It Might as Well Be Spring

“Hallo!” she calls to me. “You live here?”
“Yes, right there,” I say, pointing at the brick two-flat.
“Ah, I don't see you too often. We neighbors! Where you live?”
“That house, on the alley.” I point again.
“Where, second floor?” she asks. (She always asks.)
“Yes, second floor.” (I always say.)
“Ah. I live here,” she says, pointing to her two-flat two doors down from mine. “Second floor.”

I pretend she is giving me some new detail of her life. I pretend I do not already know that her name is Leona (Lonka in Ukrainian), that she was born in Poland in 1922, that she sings in the choir at St. Nicholas, that when she was young she lived in France as an au pair for a Catholic family with five children, the father of whom was a milliner, that she has two sisters and two brothers and has never been married.

“You live alone?” she asks.
“No, I live with my boyfriend.”
“Ah, boyfriend. Okay. He nice? He tall?”
“He is. I think you've met him before. He's taller than me.” I raise my hand several inches above my head, a foot above hers. “You know, he has a beard? You've seen him.”
“Ah, you married?”
“No, not yet.”
“Engaged? When you get married? Soon?”

Leona has told me that she never married because the men she dated were interested only in sex, and she was not raised that way, and she could not be a single woman with a child. I try to explain to her again that we will get married, just not this year. I try to forget that everyone has their windows open and that this could be considered embarrassing.

“Maybe in a couple years, you know. Not too soon. People spend so much time planning their weddings these days.”
“Ah, you save up, you buy a house maybe?”
“Well, we really like renting for now. Houses are expensive.”
“Oh, yah. You earn money, then get married. When I come here, I buy this building with my sister. I live with my sister. Second floor. You live with your parents?”

I keep hoping she'll remember. She doesn't, so I keep pretending that I am giving her fresh details about my life. I don't let on that I watch her from the front window, two stories above the sidewalk where she spends her days sweeping and raking and brushing and gathering.

She's in the grass now, snatching at the leaves one by one, wiping her chin with the sleeve of her oversized blazer. She's in the neighbor's yard now, pulling weeds on her hands and knees. One of her slippers has come off. She's in her garden now, wearing her black beret over her short hair, faded orange from the deep red she dyed it back in May. She's in the street again, right in the middle, sweeping long strokes toward the gutter. A black SUV approaches and slows as it squeezes past her. Leona looks up, doesn't recognize the driver, and keeps sweeping.

She will sweep for a good while longer on this sunny morning, and then again this evening. She will sweep and pick up litter tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. We will call our hellos to each other this morning when I leave the house, this afternoon when I return, and later this evening when I go out and come back again as the sun is setting. I know she will be there because she is always there.

*****

Just not in the winter. On the second floor, from the picture window scarred with ice patterns, I watch for a sign of spring two doors down.

Show Me Your Stomach!

Nora Ephron says she regrets not having worn a bikini for the whole year she was 26. And that if any young women are reading her, to go out and put on a bikini and not take it off until they are 34. I like this advice.

Story Problem

Q. Jeff Lynne, Manfred Mann, and Julia Child are each standing at the three corners of a right-angled isosceles triangle, where the hypotenuse is 5.8x m in length. If Manfred Mann is 0.04x ft tall and Jeff Lynne has just written "Strange Magic," how long will it take the musical geniuses, walking at an equal +0.0004x m/s velocity, to reach Julia Child at the right angle, where she will teach them to whip up a deliciously catchy "Blinded By the Electric Light Orchestra" rock ballad casserole?


A. Julia Child will take one step and crush them both with the pestle that is her size 15 foot.

Saudades: Early Days

Falling backward from my mother's lap. The lamplight shines on us, on the yellow and orange couch, within our old house painted gold, the color the neighbor kids mocked. She holds my five-year-old feet as the blood rushes to my head, which dangles over the cliff of her knees. After this game, we will point to the pictures and read the large print from the illustrated book of Bible stories, and then she will put me to bed. I will insist on one more kiss, and one more hug, and then just one more, and another. I will ask her to explain to me how to fall asleep. I will squeeze the soft stuffed cocker spaniel and pretend it is real, only sleeping. I will get up a half hour later and whimper to the living room where she sits alone on the yellow and orange couch. I will plead for a kitten, which would help me fall asleep and which I want more than even her kisses, but she will be unmoved.

*****

Hugging my father's legs, my head resting against his knees. We lay on the brown and white couch in the basement while the stereo plays. I sing along to the words about cheeseburgers and liking mine with lettuce and tomato and Heinz 57, even though I eat grilled cheese sandwiches almost exclusively. Our favorite is the Volcano song, and at my favorite part, we yell, "Mr. Utley!" I think I am the only one he's played this song for.

*****

In our wood-paneled basement, he and my brother saw dowel rods and nail wooden blocks together. My uncle comes over and the three of them make sawdust. My father smokes a pipe and occasionally goes out to the driveway to smoke a cigar, which the neighbor kids do not approve of.

*****

Brian and I slide down the stairs to the basement in sleeping bags, on old refrigerator boxes.

We take our dad's tennis rackets and play them like guitars to "Footloose," and I kick off my shoes when the lyric specifies.

Brian builds a robot from a plastic garbage can, and I lie on my stomach, applying crayons to books that were not meant to be colored.

 *****

My cousins come over, and we all put our sleeping bags over our heads, mummifying ourselves. While I am still giggling, they throw theirs off without telling me and whack me to the ground with pillows. They build wooden guns that shoot rubber bands and force me upstairs, into the arms of my mother, who doesn't believe me that the boys were hitting me or threatening to shoot my stuffed animals. After I while, I go back down the steps and sit on the brown and white couch. I watch them play video games, and we all hide when my aunt comes back to take them home.