- Summer of Holding Still
Robert E. “Robbie” Clark, Jr., 53, of West Lafayette, died Saturday . . . as the result of injuries suffered in a motorcycle accident.
Lafayette Journal-Courier
I was almost hit in the faceby a dove just then.On the sidewalk by Salisbury Street.It flipped its wingstrying to get some purchaseon the air. Last night I saw an orangelight cross the skysilently. So many noisyexplosions, rocket fire. I wasout calling the cat and the lightcame, high like a plane or [End Page 117] a copter but no sound. That nightI had that chokingthing again. I flippedonto all fours and croaked,“Somebody, Pleasehelp me.” My husbandwas two floors down, mydaughters in Francebecoming other people. The barnswallow side-swiped my head, verynearly, when I steppedout of DC’s stall. I wasstartled. It careenedand swooped down the aisle.
Last night the Polish candleballoons, the orange-glowing parachutes. I found [End Page 118] one on my roof thismorning.
On my run there was awoodchuck hustlingto the underbrushwhen I surprised it eatingmulberries on the greenslope. Grackles pickingripe berries from the branchesbefore they fell.And on the other sideof the river, smashed flat onthe sidewalk, a baby bird,small stumpy beginner wings.A strong rubbery bill andbig feet. They were webbedand not all theway unfurled. Beginner feet. Babies [End Page 119] have been born, William,my great nephew,on the day of the PolishCandle balloons, the sky lanternsa repeatedly climaxinglight show I saw from myoffice window.
They showeda picture of Robbie’sbike in a ditch on Indiana 25going north to Delphi.Robbie always said hello.He wore a bandana on hishead and surprisedme by remembering my name. He hada really sweet smile. Whyare those the ones whoalways die? Do they want [End Page 120] to make a lastingimpression?
Once last summer, at thebeach I said, “Help me, help me,” in thenight. Don was sleeping on the porch. Thenext day he said, “I thoughtyou were on thephone.”
I thoughtit was a fucking ufo. A tinyone but potent. Andthen the other one came alongbehind it, identicalflight path. Suppose it hitme. I learned today on theInternet, it falls when thewax has been expendedand the flame dies out. I readin the morning paper, they [End Page 121] were set off in memoryof a young personwho had died. I don’tthink I knew that one. On myroof, this morning, a little charredred paper umbrella topwith white threads as ona parachute leading into one strongerstring and a blackened cardboardcylinder suspendedbelow, a miniature gondola. Goodomen.
My husband had the mulberrytrees in the backyard cut down. I knowwhere the others are aroundthe neighborhood. I surprisegrackles in the branches [End Page 122] and woodchucks eating the windfallin the grass.
My fatherstill swims. He is 89. He has gogglesand flippers. My shoulders kill me whenI swim. Is this how it’sgoing to be? My dad crippledpretty much by osteoporosisand Parkinson’s asks this questionnot nearly as often asI do.
The miracles of the Internet:I receive news of the suicideof a woman my age I didn’t knowbut whom I would have graduatedfrom high school with had I graduatedfrom that school. As if I don’t haveenough suicides ofmy own—she was “quiet” [End Page 123] and “creative”—and fatal accidentsof questionable origin.
I acted all cheerful when Katherinetold me that thingabout the insurance audit,that it was likely goingto mean the endof our sessions. I canhandle anything when I’min the room with her. Howidiotic! A child with magicalsky-lantern thinking!
I’m telling you they had a picturein the paper of his bike lyingin a ditch...