Tag: the after life

the girl that disappeared one night in June

January 17th, 2015

It doesn’t take a medium, a psychic, a private investigator, or the police to tell us she’s not coming back. When someone’s gone this long—going on three years—she does not suddenly show up at a cousin’s baby shower, her parents’ anniversary, or her son’s birthday. No matter how much people pray, point fingers, analyze the lack of evidence, or wish upon bright stars—like tonight, a cold but peaceful night in Northern Michigan—she’ll not return. Not in the form we’re used to.

When she’s home again, it will be because there’s been a confession. A conviction. The great reward for patience, determination, and truth. Men grow tired. Cowards have always been weak. And evil—plain and simple—never wins.

On the other side, when it comes to a good soul like hers, there isn’t the pressure of time, the worry of missing out. There are no regrets. And so, she watches them silently. Waiting and waiting and waiting for them to feel her breath in their ears. Her hand on the back of their necks. And hear her footsteps as she paces their bedrooms at night. Each of them one day closer to asking God, her parents, and her children for forgiveness.

They’re feeling it.

The three that made the pact—the so-called ring-leader, the defeated veteran, and the punk that ran away—believe they’re part of a brotherhood. That their bond of fear and selfishness and sin is actually something great and untouchable that will endure. But it will not. She tells me this sometimes. That sooner or later a missing piece will wash up, be found in ash and dirt, or show up shiny and new between floorboards. It will be a splinter of finger bone. A ring. A note. A tooth. It will be nothing and anything and everything all at once and be just enough to cause a break in the silent case of the girl that disappeared one night in June.
sometimes things need to be just so before you move on

January 17th, 2015

I want to write about the bitter cold and how pretty the snow looks over everything. I want to write about the twenty-three brown apples hanging from the tree in our backyard and how my five-year-old daughter noticed them.

“There are more apples that won’t let go than there were last year,” she said to me as I mixed together chopped pickles, mayo, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and tuna for sandwiches.

“I know, buddy. Last year there were eleven. The year before that nine. Now, there’s twenty-three.”

“Why are so many hanging on?”

“I’m not sure,” I said.

“I bet it’s because they don’t want to die,” she said. And she ran away down the hallway to play cops and robbers with her brother. Something they started doing over Christmas break that really has a hold on them and has surprisingly brought them closer together.

I spent a long time mixing together the ingredients for my lunch. My wife thinks I’m crazy with many things and one of them is the amount of time I put into the preparation of food. Whatever I make—breakfast, a simple sandwich, dinner, or even BBQ—I have to start early because the process is like a ritual to me. Sometimes things need to be just so before you can move on.

Maybe that’s what the apples are waiting for.

Maybe my daughter needed that break in her day—looking out the big kitchen window when she was supposed to be arresting her brother for burglary. And maybe I needed her. To stop and remind me that time is running out and that there’s nothing we can do, but hang on and hope, even after the last bit of sunshine is gone, the nutrients are no longer working their way up the roots toward us, and all we can do is wait it out—the bitter, wintry cold that is inevitable and keeps coming, working us toward the end by way of snowdrifts that sparkle like diamonds, lopsided snowmen with crooked smiles, and a soft white blanket that covers the world.

(for B.K.: enjoy the otherside, big guy…we’ll miss you)
wonder and worry and making ends meet

January 17th, 2015

To Goodwill tonight

For a kid’s Christmas sweater and

just to get out of the house

And be together and breathe a little better

In a big space filled with clothes and books,

Toys, lamps, skis, pots and pans,

And furniture.

Everything so beautifully worn,

Full of life,

Imperfect.

And calling to me.

S.B. and Oogie found a tiny, warm vest

Covered in cheetah print.

A pair of pink leggings.

A birdbath.

Little Man found a hockey stick,

A plastic dagger, a stuffed horse.

I found a NITE STAND for $9.99

That I’m sure was hers—

The elderly lady I sensed in House Wares—

That led me away

From a $4 yellow pressure cooker,

Past an end cap of coffee mugs and

To the wooden, 1940-something charmer

With dark finish, smooth round edges,

And a drawer lined with yellow, flowery wall paper.

Something like this—

Just an object saved from a thrift store—

Tells stories

Or holds secrets that draw us in.

These items somehow have always been ours.

Waiting

And whispering

In basements and attics and behind garage doors.

And as soon as we see them, we know it,

Feel reconnected, and we take them home.

To sit, not by my bed, as it did for her so many years ago—

Holding her Bible, her rings, her hairpins and teeth—

But to sit by the couch I come to at night

So my vodka tonic is not far from reach

And I can unwind,

Relax, and revel in the rest that arrives

After another long day of wonder and worry and making ends meet.
A little wine, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and the four of us…

January 17th, 2015

A little wine. A Charlie Brown Christmas. The four of us—S.B., Oogie, and Little Man—putting together the tree we got for free from The Salvation Army six years ago when we lived in Garden City. Things have changed. We’re north now. Living three blocks from Lake Huron, just a few ticks from the 45^th parallel. We’re comfortable. The stretch to make ends meet week to week is not as long and painful as it used to be. We wake with thanks and push through the days with hope, determination, and faith. At night—after something as simple as assembling a six-and-a-half foot tall fake Balsam tree—me and S.B. hug the kids, say prayers and finally get a chance to decompress. Slowly unwind and breathe and remember what it’s like to be ourselves again.

She is drinking wine and sketching or drawing or painting or reading or playing a game or listening to music or watching TV. Finally, she is free from Mommy and Honey and where are my shoes and where is the remote and did you pay the bills and how does my hair look and can you put toothpaste on my toothbrush and I can’t find my keys and everything that makes being a wife and Mom so great but so excruciating.

I am drinking wine and writing and thinking and realizing that the older I get the more I love people but the more apt I am to leave them alone and let them be and have them find out one day that they’ve waited too long. Time is up and they did not reach out or call or remember to do those things that put more good into the world than bad. Sometimes it’s just best to leave the ball in someone else’s court and move on with your wife and kids and fake tree and silent prayers and believe that in the end all of us will be together again.

In less than an hour, I’ll be with S.B. I’ll walk into the living room smiling. Shining a bit because I drink too much sometimes and because I had moments to myself to click the keys, make my marks, and string together—not words—but sounds and I will hum a little a song and hug her and we will stand and sway slowly back and forth, round and round, and I’ll feel that feeling I get, the one that tells me we’ve loved each other all along. Before today. After tomorrow. And everywhere in between.

~ K.J.

Tag: the after life

the girl that disappeared one night in June

sometimes things need to be just so before you move on

wonder and worry and making ends meet

A little wine, A Charlie Brown Christmas, and the four of us…