Monday, April 29, 2013

movement


What is there left to say to you, my dears,
what is there left for me?

What words are left to me? Which ones haven't been stolen, scrapped together and shoved at you?

What haven't you seen? 
By now, what haven't you heard?

Nothing, I'm afraid. I'm afraid you've all been so oversaturated with Boston, so goddamn sick of Boston, and here I am, worrying over a sore spot like a dog with a bone.

But here I am. In Boston. Moving forward, moving in general, putting one foot in front of the other. There is healing in the broken land. There will be more.

****



I had visitors after the lockdown. The day after. Out-of-towners off to see the city, my city, and they cheerily headed into town, onto the T, past the sights,  and they were so normal. So unbelievably, casually normal.  I couldn't believe it. I couldn't grasp that outside of my city limits there was normalcy to be had. I felt strained, stretched too tight. Everything was in boxes. I had no groceries to feed them because of the lockdown. I had spent the entire previous day glued to the news, watching my friends and co-workers get evacuated, seeing SWAT teams on their roofs, watching the city watch in disbelief. And 24 hours later, the tourists still came to see and marvel. And why shouldn't they? Life moves on, no? 

And it does. And I move on. But that day, that visit, it hurt to fake it. And I wondered about the Boston they were seeing as they moved through the city. I wondered what I would've seen differently, where I would have seen the healing and the hurt and the paranoia where they simply saw streets and buildings and passerbys.
I wonder if I would've seen nothing at all. 



****
 


We moved the weekend before the marathon. My first day commuting to the office from the new house was Marathon Monday. By right, the house should've been too new, too foreign to provide any comfort when I finally made it out of the city--my instinctual home should've still been my quirky 1950's rancher in the suburbs, not a cold, boxed-filled house across from, of all things, a goddamn cemetery.

But that house works magic, I swear to you. It is old, a 1920's house with old bones and a new face, and I swear there is magic, or there is something in the trees, or the water out back, or else it's just the serene, unbelievable quiet that comes from living across from a literal final resting place. The sun slants through the trees--real trees, woods, even; the sun catches the water of the pond out back, and there are birds and grass and turkeys and deer and everything, I think, a human being needs to heal.

A turkey was courting a female out front in our yard. The water sparkled. The trees moved. The house was brighter than any four-walled roofed structure had a right to be. And I realized many things, I think: that we had chosen the right house; that I never again wanted to live without trees surrounding me, and that it amazed me I had gone seven years without it; and that we would be okay. Okay tomorrow, okay the weeks after, okay in general. We'd be okay. And, largely, we are okay. Better, I think.
****


Macabre, perhaps, but it seems fitting that our immediate neighbors are both a cemetery and a garden center. Across the street there are thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of corpses, and the living come to grieve, solemnly plodding down our street in funeral processions with flashers on and tissues out. We deal with death every day here, indirectly, yes, but we face it--quite literally, in fact--every time we look out the front door.

And then next door there is life, so much life, with bright-colored flowers bursting out of their pots, herbs straining to reach the sun, plants heavy with blossoms and new limbs. There are children playing in the garden and women talking over vegetables and husbands leaving with flowers to bring home to their brides. And amidst this display of both life and death, we have the turkeys picking the crickets from the graves, the fish eating the gnats on the water, the plants stealing sun from the sky to feed the insects to feed the birds to feed the hawks; and we have the dogs and the sky and the water and the lush, green grass; and in the center we have us, the starry-eyed lovers in the middle of it all, moving forward, moving on.



5 comments:

  1. God I love your words. I don't even know what else to say. I'm just... moved.

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  2. Awww LOVELY that you've found your spot in the trees, so happy for you. The light looks awesome there. Or maybe the house found you. Or the trees and animals drew you in .... oo, or the spirits from Cemetary! Okay, calming down. Loved your tale of visitors, you write so emotively. I feel you lady. Also glad to hear Boston's healing. I've a soft spot for Boston that comes entirely from reading your posts, so give it some love from me!

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  3. Why does it feel like it just happened yet also feels like a lifetime ago? Feeling for Boston, feeling for you.

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  4. <3

    I have no words to offer, just lame emoticons. You took all the good words.

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  5. That was a beautiful juxtaposition of how life and death crash and merge, each giving more meaning to the other.

    And in a much more mundane sentiment, I'm thrilled that you found a new nest to adore.

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