Last Night in Maine

                                                      Peaceful Existence
     Grans and I savoring our last day together. Doing a whole lot of nothing and having a ball.

Dover-Foxcroft

                                                              Dexter Swamp

                                                         Fallen Tree

                                                     Brown Glass River

                                                            Bell and Lake

                                                      Dana

The sun stood pale and low in the sky as I got into my car yesterday morning. Winding country roads took me inland, past birch and pine forests, through old mill towns. The mills themselves are empty. They languish in each town center, slouching in defeat. There is little money in the middle of this state, but there is water everywhere. It wells up from the ground, pools in each passing back yard and rushes in clear-brown streams. I snake through Newport and Dexter on my way to Dover-Foxcroft. The ground is soggy, the landscape green, gray and alive. I find my friend, Dana, sitting on a chair overlooking a silver lake. Her knee is swollen, puffy and blue-black, but she’s still smiling. We look out to the mountains beyond the lake and catch up. We are both in Maine for a short trip, and ours, happily, happen to overlap.

To the Sea

                                                   Blue Boats

                                         Quiet Harbor

 

Pattern in Water

Lobster Traps

                                                    
                                                  Out to Sea

Restless and in need of an outing, I drive Grandma to the shore. The ocean smells salty, fishy, like clams, and a sharp cold breeze blows against us as we shuffle over splintered planks. I hold her arm as we brave uneven ground. She presses heavy-weigh against me. Slow, careful steps. Grandma exhales and makes a grunting sound. “Pain?” I ask. She nods, breathless. I hold her tight.

For lunch we order fried haddock sandwiches. They arrive greasy, drenched with tartar sauce and American cheese. Grandma rests. I wander the docks, stepping on mussels, halved and pecked clean by gulls. They are iridescent, brittle, blue. I wave at Grandma. She waves back.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I’m not the walker I used to be.” I fill my lungs with the smell of sea, reluctant to leave.  “How’s your hip?” “It hurts.” She looks out past a line of boats bobbing in the bay, past fisherman folding their nets. “You get old, you get tired, and your body aches. That’s life.” We sit and absorb the blue-hues in silence. “Ready to go home?” “Ready.”

The Kennebec River

                                      High Water Tonight

                                            Bridge to Bunker Island

                                     Granny's House is Right in the Middle

                                            Dandelion Seeds

Grandma and I sit in green adirondack chairs and watch the Kennebec. River water slides past, its surface rippled and reflecting the peach sun-streaked sky above. We watch the water. A damn regulates the daily tides. Some days water runs low, lazy, sluggishly past us and large gray stone jut out, smooth and long across the bank. Tonight water runs high and rushing, muddy and quick. We watch the water and watch the sun sink deeper into the sky. "This is what I like to do," Grans says, pointing and flexing her toes. We pass books between us until shadows steal our words. "Time to go in," she says. I follow. I'm on Grandma time these days.

Old Photos & Grandma

Fat baby Aiyanna and Grandma. "You were healthy," Granny says. "I was fat!" "You were an absolute handful. On the go every minute or you'd cry. People who know you now would say, 'What's new?'"

Granny: "You'd played outside all day. You loved to dress up, make up stories and write plays. Look at you, you could get away with anything."


"One night I took you out to see the fog. When you couldn't put your hands on it, you asked, "Is it made of magic? Can we dance in the magic?' You always wanted to dance."

                                             "Don't you have a drink at five o'clock?"

Step North

                                                  Market at Union Square

 

                                                         Spring in the City

                                                         Dancing, Dancing

                                                          My Dear Friends

I wandered the streets from West 4th to Union Square on my last full day in New York City. I spent over an hour at my favorite bookstore, The Strand, and got lost in the stacks. In the African history section, searching for a book titled Don’t Let’s Go to the Dogs Tonight, a wave of fatigue rippled through my body. All of a sudden the travel backpack I was wearing became extremely heavy, blood seemed to pool and pulse at my temples and I needed to get out of there immediately. I bought two books and rushed outside. Fresh air didn’t help at all (is there fresh air in the city?) and I walked to Union Square to rest. Behind a statue of a man riding a stallion, I stretched out on a park bench. My headache increased, my throat became scratchy and I knew I was coming down with something. With this bug slowly gripping me, I watched a pair of breakdancers and a thousand strange faces pass by. I felt completely overwhelmed by the constant motion of the city.

I spent the night on 125 Street with my dear friends Sahnah and Anisa. How is that time changed nothing between us? Our bond is so strong. ... I woke at 8 a.m. with a terrible sore throat. I took two Ibuprofen, packed my bag, squeezed my friends, took the subway to Penn Station, took the New Jersey Transit to Ridgewood and walked thirty minutes to where I left my car. Then, feeling slightly less horrible, I drove 7 hours to Maine. A long, long haul.

As soon as I arrived, I hugged my Grandma and passed out. I’ve been resting well, listening to Granny hum as she strolls through the house, writing, reading and nursing a bottle of ginger ale to soothe my throat. Maine is all green and so peaceful. I still feel sluggish and slow.

(Also, just so you all know, Granny doesn’t have a computer or internet in her house. I have to go the Fairfield Public Library and use an ancient old machine to update the blog or check email. They are very suspicious of my USB drive. Call me if you need anything, since I am truly unplugged.)

 

New York, New York

In New York we live everywhere. On top of and below each other, in skinny buildings that reach for the sky, in underground tunnels that hollow the island. There are people on each street corner selling plastic, selling overripe fruit, running, walking, and whirling around each other. I feel overwhelmed and overjoyed. I miss the madness, the chaos, the sense that we are together yet absolutely alone in this strange human landscape.

Right now as I write, I’m looking out at a tree-line street in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, where I’m staying with a close friend of mine from college. Cindy’s a PhD student studying Geography. She rides her bike everywhere and has beautiful wild-black hair. Her apartment has large windows and bright wood floors. I hear an ambulance, look outside and see a line of brownstone houses that reach on and on and on. I miss the madness, I think, leaning into glass. I miss the anything and everything of this tall, endless city. 

                                                          F Train to Manhattan