from
Baubo in the kitchen (2)
She was a seine, a
weir, a net. So many people have come
through her. Some things get caught,
some remain in the stream. Only the flow
is permanent. Mrs. Scattergood hungered
for things to be distinct. ‘This is my
family, this is my work, this is a story.’
She struggles with these things.
Maybe we all should. But the
energy it would take.
~
‘Claire, am I just noticing this or are
the skies more beautiful than ever? Is it the jets or the jet stream that my
friend said might be causing these new patterns in the clouds? What skies.’
Mrs. Scattergood did sometimes wonder if she was too wrapped and in need
of loosening. Get a life, whatever that
is. Exposed to the elements, does she gain a relevance because she’s
weathered? Accepting herself now and
weathered vane she goes which way the winds blow. When she looks at clouds she notices the
best, the roundest, the sweetest, even the agonies. Not one of her feelings lasts longer than a
cloud. She doesn’t even have to work at
it. Although subtle shifting is always
taking place. Side trips, pieces of a
dream, watching clouds. Catching them to write them down, now that’s a
talent. But not really necessary.
Thoughts matters for a moment and then they don’t. She thought she could flip on a switch; turn
on a light and wake up. Who comes through the changes with her? Claire, of course. She was relieved to remember. Things shifted
and it caught her by surprise how she lost an intimacy with her old world. This
sense of lost and of forgetting who you are – does it ever settle down, get
resolved, find a peaceful place within?
This is what she longed for; this is what was distant. She used to appreciate the far away so that
she could savor the yearning. What a
vanity that was. There are so many directions
to go in. Not going is one of them. Staying put with all that’s going on in her
head was like having an orchestra locked up in a book of matches. The drums would draw back their skins if a
fire started.
~
Mrs. Scattergood picked up The Banner and
read again. “Whoever is afraid is lost.”
She was not afraid, not afraid at all.
Just feeling things. Just a little lost.
~
Baubo told Mrs. Scattergood that if she
had more days with her friends she wouldn’t write so much about the woes in the
world. She was right. And now if only Einstein were also right and
time is just a wet noodle wrapping around our heads all those who are lost will
be back in our lives once again. Heaven
is a kugel, a noodle pie, with reality and people and our beloved animals all
mushed together in a sweet pie or if you’re like my mother’s family from
Russia, a noodle pie with fried onions and grebans. But there will be no grebans office for
grievances. Only a smile, if the kugel
is crispy and the onions sweet. Mrs.
Scattergood headed toward the porch, calmed by her dreams of food and wrapped
in the desire for a home cooked meal. ‘Life
can be good,’ she thought, ‘but damn, it is so often a hard time getting
there.’
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