YAHRZEIT
(Jewish observance of the anniversary of a loved one’s death)
Mrs. Waite is walking to church.
Don’t say hi. She cannot answer.
See her? There? A tall, thin lady
With the improbably silver hair?
It’s Sunday. Her husband David
Stands on the lawn, rake in hand,
And watches until she disappears.
See him? There? A tall, thin man
With disappearing hair? Then he
Turns back to the matter at hand:
A perfect lawn. They both attend
Our Lady of Perennial Despair.
They are our next door neighbors
But they inhabit their home lightly
As if they are space invaders still
Not sure about the local language.
Other Earth concepts — don’t pile
Your recycles in your neighbor’s
Driveway — also escape their ken.
Their daughter Ivey, who all but
Lived with us one summer before
Her parents realized that it raised
Hopes they would also talk to us,
Is looking out the window, dazed.
They know a few things, though.
Every spring we get an envelope
Delivered in the mail — backwards
It seems, since their house is just
After ours when the letter carrier
Comes by — soliciting money for
The American Heart Association.
They open their door to children
Every Halloween and offer them
A bowl of candies, yet even then
Are unable to say hello to anyone
But stand in a close silent cluster.
If you stand out on the front lawn
With a rake in your hand, just so,
It has been said that David might
Come over and say things to you.
Maybe Nancy chit-chats at church
But probably she just knows how
To rise, sit, kneel in the right
Order and say "Peace be with you."
The day your Mom ruptured a disc
And the EMTs wheeled her away,
Nancy asked through the hedges
If I needed her to watch you two.
One rumor has it that the Waites
Call the police on the 4th of July.
It is also thought they telephoned
Village Hall on the morning after
Thanksgiving to complain because
Four plastic Halloween pumpkins
Were still sitting on our stoop.
The inspector who came to tell us
Said he could not reveal the name
Of the complainant but he did roll
His eyes toward the Waites’ house
And advise "This is only a warning."
Still, how can we help but worry?
Our town is an inner ring suburb,
A home world sustained by codes
And methods for enforcing codes,
But everybody does not embrace
The same code at the same time.
The Waites are so close, just one
Thickness of a green arbor-vitae.
Every evening we see their faces
Framed in their kitchen window —
Nancy, David, and tall thin Ivey
As they dry the dinner dishes with
Plaid towels of interwoven wishes.
These are your neighbors. Once
You ate and played with Ivey —
Do you remember? Once Mrs. Waite
Almost watched you when your Mom
Was being put into an ambulance.
Your mother could just collapse
Again some day, when I’m away.
One day, all three of the Waites
Might open up their mouths and
Say one awesome thing, a comet
Heralding a marvelous spring.
Now Mr. Waite resumes his raking.
Ivey fades back into the watery
Pool of their kitchen to resume
Whatever she was doing before
Her mother headed out to church.
Who we are is sculpted by forces
Beyond our control that set us up
As portals each to our own cosmos,
But remember how the warm night
Caroming with stars and fireflies
Colonized the expanses between
Who you were and who she was?
Nancy goes through the motions
In church, David pulls and herds
His leaves into one long mound,
I stack these lines like lumber,
And you kids count off the days
Until those daring rescue ships
That all kids manage to imagine
Arrive triumphant at last from
Wherever it is they come from —
We are builders who must build
One kind of structure or another
To have any chance of enduring
A universe so bent on ignoring us.
What but dumb can a universe be
Being an eternal uninspired zero
Expanding at reckless velocity
While we tiny flecks of flotsam
Reach out our hands to connect
As if we could infinitely stretch?
But what save us are the houses:
Screen doors, kitchen windows,
Front stoops and barefoot lawns,
A big brimming pot of spaghetti
Staring down five paper plates
With the confidence of a pasha,
A church in the shape of X or T
Where bells extol our mastery
Over the fallen leaf, the dropped
Beat in one iamb, and the spirits
Desperate to embezzle what we
All together agree to agree upon,
Namely, that we are neighbors —
Maybe not the best of neighbors,
But still, in this relationship
We can outrun whatever comes at us,
Circulating a tiny white envelope
For the sake of each other’s heart.
The doorbell rings. Trick or treat.
See how the Waites are clustered
As if your Ninja and your Reaper
Are going to decapitate the bronze
Of Saint Martin de Porres sweeping
The vestibule? Instead, select one
Of these chocolate bars, one each,
And go twirling back into the dark.
The plastic pumpkins by our door,
The stuffed coat a headless ogre —
They surely do a great deal more
Than simply state "This is October."
But it is late November now, just
Nine days until the final curbside
Collection of leaves: earth-movers
Partnered with huge dump-trucks.
No one has to tell David "Rake up."
This kind of observance is serious
Business — he cannot bear to think
How many things it keeps at bay.
It bothers him that we don’t rake,
But we have something raking us
With chilly talons, so I sit here,
And your mother is on her guitar.
So where are you, where are you
Right now when the seesaw plank
We ride on teeters in the balance
Between who we are gazing up at
And who is gazing down at us? —
Beams as painstaking but flimsy as
Your Elmer’s glue papier-mâchés
Holding our warm souls together
While the circling ice scavenges
Tears shed in inclement weather.
What are you thinking? December has
Tiptoed closer in its mask of snow,
So your Mom and I need to know.
Is that Mrs. Waite returning? See?
There? Tall, thin, the silver hair?
Mr. Waite’s already disappeared
Back into the house, leaving only
Leaves to beacon his wife home.
But look. Is that Ivey’s face up
In the round third-floor window?
They rotate like the three moons
Of the sad demoted planet Pluto
All vying for the has-been’s eye
Because it once regarded them —
Nix, Hydra, Charon — as its apples.
That is how we both regard you two:
So very bright and very beautiful
It will hurt to discover you gone
Off into your own remote orbits
Because at first it will seem that
You are simply flying off in no
Particular direction — toward no
Particular redemption — then no,
A long span of observation will
Eventually reveal an orientation.
Now I can hear my wife calling.
"Tom? Tom! Where are the kids?"
They’re not with you? I think.
"Stevie! Johnny! Snow is falling!"
Is that a Mona-Lisa/Cheshire-cat
Grin flickering on Nancy’s lips?
What Christian dyes her hair zinc?
What would Jesus the Colorist do?
"Tom, never mind, I found them!
Look guys, it’s snow! No, don’t
Go outside with those suits on!"
Nancy opens the door and goes in.
Ivey’s moon-face is gone now too.
All the windows stare back dark
And dull as if no one is home.
David’s breastwork of leaves
In the gutter means that when
The high-school football fans
Begin arriving in an hour or so
They’ll cram all of their SUVs
In front of our house, which means
That when my father comes later
To grieve with us, he has to park
In the Tow Zone up the block.
But it’s not the end of the world.
Nothing is, is it? Not loving once,
Not the Waites’ toxic indifference,
Not dreading Dad’s yahrzeit visit.
I guess I'd better go downstairs
And see if anyone wants lunch.
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