SUMMER'S END BY SHERI WATSON

April, 2005

They were two of a kind, she bending to write a word in the snow with a gloved finger, and he wrapped in his coat sitting quietly, watching her closely, waiting. It was late afternoon, nearly early evening, and neither of them were anxious about the night coming later; they knew it would come and go without malice. It just didn’t matter. It was the usual day, all in all, she thought, despite the preparation to make it the most remarkable day they had ever known. And how tremendous that was, she continued thinking. It would be one of the greatest gifts she had ever received. Besides Sam, but that was long ago. The years had been too hard since then, as they had negotiated with life with less and less vigor. It would seem that they had aged so fast, but it was just the quick passing of the years. They had stood still, she thought, while all the world had been a whirlwind around them.

She looked down at her hands, her hands, the only tell tale sign of her age, and had a sudden feeling of mourning. A quick tear fell into the word in the snow, to disappear, too cold to even melt a visible hole. For a moment she clenched her eyes and hands, in one moment a little girl gasping with her pain. But she took deep breaths and slowly the darkness ebbed, to leave her with a warm feeling of relief, despite the crippling cold. She was a little surprised at how she felt. And she thought about it a little, examining this little-felt feeling. The warmth was like she had walked into a warm spring day after this record cold winter, and the feeling left her a little giddy.

The left side of her mouth lifted in a half smile as she finally let go of all her doubts and accepted the true nature of the gift, and in that moment realized a long hidden emotion of happiness, of a lightness, and of irony. That time should wind down to this moment and set her free, was certainly the vision of many nightmares, and many better dreams. Who knew that waiting for so long, to step through that veil from dreams to reality should make it oh so tender a feeling and so sweet? It was like giving birth, she thought, to a new world.

She mused a little more along those lines. It was a hell of a long labor, she thought wryly, cracking a bigger smile to herself. She looked at Sam and laughed out loud. He looked back, wondering what this fuss was all about. He had gone mostly deaf in the last year, and he couldn’t hear her much, but understood the smile, and so was happy too. He hadn’t heard the sounds of laughter in years, nor had he seen her smile in a long while. Whatever made her happy, made him happy. And that was good on this otherwise usual day. Laughter had been a little like lost luggage, lost for years to reappear, sparking memories of that past time, yet closing a door on the mystery. And her laughter birthed the new era; the future, like the past, was a mystery no longer.

The smell of Chinese food haunted the air, and she decided to move along now. It was time to go home. Sam got up and they walked along the long avenue away from the train overpass that marked the beginning of Albany from the town beyond. She and Sam had needed the walk to get out of the apartment, stifled in the radiator’s overwhelming heat, and longing for the smothered quiet of the snow-clad streets. As they walked, she reminded Sam of the previous October’s warmth and fallen leaves, the wind dry and impersonal, but telling her that they had to make a change. And she had thought about the change needed for the last few months, letting the resolution simmer in her mind and dreams for a while, before confirming that she accepted the answer. October had turned to November, had turned to December, and it was near New Year’s Eve now. She had planned, as the years before, to go to the park not far from the apartment to watch the fireworks. She remembered the smooth, white carpet last year, from the fresh fallen snow that had not been violated by humans’ clumsy feet yet, the skyline rising above, and the green bench that she sat on, cradling her lower body in its curves. Sam too had been there, and it had been a good year for the fireworks. He seemed to enjoy himself despite the low temperatures, his hips not quite as bad, as he too was cradled–what she had not been able to do as much of as of late because of her hands--by the green bench.

She was taking her time walking home, this early night, taking in the world that seemed much brighter and more crisp in the twilight, that seemed to enfold her in its embrace too. Surely, for everyone else, the light made the buildings seem not so sentinel-like, being a softer hue of blue the sky had worn earlier that day, not the clarity that she was experiencing. It was just, perhaps, that her mind was less burdened and foggy and thus the puzzle of the world made more sense; everything seemed just right. It had been a long, long laborious journey; the journey to a new situation which was now resolved. And the city seemed to know too.

She walked near the strip joint, listening to the calls of the men to the women inside dancing, the music grinding away the peeling paint on the outside of the building as the bass boomed. On the other side of the street was the mortuary, closed and dark, a far cry from the neon gaudy trashiness of the strip joint. Beside the mortuary was a used car lot, closed for the night. She had always thought all of this an apt symbol of the slow death of life. Somehow, in the spiritual darkness and void of the street, the strip joint, the used car lot, and the mortuary seemed perfect for one another, as all were used and worn, yet still reeling in poor suckers like an anemone misplaced. Yet even tonight, they didn’t seem to bother her, as she was happy. It was like a warm fire was building in her heart to chase away even the anemone.

An anemone. It had been a long while since she had been near the coast. She cocked her head slightly at the thought, wondering if it was still the same. Cold, wet, salty and sandy, the beach had never drawn her as it had others. What was there to do? Walk for a while, contemplate the unending roll of the waves, smell the unpleasant smell of seaweed, and have sand everywhere, in places you didn’t know you had, to rub skin sore. The higher points of the beach that other people seemed to enjoy escaped her. But it was interesting, she observed, that it would seep into her thoughts now. She anticipated never seeing it again, living here, in her city. The streets instead of the long line of empty beach drew her, in all seasons, where she could truly feel all the elements that nature had to offer. It was a different sort of feeling than the beach; everything was different. You didn’t feel that you had to have a good time. You were left alone to your thoughts, not prodded into eating sand that found your teeth. Not making sand castles that she couldn’t architect anyway, and became bored with fairly soon. Here she was comfortable, in the lap of the mother city. It nourished and nurtured her, leading her to new places all the time, by the streets and parks and railroad tracks, and also in her mind. And Sam seemed to love it here too, as he loved his walks, the apartment being so small for the both of them. He loved the restaurants and parks, truly enjoying the same things she did. And for that, both of them were grateful. The city was good to them, and they knew a good life.

The bad part of town was behind them now, with the apartment not far away. She and Sam lived on the sixth floor of a tall apartment building, very happily taking in the life of the street below. At night the downtown was very quiet, except for the occasional bus. The apartment building echoed that quietness, and they spent hours together, he relaxing while she read and wrote in the peace. But it did come at a high price, one that was not in money. But it seemed worth it, in the long run, she always had thought.

They climbed the stairs in the back of the building and headed for the inside staircase. The stairs were getting harder to maneuver for Sam, but they always managed. It just took a little time. He never complained though, wanting to do all he possibly could. She had made some soup earlier in the day, and would heat that up for dinner. She had left the window open, hoping that the cold air from outside would cool the air from the overzealous radiator.

The heat rushed out and around them as she opened the door. But it felt good this time, as their hands and feet were somewhat cold. She took off their coats and settled Sam in while she heated up the soup. It was potato and mushroom soup that she had made from scratch, soup being very cheap and making a number of day’s meals worth. There was an odd odor though, while the soup was heating. She couldn’t identify it at first, but then realized with a groan that in the one pot she had, in which the soup was, she had cooked potpourri a few days before. Washing it out even with the strong dish soap had not taken the aroma out of the chipped porcelain coating. She groaned again, and tasted the soup. It had a faint peach flavor that was very sweet like a perfume and very distracting. Well, it could have been worse, she allowed. There was not much else to choose from, and the soup had been put together in the hopes of lasting the latter part week. She sighed and dished it out and gave dinner to Sam. She sat down herself, almost forgetting the lingering peach flavor in self admiration at the rest of the soup. She washed the dishes when she was done, and took a look around the apartment to see what needed to be cleaned or picked up. The apartment was about ten by ten, with a five by five little kitchen, and a little space outside the bathroom. There wasn’t a closet, and the bed was a sofa sleeper. She had decorated it artfully though, making the best of it with what she had, and with what had come with the apartment. It was feminine and loft-like, and she had arrived at the final decorating decisions just a few days ago. Now it was almost perfect.

But she wanted to have clear thoughts tonight, and everything had to be cleaned and folded and spotless. She rued the wall where the paint she had gotten from the super had run out, and the property management company had refused to give her more. A third of the wall was dirty with previous tenants’ pencil drawings and marks, probably from a young child. She had tried to clean it, but it hadn’t worked. Painting was the only solution, but she couldn’t afford any kind of paint. Most of the time it didn’t bother her too much, but it was the one flaw of the look she had wanted and it did bother her at times. Tonight was no exception, but it would have to be as it was. Like everything else, she thought.

The apartment held many kinds of memories. Some would win out over others, in time, but which ones she did not know. She knew only of today, which was uppermost on her mind. There were things to be done, and she wanted to make sure everything was settled. There was a long road and journey ahead, and she wanted to prepare herself and Sam for it as best she could. The soup had echoed in her body what her thoughts and decisions had done earlier, filling her with a warm feeling that permeated her spirit too. She was comfortable, and it felt good. But there were things to tend to. She hung her work clothes as best she could on the hooks in the little space outside the bathroom. It was a room, but not a room. Much as she was a person, but not a person, she thought as the floor became bare, except for her shoes. Almost, but not quite. Started, but not finished. She could relate to all those cliches because they had originally started as a real meaning, as she had started with a real purpose in her life, both so long ago. She realized she had become a typical American cliche in her own right, struggling to keep a roof over her head, to put food on the table, scraping by with literally pennies at the end of the month, no future but the next day’s earnings. People like she would never get ahead, and would be one step away from the streets all their lives. But she had one thing that kept it being all worthwhile. She had a self-led literary passion that gave her much needed relief and pleasure, if only for a little while at the end of the day. It took her away from the edgy balance that sustained, if barely, her life and Sam’s. It gave her something else to think about beside that very iffy tomorrow day, where one wrong step would take them over the edge into a dark, dark abyss. With these thoughts, her warm feeling faded slightly, and she shivered even in the blasting heat of the apartment. How could she reconcile those few moments of joy with the haunting static progression of her life? She shivered again, thinking that she had thought herself right out of her earlier good mood. Enough of this, she scolded herself. Today is a day of celebration, not of sadness. It’s time to get back on track.

She cleaned and tidied the rest of the apartment; having a clean environment helped her to think and to organize her thoughts. She didn’t have to worry about taking care of this or that, it was all already done. Then she could settle down to have a rest and relax during her reading. She had just sat down on the couch with Sam, having picked up a poetry anthology, when she remembered that she had forgotten to pick something up at a store. Oh, I have to go out, she sighed. She looked at Sam, who had gone off to sleep after dinner, and thought she would leave him behind. It was too hard to get everything together to take him out, and she would just be a little while anyway. She got her coat and went out, wondering where she was actually going. But when she got to the street she saw a small store nearby and went in, getting what she had forgotten. It was not long before she was back in the apartment and sitting next to Sam, who didn’t look like he had moved during his sleep. The contented feeling came back again, as she settled in to read her book. Now everything had been taken care of for the evening, and she could read her book for a while before bed.

Not having a TV, she turned on the little, cheap alarm radio that sat on the dresser that had come with the room. She put it on a low volume, so as not to disturb Sam, but he seemed oblivious to it anyway. He began to snore and she laughed a little, not worrying about the music volume anymore. She returned to her book and let everything go; all of the problems, and all of the decisions of the day faded into the background as she read. Reading the poetry was slow going, because poetry required close reading, but it was exactly what she needed to put off the thoughts that had bothered her while cleaning. All was well, and the minutes ticked on very quickly.

She smiled again a little later, for the second time that day. She had changed from the poetry book to do some of her own writing, and she smiled at the naivete on the pages. She laughed a little at herself, seeing how seriously she took herself. But she knew, somehow, that her path lay with the written word despite all that. All the reading she did prepared her to turn to that instead of the voice. Somehow, the link between brain and hand was stronger than that of brain to mouth. It was the flight of the bird compared to the bumper to bumper traffic below. She thought, a little, about the writing she had done, and suddenly wanted to go over it all for editing purposes. And to revisit her own imagination and see what her creativity had put together. It wasn’t out of ego; she just forgot after each piece what she really had to say. She was just so busy trying to keep up with things that once the words were on the paper, her mind left them there. So she decided that tonight, instead of immersing herself in another’s writing, it would be her own that she would revisit.

She went to the drawer in the dresser and pulled it out a way, gathering up the few notebooks that were there. She felt the weight of them in her hands and in turn felt the weight of them on her mind. Such happy words, filled with a richness of life that she herself had only imagined, gleaned from reading about others in the world. She was glad, in that moment, that the good feeling that had visited her today would probably come back as she read and edited. For here again was an imaginary world. It took a lot for her to feel true happiness in her life, as static as it was. And when the moments came they were treasured. She had written about all that she had never had up until that point, when things were going to change. Visiting the past was one more door to the future. It was the best thing she could do, she realized. To be meeting myself.

She worked for a while, absorbing what she had written, and editing it as objectively as she could. She moved on to other stories, poems, and a bit of an autobiography that she had started. The good feeling that she had been looking for seeped into her again, and she felt warm and cozy. The writing had had a purpose, and was now coming to fruition for her.

It was a few hours later when she closed the last notebook. The writings had been edited before, many times, but she wanted them to be the best they could be. It was important to have a good feeling about the work tonight. It would fit right in with everything else. Sam had stirred once a little while she had worked, opening his eyes with a yawn. He looked at her for a few seconds then turned and went back to sleep. She smiled, again, for the third time that day, thinking that he was content. It was good to have someone to talk to, to spend time with, even though it wasn’t a romantic relationship. It was nice to have a friend.

The hours were ticking away, and she sat for a while, thinking about the day. The moments of sadness had faded to the background, and the joy that she had found came to the forefront. She looked around at the apartment again, at the same time assessing the future. It looked good to her now. This little apartment would be gone, and she and Sam would enjoy the things they had been so patiently waiting for. It had been such a long wait, but well worth it. She thought about the city and knew that she would never forget it, but knew happier times were on their way. It was good to be alive, she thought, to enjoy the things she had worked so hard on. Now she could truly rejoice in it all. She yawned suddenly, with the time being so late, and thought that it was time to go to bed. She smiled, for the fourth time, thinking that a yawn was so commonplace a thing when all this goodness was happening. Such small things that make us happy, that keep us going, she affirmed to herself. They build and build until the days are all strung together in precious pearls of smiles. And with that, it was time to go to sleep.

She woke Sam and helped him off the couch so she could pull out the bed. He stood there and watched and then went to get a drink of water. She straightened the sheets and the coverlet, and went to slip into her own pajamas. She took her nightly pills, and had a little nitecap of the peach schnapps she had bought earlier to help her sleep. It was going to be a good day tomorrow too, she thought. She got Sam into bed and went to turn off the light. She turned down the volume a little on the music from the alarm clock radio, but kept it on as she liked to fall asleep to a little sound. She got into bed and loudly said Goodnight to Sam. It was warm and cozy in the room, just right for them, as the temperature had dropped outside and the room was not too hot. She put her arm around Sam, who was by then sound asleep again for good. All in all, she thought, it had been a good day.

It had been Friday, and a few hours later during the early part of Saturday morning, the radiator went off. It was to be off all weekend. With the window open, the apartment would be 7 degrees above zero soon. The snow fell steadily, and the word she had written was all but invisible now. But it didn’t matter by then, for they were long gone. Summer and the dog Sam lay as quietly as the sound of the snow falling.

The apartment was cleaned out, and the good things were donated to a charity; the notebooks, so beloved, were sent to her sister, the sister who had turned her back on Summer and refused to tell anyone about the abuse they had suffered at the hands of their brother. Summer’s sister wondered, at last, how she should have helped her sister after all the years. That it had led to this resolution troubled her deeply. That she could do nothing now made her feel helpless. She realized this was how Summer had felt and understood the conflict that must have haunted Summer’s life, which now in turn would haunt hers. She wondered what she too would do about it.

Sheri Watson has an MA degree in Women's Spirituality, and is planning on attending an MFA Poetics program in Fall 2005. She has been published in the Llewellyn Journal, SageWoman and Sage of Consciouness, and will have a chapbook of poetry to the Goddess coming out soon from FootHills Publishing, the Springfed Chapbook Series.