Memoirous

 Days Off As opposed to Eugene where there was this weekend fever to do epic outdoor activities, Michigan has felt way more laid back, leafy crunchy Midwestern homey. There’s been the pumpkin patch fall festival food truck apple cider mini donuts. The mornings / afternoons riding my bike back and forth to watch baby Jack for an hour or two or more. He wakes up from his nap disheveled, crying, unsure of his surroundings. Upon entering his room he quiets, and smiles. This.   The geese honk overhead as the deer skirt across the road, everywhere the smell of woodsmoke and wet leaves. I ride into a Wysocki 1000-piece puzzle. Then as day slips under a leaden sky and the windows fog from mist, I’ll light a candle, sip tea from a mug that reminds me of the sea, and listen for the geese, for ghosts.

 Going to Work This one morning autumn crisp, the light barely breaking, and leaves the color of a riot circus, ostentatious, blaring, announcing themselves. Then   a car in front of me slows, swerves and another . . . I see the deer in the roadway doing a GI crawl across traffic, its hind legs dragging, its eyes focused on the other side, mouth grim and set. And, who am I on the spectrum: a little less or more than an animal to the passing motorist, a cyclist pausing in the lane, straddling her bike holding out both arms to slow or stop oncoming vehicles, waiting for the injured deer to make it to the grassy berm. To paradise.   After a matter of minutes, I continue, my morning clouded with this image of struggle, life and death, desire to survive.

When I come home from work the sky is already grey,             brindled, flocked with clouds a right turn out of the parking lot,             down Central Park to the busy intersection of Grand River Road where I bump onto the sidewalk paralleling four lanes of divided traffic             in a couple minutes I turn again into my complex stop by the bank of mailboxes to see if anyone knows I’m here             then on to my townhouse with its bench by the door which I crank open in order to get my bike inside before releasing the latch             turn on the hallway light— as shadows begin to lengthen.   Shut the blinds and eat dinner. Outside, in the woods it is darker, the leaves blackening the ground.

Miles From Motown Lisa Sukenic Fitzroy Books, 2021 I remember moving in the middle of 4th grade—it’s the main reason I still stumble in multiplication. We were somewhere in the times table at one school and near the end at the next school. Thus, a gap. Making friends was always hard for me, much easier to find books to read—so I usually ended up in the school library. Where I discovered a book that helped bridge the gap in my heart between old and new: The Wonderful Year by Nancy Barnes For many of us who value story as a way to understand the world, there is such a book. I believe Lisa’s book will be just that. Miles From Motown is an ode to Detroit, the Motor City—and more, it is an ode to a certain time: where the Vietnam War is waging, the Blue Flu is infecting the police department, where “White Flight” is taking place as minorities exercise their right to move into the suburbs. We get the sense that Detroit and Georgia Johnson are on the cusp. Of painful decisions, of facing life

Check out my essay, Books as a Signpost of my Life is in the current issue of Superpresent https://superpresentmag.com/current-issue/ As I lay in bed I tried to think back as far as I could, exercising my memory as if it were a flabby muscle. Pictures spindled across the photo album of my brain. I leaned forward and squinted my closed eyes trying to decipher them. Book jackets. Freddy the Pig, Barnyard Detective. Charlotte’s Web. Little House on the Prairie with the Garth Williams’ illustrations. Little Women—I actually saw the chapter illustration where Jo peers into Beth’s trunk and is overcome by grief. WordPress.comWordPress.com | Superpresent Current Issue Click on the image to view online. Click here to download a free PDF Superpresent Issue 4US and Canada – shipping included $21.95   Also, coming next month my essay series in The Account: A Journal of Poetry, Prose, & Thought ANDDDD out soon a piece called A Whole New Recipe in Dove Tales, 10th Anniversary

Window open to the night a candle flickers,   burns on the small end table beside my bed Tonight I feel blessed   fed heightened by some kind of glory and self-confidence I tell myself: live in this moment   bask in the light of the shuttered moon   until . . . I remember I need a flu shot and I have no health insurance and I’m old and all alone     Then I go back to the start to the slant of moonglow creeping across my covers and settle in for      slumber.  

 "Up in Michigan" is a short story by American writer Ernest Hemingway, written in 1921 and revised in 1938. A quiet moment at last since getting off the train it has been non-stop packing, scheduling, meet-ups, goodbyes—   Right now sitting outside, listening to birds calling, tweets There is a bird, I recognize its sound, like the squeak of a rusty swingset when the glider goes back & forth, that reminds me of Lake Erie, of vacations there. Indeed I am reminded that there is a lake nearby, not even a quarter mile away, Lake Lansing.   The street is lined with flags about 20 yards apart—the route for the Homecoming parade for this evening. In the distance the high school band practices, the big bass drum resounding across fields & backyards. As much as I’ve been away from Middle America, there is far-flung memory of fall nights, bonfires, wood smoke, burning leaves in the air, lingering brought to my a

The type of “new” writing I tend to do lately has been about chronicling my life transitions: move to Eugene, OR and now my move to Michigan There are mornings I wake up and wonder where I am Currently even the familiar feels new, as I search for routine Each task has felt like a challenge, though I’ve done it a hundred million times: shower x-stitch run watch Netflix sit quietly with a book taking out the trash Nevertheless, it is the first time in my new home in Okemos, MI to have done these things—muscle memory reminding me of their past pleasures. I want the new to feel old, and the old to feel like home, but right now everything feels out of place.  

There was a relief to be in a van heading back toward Uptown and my apartment building along the lakefront. I’d retrieved my 2 bikes and checked-luggage and, after cramming it all in the mini-van thought to myself: Oh my God how am I going to move with 100x this amount of stuff in a mini-van? You see, I refused to acknowledge I had stuff. I’d flown to Eugene in December with a bike and a suitcase and was still subconsciously suspended within that model. Except now, I had 2 bikes and a whale of stuff to transport. Change of plans. Let’s just say once I went to my storage unit, I saw the light. I’d need a truck   So for the past 5 days I’ve been on a treadmill of packing, meeting up with old friends, appointments with bank, haircut, etc. Oh, and plus my Zoom class for Story Studio . I was packing more than just stuff, I was packing life into these 5 days left here in Chicago. On Saturday I had a full day of storage unit, meeting up with Rian, the friend who came out to see me a

I left Eugene Sept 13 th via Flix Bus. For $22 I got a tix to Seattle. By the time I de-boarded I was the last person on the bus. The driver was pointing out landmarks like a tour guide. My one and only time in Seattle. My long-time (not old!) friends were there to pick me up and take me to their home in Sammamish. It was still light out and I got a chance to see the Sound, the lake, the mountains, that eerie spiked fir trees enshrouded in wisps of low clouds Twin Peaks vibe. I was ready for pie! There were family meals, walking the children to the bus stop in the morning, lots and lots of talking. By day 2 I was afraid I was going horse or else caught Covid on the long bus ride. I will post pics from day hike up to Snoqualmie Twin Falls. Then on bike one day Snoqualmie Valley Trail and the next Sammamish River Trail. Pictures do not tell the whole story. Behind the beauty of the area was the beauty of this family and all the times we’ve shared in the past, and hopefully going int

 I left Eugene September 13 th . I left my heart. How can I tell it all, the emotions, the hard good byes? Yet, at the same time, the affirmation. It was so in contrast to how I left Chicago for the West Coast the end of December. I blame the pandemic. The fear. I’m no denier, a contagious virus was raging and people were understandably afraid, but it didn’t need to be so isolating. It shut down people, their abilities to reason, in the sense of kindness. The part of us that extends itself beyond—a smile, a moment to stop and say hello, holding a door for someone. Answering a question. The fear of the unknown was so overwhelming that it too became a pandemic. Contributing to public behavior. We see it even now in the number of incidents were folks act out on planes, other forms of mass transit, in grocery stores, etc. Fear is not an excuse, just my underlying theory on why so many people are acting crazy. Thus, leaving Eugene I was so struck by the number of folks who came ou