Post by jeannerené on Sept 27, 2008 22:49:22 GMT -8
Update:
March 2014 ... it's time I reworked and finished this story. A couple of posts down is the whole write, that's is the whole write as far as I had previously completed. Bumping it up.
He lay, gone to the world, sprawled across his bed, the brow glistening with an oily sweat and blood sticky on a thick, week-old stubble. I placed a pillow under his head and removed a pile of dirty clothes off the covers, placing them on yet another pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It was nearly midnight, but his room was still hot and the air stagnant. Today's heat had been unbearable and the night had brought little relief. It had been several years since a truly stifling Indian summer had visited San Jose, long lingering days when summer refused to be moved by wind or needed rain, but instead wrapped its brazen and smothering arms around our days and nights. I've always been the type who looked forward to summers passing quickly, being an autumn and winter person. Looking back I believe I've felt my deepest moments of contentment on cold blustery nights, a romantic novel in my hand and the sounds of my family around me.
I pulled the chain of the ceiling fan, three pulls for the highest setting, to circulate the air in J.D.'s room. I would later come back with a damp cloth to wipe his forehead and try to clean up his beard a bit. It wouldn't wake him. He'd sleep well into tomorrow's afternoon. His raucous snore I knew would kick in sometime during my sleep, and wake me, but I'd take a deep breath and be at peace, having resisted the urge... compulsion... to get up several times during the night to check if he was still breathing. But now kissing his forehead, the taste of salt reminded me of another Indian summer - October - the year he was born.
The Indian summer of '84 I had sat, glowing, and rocked with my new son, my white linen nightgown, soaked and clinging to my breasts, my bottom sticky and sliding on the varnished oak. A brand new rocking chair and hot, hot, hot days right after his birth in late September, it was the hottest Indian summer I can remember to date. J.D. had been a very salty baby. I remember his taste well, rocking and giving him kiss after kiss on his wrinkled forehead. When once I came across an article in the pile of baby magazines suggesting that salty skinned babies might be manifesting a symptom of Cystic Fibrosis, I all but flew into the doctor's office in a panic. The patient man pulled on his white cuffs sending me home with the assurance that I had a perfectly healthy baby boy. And so twenty-four years later I touch again my lips to J.D.'s brow, now tasting the salt of his nightmares . . . still embracing the memory of the Indian summer I danced naked with my perfectly healthy little boy about the bedroom, my hand wrapped around his perfect little bottom, with his perfect little head on my shoulder. We danced as I have never danced before ... soul to soul with God and the universe.
My slippers stuck to some solidified mystery substance left neglected on the floor and I am immediately annoyed. I scanned the desk but no trace of the empty bottle, and assumed it was probably shoved somewhere in the back of the closet with a week's worth of empty bottles. "To be dealt with tomorrow." I mumbled. My own tears were dried to my cheeks, my senses ... each one bruised and battered by emotions too many to recall. And there's the mess ... the glass to pick up, the blood to wipe away.... and hope to be gathered up again and stuffed into my own pillow. Yes, to be gathered up ... hope, so that, if not to sleep, at least to lie my head down upon. Maybe ... maybe ... to dream ... on this Indian summer night with God and the universe.
I closed J.D's door. I've always closed it softly.
***
James Douglas Jr. came home yesterday with a smile across his face and a quick hug as I passed him in the kitchen.
to be continued .....
Struggling with the tense ... comments welcome....
March 2014 ... it's time I reworked and finished this story. A couple of posts down is the whole write, that's is the whole write as far as I had previously completed. Bumping it up.
He lay, gone to the world, sprawled across his bed, the brow glistening with an oily sweat and blood sticky on a thick, week-old stubble. I placed a pillow under his head and removed a pile of dirty clothes off the covers, placing them on yet another pile of dirty clothes on the floor. It was nearly midnight, but his room was still hot and the air stagnant. Today's heat had been unbearable and the night had brought little relief. It had been several years since a truly stifling Indian summer had visited San Jose, long lingering days when summer refused to be moved by wind or needed rain, but instead wrapped its brazen and smothering arms around our days and nights. I've always been the type who looked forward to summers passing quickly, being an autumn and winter person. Looking back I believe I've felt my deepest moments of contentment on cold blustery nights, a romantic novel in my hand and the sounds of my family around me.
I pulled the chain of the ceiling fan, three pulls for the highest setting, to circulate the air in J.D.'s room. I would later come back with a damp cloth to wipe his forehead and try to clean up his beard a bit. It wouldn't wake him. He'd sleep well into tomorrow's afternoon. His raucous snore I knew would kick in sometime during my sleep, and wake me, but I'd take a deep breath and be at peace, having resisted the urge... compulsion... to get up several times during the night to check if he was still breathing. But now kissing his forehead, the taste of salt reminded me of another Indian summer - October - the year he was born.
The Indian summer of '84 I had sat, glowing, and rocked with my new son, my white linen nightgown, soaked and clinging to my breasts, my bottom sticky and sliding on the varnished oak. A brand new rocking chair and hot, hot, hot days right after his birth in late September, it was the hottest Indian summer I can remember to date. J.D. had been a very salty baby. I remember his taste well, rocking and giving him kiss after kiss on his wrinkled forehead. When once I came across an article in the pile of baby magazines suggesting that salty skinned babies might be manifesting a symptom of Cystic Fibrosis, I all but flew into the doctor's office in a panic. The patient man pulled on his white cuffs sending me home with the assurance that I had a perfectly healthy baby boy. And so twenty-four years later I touch again my lips to J.D.'s brow, now tasting the salt of his nightmares . . . still embracing the memory of the Indian summer I danced naked with my perfectly healthy little boy about the bedroom, my hand wrapped around his perfect little bottom, with his perfect little head on my shoulder. We danced as I have never danced before ... soul to soul with God and the universe.
My slippers stuck to some solidified mystery substance left neglected on the floor and I am immediately annoyed. I scanned the desk but no trace of the empty bottle, and assumed it was probably shoved somewhere in the back of the closet with a week's worth of empty bottles. "To be dealt with tomorrow." I mumbled. My own tears were dried to my cheeks, my senses ... each one bruised and battered by emotions too many to recall. And there's the mess ... the glass to pick up, the blood to wipe away.... and hope to be gathered up again and stuffed into my own pillow. Yes, to be gathered up ... hope, so that, if not to sleep, at least to lie my head down upon. Maybe ... maybe ... to dream ... on this Indian summer night with God and the universe.
I closed J.D's door. I've always closed it softly.
***
James Douglas Jr. came home yesterday with a smile across his face and a quick hug as I passed him in the kitchen.
to be continued .....
Struggling with the tense ... comments welcome....
