Great Heights

I recall talking with a friend of mine

as we stood on a boat inches away from a glacial river

about being afraid of heights.

“You know what I feel when I get too near the edge?”

he asked, leaning out to tighten a nut on the outside

of the cabin, one hand clutching a wrench, the other

gripping the rail. “I feel like I want to jump.”

I considered that idea as I wondered what I would do

if he lost his grip. A life ring and a length of line

hung behind the ladder to the bridge.

“Not me, man,” I shuddered to imagine approaching the rim

of a high cliff, or a building taller than two stories.

“I can barely stand watching someone else up high.”

I thought about how twitchy I get at scenes in movies

when a character is flirting with certain disaster

near a precipice.

My friend finished the tightening,

stood and handed me the wrench. “Never

think twice about it unless I’m there,” he smiled.

That was it. In the blink of an eye I decided

I never wanted to climb mountains

or anything else with him.

This is for my friend Cyndi and her son, Logan

Thirst

I sat alone with my dying friend

in the back room of her house, where she reclined

on a bed of pillows. It was getting close,

and even the ice chips weren’t effective any more.

She was delirious and drugged, just like mom

all those years ago in the hospital back in Logansport,

lost in the morphine of that Indiana spring. I sat next to her

for hours that night, trying to slip between the haze

of the drips sliding into her arm; to find my way in once more,

back to her heart. But it was a closed system, and I was empty

and outside it. All I have is her brief surfacing

long enough to flutter her eyelids like butterfly kisses, and

 (is this memory or what I wanted to happen?)

– a reach of her hand to mine.

I know she said, “Oh, you’re here.” And I was, even now.

I thought of that moment as I sat vigil next to my friend,

and considered what it was I wanted to say to her,

her son in the next room with other family and friends.

Her eyes opened wide then, and she sat upright. In a rush

she threw her legs over the edge of the bed, and tried to stand.

“Where do you want to go?” I asked as I gently stopped her.

“I have to leave.”

“I know. Wait a little bit first, ok?”

She sat back. I struggled to find my words, and watched her

raise a glass that only she could see to her lips,

lips that hadn’t felt a sip of water for days.

She took a long drink. She looked at me as she wiped her mouth

with the back of her hand. “You know it’s ok, don’t you?” I whispered,

my throat suddenly parched. “We’ll take care of him.”

She nodded as if she heard me and relaxed a bit.

I helped her lie back down on her pillows.

I don’t know if I got through to her either. It seemed to me

she was breathing a little easier when I finally tiptoed from the room

on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water.

How do you resuscitate a dog?

“I’d rather have a different doctor,” I said 

as I made another appointment for Spencer,

my ailing golden-haired friend. The last visit

was unproductive, and a bit demeaning,

so I thought perhaps a new expert would see

his balance problems differently. He was limping

more, to be sure, and I was sliding down the dark tunnel

from concern to worry. I needed help with the landing

if despair was the outcome. “We’ll X-ray the shoulder,”

the new doc smiled, “and see if we find anything.” I

was the one who said the C-word. “My last golden had bone cancer,”

and I got a sympathetic look. “It’s common in them,” she answered,

“and often shows in the shoulders. We’ll see what’s there.”

I waited a long time outside on a cool and breezy day,

then went in to  wait some more in the lobby.

The pleasant, welcoming atmosphere behind the counter had changed tone.

Only one person was left attending the clients who were sitting and standing,

barking and meowing. The assistants who showed their faces

looked harried and disappeared quickly. I watched one man and his dog

get turned away until tomorrow. We were next. Spencer was led back to me

with apologies,  "We've had an emergency. Can I schedule you for tomorrow?”

Her face was dark as she tried to work the computer, and I leaned in.

“Is someone in trouble?” She nodded. “We’ve had an emergency,” was all

she offered. Her hands shook, and her smock was covered with light yellow hair.

We returned today for the X-ray, and Spencer seemed genuinely

delighted to be back, despite my apprehensions.

Another, different doctor read the negatives.

“Looks like a bone chip in his shoulder. Maybe some arthritis

broken away. The good news is that it's not cancer.
We should be able to manage the pain with meds until it eases.”
My relief was a flood in a small, sterile room. It lasted to the counter,
where I asked as we waited for the prescription to be filled,

and was told someone else’s Spencer had reacted badly to routine anesthesia

yesterday, and didn’t make it. How do you resuscitate a dog? I wondered,

and felt small at my worry and relief over my friend while someone else

walked out of the same clinic with an empty leash hanging limp

where their companion should be. I held my gently wagging buddy close

a long moment before closing the door of the car and driving us home,
where we could imagine we were safe together for a little while longer.

Bright Days

This is nothing new

I used to look out the window

through the screen to the street below

and dream of the one true love

I would find – someone who would take me

away from the endless, trapped days

and nights filled with longing  – no knight

in shining armor, I.  And I thought I found her

on a blanket under an oak my freshman year in college,

and again in my junior year to the woman I married,

only to discover that wasn’t right either.

I had to travel to Alaska to meet her. It wasn’t always smooth.

She took a long time convincing me she was on my side.

Even though she beats me mercilessly at cribbage,

together we fell in love with our two sons, now grown men

and we get to do it again, with the granddaughters

that swirl around our feet these bright days,

and dance us exhausted and full. 

Photographing with Dylan

Summer Heat

Last night my son and I stood together

next to a reflection lake at midnight

on the longest day of the year.

We were photographing the moon

and the Capitol dome mirrored

in the glassy water.

As we talked about exposure and ISO

it occurred to me how much more

the experience meant with him there.

Here was the little boy I used to carry

into the darkroom to show him the dichroic

colored light of an enlarger, standing

beside me – now a man with his own family,

under a full moon capturing his own light

to carry on his own path. We smiled and joked,

looked at each other’s images, packed up our tripods

and drove home in the humid summer heat,

windows down, quiet together, on our way

to ever shorter days.