St Paul, 1998

We are talking now of March evenings in St Paul, Minnesota, wherein my young nature dwelled, lulled into the ease of life.  The neighborhood had solidly built two-story houses and clean apartment buildings, indicators of the upper middle class way of life interspersed with college-going young adults.  What in warmer seasons were manicured yards spread before sturdy homes: made to last for what seemed an eternity, made to endure every type of harsh climate imaginable.  Great elms rose to the heavens; maples spread their bare limbs, winter's hold keeping them in their sleep still.  The remains of children's snow sculptures trying to keep purchase in the slowly increasing warmth.  Muddy yards rolled down the street without interruption, aside from the occassional pavement or tree.  Neighbors abided small talk, tending to avoid the closeness achieved by their younger copies.  The bonds of adults, fragile in nature, rested upon keeping an eye on the children, or perhaps offers to help in some vital chore; friendship as seen by children was small in number, but strong where present.  Housewives tended the home 'til men, any shade of profession under the sun, came back home.  Young folk lived right next to the elders, serving as the surrogate granchild or the fresh aggitation; those in their prime lived but to mediate in between.

But it is more of the nightly routines that I tell.

Children obediantly run home for supper, mud still clinging to their boots.  Steaming hot plates rest on the tables by a quarter to six.  Mothers bid their children to keep their manners, avoid rushing their food in an effort to enjoy the last of the day's light.  Supper ends not long after, boys and girls donning their boots and light coats one last time.  Fathers step out of doors to keep a watchful eye on their offspring, a few sporting pipes, whose smoke wafts in the gentle breeze.  Mothers calmly put away dishes, packing the next day's lunch.  Fathers take to calling their children back in as the light fades away.  The men finally sit down to quiet, unfolding their newspapers or watching the news.  Pipe, cigar, cigarette smoke hazes the air.  Less and less important, however, are the splashing of children.  Less and less important are the fathers finding calm in their nightly news.  More and more the night becomes the dominion of mothers readying youngsters for bed.  The sound of water rushing to be drawn for baths, faucets sounding their shrill whistles.  The dull thud of the waterfall roars upon soft ears.  Harsh, steamy water rises steadily to the top.  Complaints make themselves known, loudly protesting the end to play.  The women calmly coax children into cleaner waters, humming as they go; suds gently convince caked on earth to loosen.  Chilled limbs, excited from exhileration, calm into placid figures as warmth seeps in.  

There is a kind of purity in the ritualistic bathing, the implication of unsullied youth rising every night once more, ready to claim soft sleep that awaits. The hum of fans becomes the soft music to lull youth into stark quiet.  The drip of water droplets seems a loud business in the hushed silence of the room. The fall of each an epic sort of event; child's eyes await the slow journey from faucet to water surface, the droplets clinging for what seems an eternity.  They start out as individual drops, growing bigger and bigger until just enough has accumulated, the weight finally stretching them from their metal perch.  Gracefully they fall, until collision with the larger water below causes a small slash, a ripple, more little water droplets sent flying.  Every drop is miniscule in comparison to the collection it joins, but for a fraction of a second, each seems larger than life.  One drop becomes the flood, but for a moment.  One drop becomes the might, earth-wrenching sound of waves crashing, until the dripping ceases.  Then is the silence a muted gold, waiting to be crashed.

At last, bathtime has ended.  

The fans have ceased their hums; the waters have swirled their bubbly companions down the pipes, the suction noice of the drains loud, echoing, and altogether jolting.  Mothers assist their charges with the fluffy comfort of warm towels, perfectly smelling of clean laundry.  Children pull on their pajamas, eager for a small bedtime snack.  Slyly, they eye the unattended sweet; desirous for the treat, yet far too excited at the prospect of such a prize, small bodies instead hunger after the sanctioned rations.  The heavenly, forbidden food awaits yet another time.  Ghost like, fathers come to usher their children to bed, slippers but a whisper upon the solid floors.  Faces enveloped in light shadows, scratchy shadows, place soft kisses on smooth skin.  Placid weariness hangs comfortably about their broad shoulders, as small, dear ones are swept up in mighty arms to bid good night.  Bedtime stories softly spoken soothe small bodies.  Mothers and fathers bid loving goodnights, pulling blankets snuggly up to chins.  The faint orange glow of streetlights creeps in through the windows and cracks in the shades, sending abstract patterns onto the ceiling.  The sigh of the winds speeds past as the faint throb of automotive engines make their way into the night.  Faint clicks on lightswitches in hallways echo quietly; the doors softly shutting in their posts.    The distant, muted clamour of a train dies into the night.  Emergency vehicles wail their sirens, always approaching, but never arriving.

At last the night comes clean, my mother has loosed the tub drain.

Once more is the silence left in the absence of the fan; all that lingers
is naught but my mother's humming.

Here is the towel's embrace, wicking away the damp.

Here are the morsels left unattended: untouched: not for little hands to guide to little mouths.

Here is the sweet smell of my father's pipe smoke, as his soft footfalls call us to bed.

Against my cheek are the rough carasses of prickly whiskers, more endearing than a smooth-shaven face could ever be.

This is the secure feeling within my father's arms: never to falter.  Always strong without ceasing.

There the orange lamps cast their glow upon my ceiling; a nightly performance to glide across my ceiling: never the same dance twice.

Fades away the echo of locamotive thunder, becoming nothing more than a whisper.

At my parent's bedside, my brother and I kneel.  With a simple gesture, we say our nightly prayers.  My father leads us to our beds, tucking us in youngest to eldest.  Closing the door to my brother's room, my parents reenter my room, each taking a seat on a bed: one for her, one for me.  Special good nights are bid, as a story is read aloud.  A little dome to spill soft, coloured lights on the plane above is turned on; the soft music replacing my urban orchestra.  As with all nights, I hear my father whisper, “Goodnight, my princesses,” as he rises slowly from her bed, my mother following suit.
The door closes, and another opens, only to be shut a few moments later.  The voices low, speaking softly.  Hardly there.  Inaudible to my ears.  Rooms, assigned to my loved ones, bear low hums of their own.  The sound of an overly large puppy dog whimpering in dreams: that is where my brother takes his repose.  The slow, harmonic rhythm of stringed instruments: my parents.  In the bed next to me, as my eyes slowly begin to grow heavy, my mind turns briefly to the small body almost within reach.  Her gentle sighs in time with the dying music, her face is restful. Calm.  Unperterbed, as it once used to be.  My brother is my protector and playmate: unafraid to save the day, or calm my wails.  My mother is as caring as she can be.  My father is as my knight in shining armor: unstoppable, capable of anything and everything.

And yet, even in her limited state, there she lies: my companion.  My best friend; dearest to my heart.  Almost lost once to a room filled with white coats, I dare to hope against hope that she defies the odds stacked so accusingly against her.  My childish eyes have seen more than they should, and to a tired little mind as mine, hope is what keeps me aloft.  Hope is what keeps us all aloft, after our own fashion.  My clan that hangs  onto life by the skin of their teeth.  Unwittingly, their existence is here, with me, on this dark ,Thursday night, and all nights previous; the calm of night bringing more mature observations to my mind; the simple doings of all days seemingly unworthy of the bard's dramatic tellings.  

Take my child's plea and make it as strong as mighty oaks, that nothing shake my determination; keep my kin in your loving embrace.  Let not unfavourable winds come upon their sails; that the Lord smile down on them when the sands of their hourglass are stuck, and once more when they have stopped.
In time, sleep claims me for her own domain, the last sight in my ever-heavily lidded eyes resting on the bed next to me.  As my urban orchestra lulls me into my safety, sleep has already taken captive those of my house. The twelfth day of March too passes away, giving sway to another day. Those nights are calm, easy, wonderful to behold: but will not, oh will not, not now, not ever; but will not tell me who I am.