Summer Fall Winter Spring

Summer

I remember living in my old neighborhood between 6th and the river. It was warm at night so I would leave the window open. Lying in bed sleeping a little or trying to—I could hear the sounds; garbled, muffled, indistinct, of people talking outside—spanish and english, all blending together. The especially loud, cheery voice of the woman next door, maybe a little drunk. She sat on her balcony and practiced a tiny accordion. It sounded unsure, the songs vague. I could hear her progress, slowly.

The warm air drifted through the curtains. A distant, but familiar, sensation crept in—a sort of peace. It was a comforting feeling. I lay still and listened. Trucks and cars and children screeching. There was the smell of diesel, the heavy groan of the garbage trucks, the sound of men, shouting.

I remember taking the train across the bridge into Brooklyn. I walked under the trees past a brick tenement and saw big black garbage bags spilling open onto the sidewalk, clothes and books and household items scattered everywhere. The sun shone through the leaves onto the trash—I saw a flash of red—an old dress, I picked it up—and there was more: a pile of letters, in Polish. I tried to read them but couldn’t, someone walked past and told me that an old woman had died and these were the things left in her apartment. It was hard to reconcile a lifetime’s worth of stuff thrown out onto the sidewalk with so much sunshine. I put a couple of the letters in my pocket, and kept walking.

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Fall

I remember when I lived in Portland with Jesse. We worked hard and saved money and after a while we were able to buy a tiny record store from a friend. It was mostly fun. Most of the customers were men. Sometimes they brought in their own recordings and tried to convince me to stock them. If I didn’t agree they would ask to speak to the owner. Other men would come in just to hang out and talk. Some of them were irritating or creepy, but some of them became friends. I would sit back with my feet up on the counter and listen to them talk about their problems, their relationships. To them I was a happily married person with my own house and my own business, full of wisdom and good advice. It almost felt true.

We split up after selling the store. I kept the house. I remember I was in the kitchen, making a pie and listening to Mozart’s “Dissonance” quartet. Jesse came over, just to hang out. He sat in the other room while I worked, trying to strum along on his guitar. The beginning of the Dissonance quartet is uneasy, almost despairing, but then it bursts into a melody so joyful …I was trying to keep things in perspective, and Mozart seemed to help. Maybe because he doesn't just compose, he speaks— and while I was listening to the Dissonance Quartet, I was sure I could hear him say “everything is going to be okay.”

I brought the pie out of the oven. It looks amazing, said Jesse. We ate.

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Winter

The change of season came suddenly. I came down abruptly from the long days of summer—with its pervasive sense of high spirits—the parties: on the porch, the roof, the hood of his car. The sipping and flitting, not, like a butterfly, from flower to flower, but from this guy, to that one.

Now it was wet and cold. It got dark early. I told myself—no more staying out late, no more fucking off, no more men. It was time to take myself in hand, to stop flailing. I stayed home, made soup, curled up under a blanket and read until late. It helped stave off the chill, and kept it back a bit—like the fiery torch of Aragorn, held out against the wraiths.

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Spring

A new state, a new town. A small house on a dead-end gravel road. It sits above a river, about a hundred yards or so. There is grass everywhere, very green, with little daisies. Brambles cover the hillside, getting ready to flower. I imagine a whole world hidden under their thorny maze: raccoons and mice and silent fawns, keeping still.

In the mornings I sit on the porch and drink my coffee. The sun comes up. Everything looks brand new. Sometimes deer graze in the yard, maybe four or five—a mother or two with their young. They walk past with a delicate step, and look at me with their big eyes.

I sit on the porch at night too. I like how cold the air is. The sky is such a deep blue-black. The stars are bright. It seems like they’re closer somehow, up here in the north. I listen to the crickets chirp. I think that’s all there is, at first—just crickets and stars. But then I hear a dog barking, faintly, far away. Geese honk overhead. The cat comes out onto the porch, a black shadow in the blacker night.

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