As I settle more deeply into fall, I've been reflecting on how I mark the passage of time and how time marks me. When I set out to describe my sense of time in the simplest way I could find, this poem arrived, bringing with it memories of a place where I lived thirty years ago.
Photo by Barry Troutman

The release of my book, Against My Dreams, a collection of poems in my grandmother's voice, has me thinking about what she would say if she could speak to me now.

One morning recently when I sat down to write, this letter arrived at the tip of my pen.

Translation Note:
Jeg elsker deg means "I love you" in Norwegian. 

Dear Linda,

Words halted on my tongue. Always two languages tangled, Old Country and new. Instead, thoughts came through my hands, into clean cups and saucers, beaten rugs, starched pillowcases smoothed by the iron. My whole life all I did was housework. Morning to night: housework. I could speak fresh laundry snapping in wind. A cake of soap. A scrubbed entryway. The warm, bitter scent of coffee. A loaf of rye bread.

Your world is larger than mine was, yet I crossed an ocean and dwelt in the great buildings of New York City. You followed me there and found what I left for you. I learned to love the silver as it turned from dull to glow, and to love my hand in it. But it was a love I could not speak, only do. You rise from a well-kept house.

Trust your bones. They carry all of us who came before you. You have the strength to stand and withstand. Call upon the muse of bones each day as you do your work. Yours is a love of words that gleam with the polish of angels. Each word turns your soul to silver. Remember the soft cloth, the gentle pressure, the rub. Feel my hand over yours as it holds the pen. Above all, shine.

Jeg elsker deg,
Your Nana

I'm not good with heights. I get panicky, forget to breathe. Even when my brain says I'm safe, my body has its own thoughts: hands curled into fists, heart pounding to feed my shaky muscles. At times, the future feels the same way.

This is a photo of the suspension bridge over Lava Canyon on the south side of Mount St. Helens. It's 100 feet long. Crossing it is described in more than one hiking guide as walking on a suspended trampoline: each board that makes up the deck sinks when you step on it. And there are spaces between the boards, so as you watch where you step, you can see the rushing Muddy River 100 feet below. Plus the bridge sways, and on the recent day when I visited, one of the four cables that lessens its swing had come loose, so it swayed even more.

I crossed it anyway. In the middle, I stopped to look at the view.