November, Eighth Birthday

This being the first day when the fluffy stuff falls

over the lawn and meadow, it’s too cold

to meditate in front of the open door.

Still, I carry my turquoise mug outside

and stand

in the whip of the wind.

Snowflakes fall into my coffee.

This is a day when there is nothing

pressing.

So I go very slowly. I bundle up and

take a walk.

Then back to the mat to do yoga.

In between I am visited by a

an image that scours out my heart.

It is November, 1960, and

I am seven years old. My birthday

is coming in a day or two.

But my family has just been

uprooted from Connecticut

to upstate New York

where my dad has a good job

with IBM. Health benefits.

A pension.

When we moved into the

brand new Cape Cod house

the upstairs where we three kids sleep

is just two-by-fours

and thick chunks of insulation

the color of pink flesh.

That was such a scary time.

I’m remembering my baby

sister crying and saying she

wanted to go back home to

her “real house.” I remember

my  mother, distracted.

I am pretty sure she

was deeply sad, so homesick,

and scared shitless being two hours

away from her beloved parents and

family.

Suddenly I am determined

to run away.

I leave by the back door in the garage.

I wander through the

neighborhood of white houses.

Snow is crusty on

the ground and ice is in

my chest.

I’m not sure but I think I

cried, feeling sorry for myself.

Because it was almost

my birthday and that was supposed

to be a happy time and

I am not happy at all.

At some point I

decided there was no

point in running away.

In my mind, I am still

so awfully sad. I am still poised

by the back door into the

garage. My hand is in a mitten

and my heart is empty.

Today I see that little girl

and she is still crying. I

hold her in my memory

and wrap my arms around

her tightly. I pray that she may

know how much she was

loved then and

now.