Reflections

My dream came back, the one where I am drowning. How it happens keeps changing. The first time, I was both on land and in the water (as only in dreams), watching myself sink and disappear out of view. I remember feeling terribly helpless. The next time I went under, I stared out into the…

“Mama?” my six-year-old son asked, turning toward me. “Why don’t we just give him money to buy a house?” Solid reasoning, I thought, having just tiptoed across a browning lawn to a man who lay bundled in blankets. He was asleep on a large circular air vent in the shadows of one of the most prestigious universities in the nation. My son did not want to wake him. Neither did I.

“Mama, when are we going home?” he whispered, his eyes glued to the car window. I didn’t know how to answer him. I wasn’t sure I wanted to go home. “You miss being home,” I said as a way of deflection.

“Yes,” my son said, quietly, not averting his gaze. My heart sank. The silence between us grew.

I went to the willows today. And found God. I slipped the long, leafy tendrils in between my fingers. I’d set out for a short hike, hoping to take my mind off my worries before picking up my son, when a field of tall yellow wildflowers yielded to a cluster of willow trees on the bank of a wide pond. A nearby heron sunned itself in the still waters.

I drive past the same man in his drab olive coat. He’s standing on a thin slice of cement in the middle of the road near the entrance to the freeway. He’s a young man with a goatee. In the summer his dark wavy hair brushes against his shoulders. In the winter it’s hidden under his hat. His cardboard sign remains the same: Homeless. Need help. Thanks.

Years ago I attended the first eighth grade graduation for a charter school I helped open. That morning, pressed for time, I raced right past a sea of navy blue caps and gowns flanked with Kente cloth. Everyone was so dressed up, high heels and suits, bow ties and up-dos. I couldn’t believe they were my kids.

“It will show up,” is my standard line after something has gone missing in our home. My favorite baseball cap, my son’s action figure, my cell phone. Some things require a bit more intense intervention, like, well, my phone. But for others, I have learned to stop searching and trust that one day, without any effort at all, we will stumble upon the hidden treasure.

The plants in my home are dying. One by one, their demise is stretching out across the long winter days. I wish I could blame it on the shock of having no heat during a single-digit freeze. But several plants died before that, and three more are dropping leaves as if they are no longer related. My attempts to revitalize them, and dare I add, maybe even bloom, are not working.