Are You Staying Cool Enough, Babe?

We are on day three of temperatures near ninety degrees here in western New York.  Every summer we get several stretches of weather like this, and every summer I wish for central air.  Earlier this month, we went so far as to call for an estimate. “Let’s just see what it would cost,” I told my husband.  The answer: a LOT.  As it turns out our 120-year-old house is not well-suited for central air—something about no cold air returns upstairs and other things I don’t remember because I didn’t really understand them to begin with.  The bottom line is we’re back to fans and window units in two of the upstairs bedrooms.  Seeing an air conditioner in the window always make me think of my dad.  All the years we were growing up, he had one in his bedroom.  I remember feeling that blast of cold air when I walked in to borrow his scissors or to ask him a question in when he was working at his desk.  Years later when I had grown up and moved away, the first question my dad asked when he called on hot summer days was “Are you staying cool enough, babe?”  I wrote this poem a few years ago, and on this hot summer day I am thinking of my dad and of the way parents never stop taking care of their kids.

Are you staying warm enough?

he would ask when he called

on cold winter days

ever since he heard

that our dog's water froze

in her dish

in our cold New Hampshire

kitchen.

It only happened once

a long time ago,

but he never forgot.

"I'll send you some money

to help with your heating bill.

Turn your thermostat up a few degrees

I don't want the kids to be cold."

Are you staying cool enough?

He would ask when he called

during summer heat waves.

Despite my reassurances

of fans, backyard wading pools,

and sprinkler parties,

a second call came one summer day.

"Be watching for a surprise delivery.

It should be arriving soon. . .

Oh, I'll go ahead and tell you:

I got you an air conditioner.

You need one room to cool off in."

I wish I could call him today

to tell him

that a crazy hot June

drew us to the old air conditioner

that's been resting in the corner

of the bedroom through

several temperate summers,

buried under rolls of wrapping paper,

blankets, and stuffed animals

I want to tell him

how his grandson

lugged it up the stairs alone

and helped me wrestle it into

the window.

I want him to know that one room

is now blissfully cool.

But he's out of range

of phones,

of cold snaps,

of heat waves.

And I can't tell him

that although

we're warm enough in winter

and cool enough in summer,

I miss the asking,

and I miss my dad.

Watching Them Sleep

I've always liked watching my children sleep. There's something about seeing them in those unguarded moments that links the present with the past.  My 22-year-old son was home over the weekend, and when I saw him stretched out on the couch, time collapsed, and I remembered him not only at fifteen, when I wrote the lines below, but also at all the ages he's ever been. 

A mother sits
watching her son sleep.
She thinks back to when
he napped curled up on
just one cushion of the couch.
She thinks farther back to when
he slept in her arms.
She remembers how his little body
relaxed against hers when
he dropped off to sleep.  She
recalls the sweet curve of his cheek,
the tickle of his soft baby hair
against her lips when
she kissed his head.
Now his fifteen-year-old body
stretches the full length of the couch,
his feet still in T-Mac sneakers
dangle off the arm.
She hardly ever gets to watch
him sleep anymore.  At night
he sleeps behind a tightly closed door.
She wants to smooth back
the blondish hair that hangs
over his forehead
and kiss his teenage brow.
But she knows she can't.
It would wake him,
he would object.
He wouldn't like the idea of
being watched while he slept
(or being the subject of a poem).
Instead she sits in silence watching him
for as long as she can,
fixing the image in her mind,
so she can pull it out
years from now
and remember.

Golden Summer

It's been seven years since the first of our three children graduated from high school and the emptying of our nest began.  And every year around this time when graduation is just around the corner, I think about how I felt at the beginning of that summer:

GOLDEN SUMMER

I want a golden summer

before change walks in the door

I want to memorize the days

before one is gone

and two remain.

I want bright blue sunny days

and starry moonlit nights

to laugh and talk and dream and play

before five is four

and life is strange.

I want to wake up early

while the house is still asleep.

I want time to hope and pray

to read and write

and think.

I want the tang of lemonade,

the smoke of barbecue,

the ripe sweet red of berries,

and soft-serve

ice cream cones,

I want to stay up watching movies

and play every game we own.

I want to s t r e t c h out every minute,

and I want time

to s l o w.

I want to bounce with roof balls,

to soar high with a kite,

to skim the air with Frisbee flair,

to dip and skip

in flight.

I want to think about what was

and soak up all that is

before I face the what will be

when summer ends

and change begins.