Silences

Summer


My mother gave me diamonds
when I was nine. I took them
with clumsy hands, emptied them
from the blue satin satchel, then
took them outside to see
what colors they made when
the sunlight settled over them.


Wanting to see a pathway of stars, I
tossed them into the drive
and delighted in the way the streams of
light danced across the yard, and all the rocks --
even the gravel -- changed from gray and brown
to silver and blue and gold.

I called to the window for her to come and see
the heaven of stones outside, to come and feel
the way a sack of stars scattered
made the whole day seem part of a dream
when you wake and find your pillow damp
with tears, smiling.


But the look on her face
when she set eyes on my rapture
of rainbows rising over the drive --
when she saw the gift thrown away, just
tossed outside like yesterday’s trash -- told me

I had wounded her by failing
to see what she meant.

      The silence between us now
      is like the silence between us then.
      My delight is her dismay, again.
      Opening my throat is like opening a bottle of sand
      and pouring it over the words
      I almost said.
                               I couldn't speak.
                               Not then, not now.


Autumn

Autumn always brought geese, v-shaped flocks
flying south. She would take me outside, point

to the sky, show me
the wonder there: she saw it


for a second that flickered like a falling leaf, caught it
like one catches a glimpse of a diamond
before it is swallowed in the sand.


And then she sad that the wind was cold
and that it was no wonder the birds went south.

My mother hated fall.
The browns, the golds, the rusts
could only mean one thing: death.
Summer was dying
and soon the windows would be covered with frost.

I bathed in the leaves
that had drifted into beds of color.
I could taste life
in the smell of them, could live there
forever.


          The silence was cool. She was inside.
          I was here.


Winter


The world was white with wonder, and I
was no better for it. I watched from within
while the wind howled at the windows, while Jack Frost
etched diamond secrets on the panes.


Once the last black cloud had drifted eastward, she dressed me
in my warmest, wrapped me tight like a tiny Jesus so tight
I couldn’t touch my boots. Then she took me
to the outside magic land of wonder, all new.


Her eyes sparkled like icicles, warming in the sun,
and she seemed so much a part of the masterpiece
until she ran inside
to escape Old Man Winter’s cold hands.


                                            But I let them catch me.


          Sometimes I lie in the snow
          and talk to Orion.  The geese are south;
          I am older.  She is inside.
                           There is no silence like this.


Spring

The April lake is still as cold
as frostbite, but the air is changing.
I can see her changing.

Her face is brighter, the color of new roses

blossoming on her cheeks.


I am sure that spring is here.


There are no patches of white on the ground, no ice
hanging from the roof.  Easter lilies
are growing by the clothesline.

Resurrection is blooming like geraniums
and I feel it breathing in my hair.


She has given me her diamond necklace.
I take it with slender white hands, tie
the silver clasp tightly around my neck.
 
She says I seem so much a lady.
 
I feel the cool of diamonds burning on my neck and wonder
at how they are so cautiously strung
                                                         never to be scattered.


They glisten like a circle of stars
about my neck, though I’m not so sure diamonds
were fashioned for daughters like me.


c. Melissa K. Dalman, 1993