Tonight
was the opening of the Christmas lights
In
downtown Tangipahoa Parish, Louisiana
There is an
extra tax to light the streets
Even the
giant light bulb crucifix by the train tracks
I pick up
my daughter from my old house every other Friday now
The porch
is draped in the garb of undulating wreaths and herpes sparkle
I go to
the side-porch door, knock, no answer, like always I wait
I sit on
the bench that I bought from Home Depot
That was
in our New Orleans back yard with the hummingbirds
By the
pool Katrina knocked the tree inside and created the mosquito vat
Three
minutes, I sit, my daughter comes to the Dutch door
Opens, “Daddy
do you want to come see the puppies?”
I tell
her, “You have to ask your mom if it is ok if I come in.”
It’ll be
four years this Christmas, daughter is eight
I walk in
seeing walls with altered frames,
My
daughter’s nine month old brother is cooing
I am
silent at the beige to walk through the hall in that bedroom,
Through
the master bath, into that twelve by fourteen closet and see
A box of
a chocolate Labrador with a litter of four
I explain
to my daughter why the mother knows
To lick
the feces and urine from the puppy’s loins
Their
bellies plump with milk, blind
I glance
at the wardrobe stacks encompassing these foreign rooms
Jackets
and pant-suits familiar and not, the mirrors I bought at Hobby Lobby
I see the
shower stall on the way out; I grab a third-grade book sack
Home, I
make pasta with sausage, her favorite with glazed carrots
She makes
pretend computers out of loose-leaf and markers to play school
She sings
a save the ocean song about a mother and her turtles
We
bundled up and go out for seven p.m., park, walk the small town Main Street
Antique
shops, a few bars, church folk huddled singing carols
Teenagers
squawking by the town alligator in its reptile pen
I
promised her mother last Tuesday, when she asked if she could take her to the
downtown Christmas light thing, (because they go every year.)
I
responded with, "I’ll call you when we go and you can say hi."
Well I
get hijacked and the insanity of nausea permeates
Over the
top bleeds in like ricin cotton-candy and arsenic hot-chocolate
Greetings
are a festival; every foot a fresh salutation is generated
The
spawning of acquaintances is pandemic in her mother’s roots
The nine
month-old is there, stroller, wipes,
Admirers
comment how much he looks like his father
How if he
turns out half as much like him he’ll be a great man
He is out
of town tonight.
I can see
the bystanders do the math in their faces as they glance at me wordless.
I am
standing silent in a winter coat. My
daughter between her mother and I
Time is
extending to a greater summation than any point in the last four years
Of a
relative equation of daughter, mother and child without the interruption
Of the
man her mother refers to as her dad
As we
walk over to his office six minutes later;
He sells
insurance across from where she does corporate accounting.
His boss
provides refreshments every year on this occasion even for cuckoo birds.
We go in
some lady that use to be around greets her, spots me
For some
reason tries to give me a hug and I could smell her gin perfume
I tell
her my plans to move to New Orleans are into month nine
She gets
her taxes done where I work; I ask her not to tell my boss
There are
others, but I was blessed with leaving the moment at stares
My
daughter spots her friend near the back, the kid of the police chief
Whose
brother threatened me that time
The
relations are unending; I have neither the time nor energy to explain
The train
comes by outside, blowing and blaring
The kids
run and fund a game of hide and go seek
In a
courtyard at the rear of the establishment
I stand
alone staring at an open bar picnic table
With her
mother and the other mother conversing by the rear entrance, ten feet away
I talk to
no one, but the night sky, trying not to make eye contact
Thankful
I have always been so reticent so that this stance is nowhere near as lonely
The
memories flush; I arrange a departure for my daughter and me to continue alone
Goodbye
to mother, the threshold of time a bit like an anvil and a time warp
Daughter
and I walk the parade of shop-fronts
Noticing
the window drawing Grinch and Santa’s
I
remember the nickname my daughter told me
Her
mother’s family gave me during the trial
Near the
very last before return to our car we pass the daiquiri shop
That also
sells ice cream I know her maternal grandmother takes her to
She wants
mint chocolate chip, but it is past eight-thirty and time to return home
I say no;
she whines, protests, negotiates for a fraction, then breaks
Her tears
flow like I have not heard in years, she is angry thumping her hand at me
Demanding,
crumpled, I am walking with her for this remainder of Main Street
The
people pass, daughter is crying aloud, tears to the car and the whole drive
home
Incessant
as the Rolling Stones play on my iPod as the sounds collide to my silence
I exit
the garage, light the interior of the house to her bedroom
Return
and pick her up, carrying her to her former green rocker sitting in our living room
I rock
the eight year old, patting her on the back in reassurance
I am
quiet as she continues into minute twelve
I ask her
if she wants some water; she shakes her frown in the affirmative
The
whimpers diminish with the sips as I stand in the kitchen holding her in my
arms
All
sixty-plus pounds of her is carried to her bedroom
I ask if
she wants to wear her Ninja Turtle night shirt, she smiles and
Remembers
how we bought it together at Target a few weeks ago
We ready
and go to read Chapter Nine of Narnia’s A Horse and His Boy
She is so
tired, exhausted midway through, we cuddle
I ask
her, “It’s been a long time since you had your mom and your dad and just you in
the same place for that long huh?” “Your family was there. It is a lot of emotions.”
“I know,
kind of me too. I remember.”
She nods
and blooms and drifts to reverie in my arms.
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