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when i invented / this breathing moment / i didn’t reserve all rights // instead i acknowledged you / as my co-author / you and everyone

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pink and black and blue / above an orange / and faintly yellow cavern // of emerging memory / in the present tense / of the distant past

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Helga’s watch was supposed to detect Anytime she fell or completely wrecked Her car, or suffered some other calamity, And alert the authorities, but now it was buzzing To tell her a call from her granddaughter Hannah Was coming in, so she hastened back Into the house to find her phone. Hannah, the daughter of the aforementioned Ben, was a brilliant, wild, and well-intentioned But sometimes troubled soul whom Helga Was trying to help get through a stint Of college education in Montana And overcome the pull of the millstones That seemed to want to drag her down. The phone initially could not be found As Helga muttered and looked around The kitchen, the living room, and down one step Back through the library to her bedroom Where sure enough there it sat Beside the bed and still plugged in, Drawing power from dams and windmills. She missed the call but dialed back And Hannah’s voice came like a smack Of soft lips upon one’s cheek: “Hi, Grandma, how are you?” the voice Intoned, gently rising and falling And rising again like the autumn wind On this oddly warm November First. “Hi—— Hannah!” Helga stretched out the aye Of the “Hi” and looked out at the sky, Blue and bright but with a few Clouds drifting over the river towards The palouse hills and the scablands beyond, The land populated with pioneer ghosts And echos of Indians in this Indian Summer. “I’m doing fine, sweetie. It’s really warm here. I just had my coffee and wished it were beer. How are you? Is it getting cold in Bozeman?” “Ha, I wish I could have a beer for breakfast, too, Grandma. And one more for dessert, Like the song says. Except I don’t really like the taste of it.” “After your dad was born, the doctor (And my mom was there, which shocked her) Prescribed a beer a day for a week post-birth. I’ve loved beer ever since, but I can’t Tolerate the alcohol Anymore. Old age sucks!” “I love you, Grandma,” came Hannah’s laughing reply.

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Helga drove a ’97 Buick Skylark that was made in heaven. That’s how she felt about it, anyhow: Cloudy blue and well-traveled, A ding on every corner but nothing Serious, nothing in need of attention. It looked good in the garage’s shadows And was malaise-proof in the midday sun. She popped the trunk and laid the gun Gently in among the bags And blankets and jumper cables neatly Coiled there. What was it Chekhov said? If jumper cables are seen in chapter one A battery must die in chapter two? Such was the nature of Helga’s musings Based on long ago perusings Of Russian authors assigned in college When she and Joe rushed in like fools Not fearing to tread where angels danced Across the border into Idaho To get married and start a crazy life. She took a deep breath and firmly shut The trunk, not sure exactly what She’d do with the gun but definitely not Take it to the shooting range Where she and Ben had gone to try it out A few weeks back and there encountered Some good old boys talking old boy s**t About Ms. Harris sleeping her way To the top of the pile of political hay And how she was "woke and a joke." "Not bad looking, but come on." Ben had spoken up and simply said, "She sure did hand that guy his ass in the debate." Helga had simply reddened with blue anger. The cardboard target with paper bullseye Stapled on made Helga’s mental sky Conjure up a poster of the buffoon Holding a bible upside down, Captioned, "Make America Pray Again." "I'd like to staple his face on the carboard," She thought, "And shoot. And shoot again." That was her idea of the morning But now with the golden sun adorning The autumnal south, she revised her plan And decided to take what was left of Joe (His ashes, that is) and the heavy gun And lovingly release them into the flow Of the deep and powerful Columbia River.

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Helga’s idea was too extreme, Like reenacting a bad dream, She decided, as she climbed back up And struggled through the gate, Replacing the lock and crossing the lawn, As a pair of squirrels chased each other In spirals up the Lonesome Pine. That was the name she and Joe Had given that tree many years ago When the house had fallen to them After their son-in-law Dan fell asleep at the wheel, And their daughter Liz remarried and left. Liz's due date was approaching when Dan died, So Joe and Helga had moved in to help And then just stayed and made the place Less haunted by living out the grace Left behind in the wake of sadness. Now grief and love again entwined To make a new nest in Helga’s heart For the coming and going of the seasons, The arrivals and departures of dreams. Back inside, the coffee now cold, Helga zapped it, feeling bold From the warmth of the sun in her bones And the anger and hope for the election That was coming soon and that she preferred Not to think too much about But rather offer up to the gods. The coffee downed, Helga summoned up The energy provided by the cup To climb the stairs up to the room Her son Ben had lately occupied And where Ben had relocated Joe’s rifle, A shotgun with flashlight duct-taped to barrel, That Joe had secretly kept under the bed. Helga fumbled in her pocket for the key To the cabinet Ben had got for free From a gun-enthusiast friend upgrading To a bigger safe for his collection In these disturbing post-insurrection days, Turned the key in the lock and opened The door to find the shotgun waiting. “Sorry, Joseph, but I don’t want this gun Lurking here and someday hurting someone,” She said as she grabbed it by the barrel, Closed the cabinet again and left the key. She lifted the heavy gun and sighted as if To shoot out the bathroom mirror, smiling At the flashlight jerry-rigged by her clever Joe.

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The idea that came to Helga was one

That could be dangerous or could be fun

But first she would survey her rose garden

And the general condition of the yard

On this unusually warm first day

Of the month of her birth in this year

Of fever dreams and election insanities.

Leaving her coffee cup half full,

Helga followed her inner pull

To the back door and out to the lawn.

Sebastian the yard guy had been there

The day before and as usual Helga

Was both pleased with the overall tidiness

And annoyed by the little signs of shirking.

Sebastian, like most yard guys these days,

Tended to increase the local malaise

By employing a noisy leaf blower rather than

The gold standard of raking.

Which annoyed Helga. You have to choose

Your battles, though, and Helga had

Resigned herself to let it go.

The lawn stretched out broad and green.

That was good. But in between

The edge of the lawn and the fence,

Where the landscaping terraced down

Towards the irrigation canal, the blower

Had shunted a shin-deep layer

Of paper-dry leaves and bonelike twigs.

Helga glanced in that direction and thought

A note left on the fence, that sought

To catch Sebastian’s attention, next week,

Might do the trick. And the lock to the gate,

Meant not to be locked but merely put

In place, was once again not put in place.

That, too, would be gently mentioned.

The Virginia Creeper that had swallowed

Much of the tall gate and followed

The path of the sun to try to consume

The entire fence, made it a challenge

To swing it wide and step through,

Down the slope to the roses and grapes

And assorted vegetation along the canal.

Helga managed it, in small steps,

Like doing physical therapy reps,

And soon beheld the wilting splendor

Of her beloved garden, its thorns visible,

With petals littering the muddy ground,

And the hard angle of autumn light

Throwing life and death into sharp relief.

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“Getting old is getting old,” she said

To herself as she got out of bed.

It was the day before her birthday

And the day after Halloween,

The morning dark and dim and fragrant

With stale leaves and the after-odor

Of trick-or-treaters and candy wrappers.

 

Helga Caruthers slid her tired old feet

Out from under a tangle of bedsheet

And onto the cold hardwood floor

Of her bedroom. “Gotten old,” she said

Out loud to the silence of the house.

“Or is it ‘Got Old’?” she said again.

“Old as dirt, at any rate,” she said.

 

Helga was rounding out her eighty-fourth year

Under heaven and feeling increasingly unclear

About what she should do with her life

Three years now after the entire family,

Son and daughter with spouses and children

And children’s children had gathered round

The hospice bed and said their goodbyes

To Joseph Caruthers, Helga’s man

Of sixty years and happy head of the clan.

What a moment that had been,

The death bed placed in the living room —

Such a juxtaposition — and the generations

Toasting Joe with his favorite whisky

As his soul hesitated, then ambled on.

Now Helga, still bleary with sleep,

Ambled through that same room, deep

In just-awakened thought and semi-dread

To face the day and its emerging troubles.

She made her way to the front door

And opened it to the light of the dawn

To check for tricks leftover in the street

And the dregs of treats and a barking dog,

Clouds on the horizon with a hint of fog

Dispersing as the sunrise claimed the morning

For beauty despite the neighbors’

Constantly overflowing garbage can

And a faint but persistent malodor

Carried on the breezes of autumn.

The first of November, and strangely warm,

Thought Helga as an idea began to form

Within the well of hope deep in her mind.

She turned back inside to make coffee

And have a piece of chocolate, her morning

Ritual to read the message on the wrapper:

“This is the first day of the rest of your life.”

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