Today a Facebook post sent me on an odyssey,
and when I found this painting, I thought, “a sign.”
Time to write about this. It’s a good one. For some reason I had been holding onto it.
The moment my sister stepped out of her Uber from the airport, our adventure began.
Staying in the thick of Little Italy added another layer of mystic.
We opened the boxes.
With a Dollar General scoop, we put our parents into baggies.
Nervous laughter.
How can we be doing this, sccooping our parents into Glad bags?
Shaker Square. “Wow . . . wow . . . wow.”
The iconic former Stouffers is a CVS.
Next, a Rapid Transit ride for old times’ sake.
Gay men dog-walking and chit-chatting.
How did Shaker Market get boujee?
Marchmont, still stunning:
Shaker Heights: We never knew what beauty engulfed us.
On this golf course at the end of our street, as neighborhood kids, we would play Army in the thick of winter, scattering like sno-veralled ants when the security cart did its check. One annual 4th of July fireworks, my old high school bestie found me on the course, walking aimlessly in the throes of a breakdown. (It’s in Rain Dodging.)
“Lucy’s’ mother killed herself in the attic. Do. you think the owners know?”
The slow man we taunted on our walk to school.
Shades of Boo Radley.
Fifth grade, the day JFK was shot.
until the bell rang.
After our sentimental walk around the neighborhood, it was time for my sister and me to scatter ashes at our old house. It was dark by now, as planned.
We waited on the neighbor’s slate steps two doors down. A teenager loaded his jeep, parked across from our old house. Couples were doing the last dog-walks of the day. It was like Grand Central Station
Seemed like forever.
An elderly dog-couple stopped to ask if we were ok. “I’m just resting,” I said, as hobblety-sounding as I could.
I guess not too many late slate-step sitters in this nabe.
Finally. the teen drove off in the jeep. The coast was clear.
I walked a few steps but . . .
A young couple appears from around the corner, walking towards us.
I strided back to my sister.
Giggles.
Then, “I’ll go first, you follow, we’ll meet up at other side of the lawn.” Together.
I scattered in the Hosta that annually bloomed lilac-colored blossoms. I scattered on the front lawn where my father had tenaciously fought for green all summer. I scattered on the tree-lawn where we played tag.
Were you happy here? Were you happy here?
Sister cries.
We hug.
They were close.
Jackie hurts me one more time.
Was she happy here?
Was she happy here?
Was she ever?
Was she ever?
Though I believe anything is possible, I’m not woo woo. But on Mackinac Island, a sea gull planted itself on what was possibly the same rock my mother posed on six-plus decades ago.
It didn’t leave.
Quite a bit inland, she swooped ahead of me.
“Mom,” I said. “I am ok. Go back to where you are happy. I am doing ok. I know you did the best you could. I love you.”
She did.
Now look at the first painting closely.
Do you see the sign?
