Frogs

I used to like to catch them up at Ponderosa Lodge.
Tree frogs we called them; they hung out by the pool.
I would poke holes through lids from leftover
cottage cheese or liver containers and set them in
with a bit of nature to make them feel at home.

Happy with my finds I would go to sleep at night,
but soon the little amphibians, hardly one inch long,
would start their evening croaks.  So loud,
they were, that my parents would be wakened and,
by morning, they had always been freed.
Just as well, I think since the joy was in the catching.

I had not seen one in so long, and wondered,
like the small snakes I used to pick up and let
wind around my fingers, if I could no longer see them
having grown now, long ago out of childhood
or, if perhaps, they were no longer there.

So it warms my heart to have them both here.
For I will freely admit there is something about them
that I quite like, a softness because they remind me
of youth and of nature.  So, the frogs, at least,
I gently cup in my hand from the sides of our hot tub
and send them on their way.  Fearing only of a gentle smush should I accidentally sit upon one.

Journeys

I have begun to think of other days, other journeys.
It is strange what the memory holds back
and what it brings forth.
I thought so much was gone,
melded together
like remnants from a fire.

Yet, as I sift and sort through them, more returns,
of certificates and ceremony,
of promises made and lack of belief,
of traffic, vans, dirt roads and heat,
of hot tin roofs and tiny shacks,
of friendships sad and sweet,
of making home where ever you are,
of women's work, never done,
of children, song and laughter.

Memories,
so faded,
yet brought together,
impact now my thoughts and actions.

The Pens

I am thinking that I will leave my thoughts on Liberia, until after the presidential election results are announced on October 26.


He wanted the pens
Oh so very much
I told him I would give them to him
At the end.

They were mine.
I brought them.
I chose each one like
A child in a candy store.
All sorts of flavors
All sorts of textures.
Really, now I wanted them too.

He liked to draw.
He like to write.
He watched those pens.
I began to also.
They were colorful
And there were many.

Not today, I have work to do.
Not tomorrow, there is more to do.
Yes, I will give them to you.
I will keep my word.

Please stop asking.
Please stop asking.
PLEASE STOP ASKING.

It is 5 a.m.
There is a knock at my door.
May I have the pens please?
You said I could take them today.

Yes you may.
Here they are.

A result of broken promises?
I keep my word.

The Umbrella

I am thinking this week of the elections in Liberia and my friends there.

I am wandering down a narrow well trod path in Liberia.  We are not far from the capital city, but country comes upon us fast.  Underneath is us golden red clay that is cracked and hardened from unknown years of pounding feet.  The surrounding grass is green, lush and tall, broken only by a few clearings where small structures, some thatch, some cement blocks, in varying states, stand.  The ocean is not more than a few blocks hundred feet away, but the strength of the sun is something I am not accustomed to.  It is as if gravity is stronger here, spearheaded by the rays of the sun that beat down upon us, sinking me into the clay ground.

I have on a pair of light cotton paints, a linen shirt and my flip flops.  There is sweat dripping from me and my freckled face is splotched with red.  Viola, my companion, in contrast, has on heals of a sort, jeans, a knit shirt and a jean jacket.  While I look rather dreadful, she appears well.

Quickly I learn the purpose of the umbrella she is carrying on this blue skied day.  She was worried about me yesterday out in the sun and has brought it to shade me.  I decline at first, primarily from vanity, I suppose, not wanting to stand out; not realizing that simply my presence, no matter what I carry, will draw curiousity and questions.  Upon the second request I take it and feel as if I have stepped back in time to a day that I do not want to be in, yet still, I am much relieved and grateful, for it shades me from the sun and the weight lessens.

Soon we appear at a shack, perhaps ten by twelve feet.  The walls are made of woven grass.  All that appears in the home and around it is brown, dirty and dry, yet within a few feet, the grasses and cassava plants are bright and lovely. 

Two women are standing in the doorway facing each other.  A large plastic bowl is on the ground between them filled with chicken feet, small whole fish and pieces of raw meat.  The woman within picks out a few items, sets them in a small pan and money is exchanged.  The other woman covers her goods with newspaper, cardboard, then a blanket and places the package on her head and disappears into the surrounding bush within moments.

The woman from within knows Viola.  Introductions are made and we sit on a roughly hewn bench outside in the shade of the hut.  I hold the woman's baby on my lap.  Viola takes the woman's toddler, snaps a piece of reed from the shack and begins digging chigger like critters out of the small girl's hand.  All the while, conversation, of which I understand little, continues.  After a time we leave the goods that we had brought with us, primarily infant formula and walk away,  purposely on a different path from whence we came.   I still am shaded by the umbrella.  Viola leads the way, single file.  In a short time we reach a small old truck.  Our driver is inside.  He greets us.  We climb in and are on our way down a dirt road back to the hospital.

This day is etched into my memory, yet nothing perhaps of note takes place.  Even the spectacle of me, I assume, will soon be forgotten.  Yet I, in a moment, can recall more details of that day than this one.