House

Last summer I decided to build a house in my head. To make the prospect of construction less daunting, I began with my living room where I expected to spend most of my time, and resolved that I'd create additional rooms only as needed. I started with walls, leaving holes for windows and views, and then I spread the ceiling over top while hot and malleable. Because you can't build a house mid-air I figured the floor was implied and left it at that. The front door turned out to be a big production because none that I could dream up fit quite right. In a moment of genius I announced a casting call and cast a strong, broad man to play the part.

I arranged in the room the things you might expect: a sofa, chairs, a coffee table, lamps and shelves. Since I've had so much first hand experience with these kinds of items in real life, my imagined versions were impressively life-like. You might be hard pressed to tell my furniture from the real thing. Decorating was the real fun. I hung paintings that I've always admired, as well as several works of art that I have plans to make one day. The place felt cozy and warm when I was through and I was pleased with myself.

At this point I was thinking of myself as a gifted architect, craftsman and interior decorator so I sat down, content, and I relaxed. But before I could exhale my home's first deep breath my door-man's heart began to beat loudly. No, there was someone on my porch, someone was knocking on his chest. I looked over at him with a nervous curiosity but he just stood there silent and stoic, keeping the inside from the outside and vice versa. After a few hesitations, I stood up and asked that he kindly step aside. He obeyed and revealed us to each other. Because you looked especially harmless standing in the threshold next to my hunky door I thought it alright to invite you in. You came right in and took a seat in one of my life-like wooden chairs. I looked around with the fresh perspective you brought as a house warming gift and I saw the complete picture of my house for the first time. Doing this made me feel extremely insecure and I was relieved when you seemed interested in my coffee table. "I made it myself," I said as I sat down across from you. "I know" you said, "It's very convincing."

We spent the rest of the afternoon not moving from our seats, playing with the objects I had strategically left out on the table in the hopeful anticipation of your visit. I couldn't feed you because I didn't have a kitchen so you left in the early evening. That night I started construction on the kitchen and drew out plans for a bedroom.

Quick Fix

And I just couldn’t stop hitting it, pounding into that damn aluminum fruit dish. I watched it melt and make knuckles show along its frame. My dimpled face warped in its reflection. Until my hand was cut up, bloody and swollen, as if stolen rubies spilled from my skin and became glittering, new. Now not this old hand I had always known but this bright forming baby hand. Fingers curled by instinct, gripping onto a finger while still in sleep. Things work themselves into my skin so I beat out as many of them as I can. And what’s so fantastic is that aluminum won’t crack or howl.

And you know all that punching? I thought of you always. But I can’t fix you if you fall. I know that now.

Lucille Sits in the Chair

Lucille Ford sits in the chair next to the fireplace all day, drifting in and out of consciousness. She is 96, and looking at her frail, shrunken body is a potent reminder that people were not meant to live that many years- bodies simply were not meant to persevere though that much time. Like walking through piles of raked leaves in a wet autumn, her decay is palpable. You can virtually see her bones fracture and collapse an infinitesimal bit each second. She shrinks further and further into herself.

Her day remains structured by the most essential functions of her survival. The times she eats, the times she voids her bowels, and times she takes her pills. She struggles to rise from the rocking chair to take the afternoon dose, easing herself back and forth to build the momentum it will take to heave her small body up and into the waiting embrace of her walker. Laura reaches over her to help. At five foot eight, a hundred and ten pounds, Laura towers over Lucille like a redwood.

“Mrs. Ford, I like your perfume” Laura tells her at top speaking volume. All conversations with Lucille must take place several decibels higher than what feels comfortable for polite, indoor conversation.

“Oh?” she responds. “I put some on mah knees this mornin’. But my smellers are not so good anymore, so I can’t tell if this smells nice or not. I brought it from home, and I remember when I got it, I thought to mahself ‘it’s a nice smell’ but I swear I haven’t smelled it since”

“Is it a lotion?” Laura asks

“Yes, it’s a body rub Jenny gave to me for mah birthday last fall.”

Her watery blue eyes look out, and then in, and then out again; glassy pools which overflow and spill out past her lids and onto her bony cheeks every few seconds. She keeps a handkerchief tucked into her sleeve, under her watch, to dab at the little rivulets of tears that continually stream down her face.

Laura sits next to Lucille at the dining room table over Thanksgiving dinner. Everyone has finished, but Lucille continues daintily fumbling spoonfuls of mashed potatoes into her mouth. She sets her spoon down and softly sighs. Laura touches her right hand and gently runs her fingers across the diamond ring on her right middle finger.

“You’re wearing the ring on the wrong hand AND the wrong finger” she shouts.

Lucille slowly gazes up from her plate into Laura’s eyes “Yeas, Ay know. It’s too big for mah left hand on any of the fingahs. But I won’t get it resized,… No,” She pats the top of Laura’s hand. “It won’t be much longah now.”