© 2016 Amy Bates Photography.  All rights reserved.

    August 1993


    Mary Oliver


    Our neighbor, tall and blonde and vigorous, the mother of many children, is sick.  We did not know she was sick, but she has come to the fence, walking like a woman who is balancing a sword inside of her body, and besides that her long hair is gone, it is short and, suddenly, gray.  I don't recognize her.  It even occurs to me that it might be her mother.  But it's her own laughter-edged voice, we have heard it for years over the hedges.  

    All summer the children, grown now and some of them with children of their own, come to visit.  They swim, they go for long walks along the harbor, they make dinners for twelve, for fifteen, for twenty.  In the early morning two daughters come to the garden and slowly go through the precise and silent gestures of T'ai Chi.

    They all smile. Their father smiles too, and builds castles on the shore with the children, and drives back to the city, and drives back to the country.  A carpenter is hired -- a roof repaired, a porch rebuilt.  Everything that can be fixed.

    June, July, August.  Every day, we hear their laughter.  I think of the painting by Van Gogh, the man in the chair.  Everything wrong, and nowhere to go.  His hands over his eyes.