Velvet Verbosity

Pediatrician waiting room, 3 p.m. - He is soft…soft face, soft brown eyes, soft long hair, soft body, soft shoes. His body whispers of warm waters, composting leaves and earth, endless gentle streams slowly smoothing the rocks.

His son is a small version of him and he dotes after his baby sister, she a pink cheeked child of delight and eager wonder. The father watches his son rock his sister on a rocking horse. The son looks to his father as he rocks her…once, twice, and again…smiling, seeking reassurance.

It comes, it never wavers. The father’s approval is a beam streaming from eye to eye, unfaltering.

State Street, 4:25 p.m. - He is happy, happy, happy. His grin is almost silly, so full of happiness and pride. “Giddy” or “delirious with joy” come to mind as I watch him. Mom and baby on a bike in front of him, he takes up the rear where they cannot see the sparkles of love lighting up his eyes, brighter than the late afternoon sun that blinds me as I drive.

Lacrosse game, 6:30 p.m. - He has come straight from work to sit on the cold metal of the bleachers. The wind flaps at the bottom corner of his navy business suit. When he smiles, he is a movie star with his bright tiny pearl teeth flashing beneath black sunglasses. He is perfectly trimmed and perfectly proud.

12:30 and I’m fading but I’ve still got pages to write. I need coffee but since I only drink it on a blue moon I’ve got none to brew.

I get in the car hoping something is open. I am still every inch a Northeast Kingdom (where they roll up the dirt roads at 6pm) girl so I assume the world stops at sundown.

The coffee shop windows are lit up. Good. I will have coffee tonight. Inside there is actually a LINE! Other Smithies getting their caffeine on.

A compact Indian man sits, impeccably dressed for the hour, at a corner table reading. His girlfriend contrasts him with her hippy stylings but I know they are together by the way their necks arc to bring their heads together across the small square of table.

I wait almost 15 minutes for my coffee. 15 minutes is far too long when sleep deprived and not having had a decent meal in days. I start to crave all the tastes on the menu. I want it all…sweet, tart, bitter, hot and filling, fluffy indulgence.

I can’t help myself. My turn and I order my coffee AND a smoothie. Mango…yum.

*Note on picture - I googled coffee images and this one came up on the first page. I recognized it right away as Michael Wood’s, a contemplative photographer I studied with in Montreal. However, when I clicked the link, it was contained in an index on someone’s MIT page. No credit as far as I can tell, but I am almost 100% sure this is Michael Wood’s. I’ll look it up tomorrow when I have more time.

Our elementary school was starting a band program. Everyone on the bus was all abuzz after the day’s assembly where the instruments were paraded out and played before our wondering eyes and ears.

“I’m going to play the flute,” says one girl, bouncing in her seat.

“Me too!” parrot several girls.

“Well, I’m going to play the clarinet,” declares Dotty (Snotty Dotty as I call her in my head).

She turns to me, “What are you going to play?”

Thoughts of a shiny silver flute held delicately against my lips flit across my inner vision. I feel Snotty Dotty’s eyes boring into me.

I shrug. “Probly the trombone,” I say casually.

Snotty Dotty bristles, “What? You can’t play that! The trombone is for booyysssss.”

I shrug again.

*****

And that, dear readers, is how I came to play the trombone for six years. The first year I had to use my foot to reach all the positions…yeah, I was that tiny.

In Shannock the best sledding hill is my backyard. On snow days all the kids from the neighborhood gather there, dragging their bladed sleds and blue saucers. The “hill” is an enormous bowl in the ground…a crater. So we have contests to see who can make a run down the hill and make it the furthest up the other side. Cheating is not tolerated and warrants snow bombs upon the perpetrator.

We are tireless, pushing the trails further and further up the other side of the hill. We sweat inside our snowsuits and our noses turn red and run. We soak our mittens and ignore frozen toes until it becomes unbearable. Then we go inside, our lungs full of winter air and our cheeks windslapped red.

My first bike crash is at the hands of our neighborhood bully. I am 4 or 5 years old, riding my red tricycle down the uneven sidewalk, back and forth between my front drive and the tree that marks the end of our property. She is there, behind the tree, waiting for me. She steps out as I approach, hands on hips and announces I can go no further. I pay her no mind as I try to move past. She knocks me off my tricycle and I run home, blood running on my knees and elbows. I get patched up and run back outside for another go. She knocks me off again and again and each time I go to my mother for bandaids. After three rounds my mother says, “no more”, and I feel the bully has won.
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It is the summer of my 7th year and I have my first two-wheel bike. The grass is vivid, soft and damp under my tires. My father runs alongside holding the back of the seat, and suddenly I am flying down the grassy hill of our backyard. I look back to grin proudly at my father and he grins back…one proud moment before the crash. My father is running but I am laughing…exhilerated.
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I am flying down the road, trees whipping past, a pack of my friends behind me on their bikes. We are so fast and I am leading them. Old Mr. Peabody is standing on the side of the road and his dog that yips all day and night sits on the other side, a white ball of fur and teeth. Mr. Peabody calls him just as I streak past. My front tire hits fur and bone and my face meets the pavement. Thankfully the four bloody teeth I spit out are baby teeth.
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Our driveway is a gravel paved U. I am still naive to the pitfalls of bike riding and do not realize that gravel gives way under fast, cornering tires. As I speed into the turn of our drive, the front tire jerks to the left and I cannot hold it. I crash in a great display of scraping and flying dust. When I pull up my shirt to inspect the damage there is gravel embedded in the angry red gashes across my ribs.