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  • Summer of Holding Still
  • Dana Roeser (bio)

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...

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