more and more
weight.
It is a good bruise
that means we are all becoming

who we are.

first day of school

When I left your classroom
on the first day
I made it as far as I could. 

I hurried past the other teary moms,
pushed through the school's front doors into the warm September morning. 
I bit my lips.  I looked at the sky,
watched my shoes. 

I made it to my car.  Before I cried.

I cried while I tried to imagine what you were doing. 
It felt so foreign to have to guess, to not simply know.
I drove slowly through our town.

Back and forth
on sunny streets.

And I let my heart break
over the wonder and pride
and utter loss
I felt
over your first day of school.

I finally parked
and wandered
into a basement thrift store.
As I walked slowly through the store
a woman I barely knew
smiled and asked me
how are you
just the way people do.

I had never before cried
on a stranger's shoulder.
All I could say was
it's my daughter's first day
of kindergarten before she
wrapped me in her arms
with an awe, honey.

I cried because I couldn't see your face.
I cried because how can this be right,
to send you far from me
each day?
I cried because what if your feelings were hurt,
or you were tired, or you needed me?

I cried because
I love you more
than anything.
I cried because I was afraid
you'd struggle

and maybe you'd fall.

But you flew, Bird.


Of course you did.