Monday; July 15, 2007: 9:14 PMThe Invisible Trail: Walking, Gunshots, my new Ericsson’s “First Light” and a note to my mum
It's dark. And hot. Cicada whirr, buzz and whine in the Norway maples and elms that line the streets and sidewalks. I was surprised to see such a abundance of large, perfect elms when I arrived here in Detroit. In Upstate NY, where I used to live, the Dutch elm disease has killed most of the large elms. I'd forgotten how much I admire elms, how graceful and "stately" they are.
Biker Buddy drove to the store to buy a back-up battery for my new Ericsson mobile companion computer. My 13-year-old son plays the piano—doing his practicing. He has achieved a level of skill that allows me to deeply appreciate and enjoy his playing. He will be going to Blue Lake Fine Arts Summer camp soon in voice and piano, a real honor. Meanwhile, I listen and smile.
The new computer is smooth, unblemished and perfect. It smells spicy and sweet, like male cologne. I touch it, run, my fingers over the satiny finish. Sniff it. Wonder if it smells like Matt, the English man from whom I bought the computer.
When my husband returns, we walk together up the street under the maples and elms, talking. The notes of my son's piano slowly fade. I can still see him in the window, his face golden in the lamplight, his finger moving rapidly over the kids, the intenseness of his concentration. Then that too is gone.
Instead, there are rabbits in the darkness. The hop ahead of us or off to the side, never very worried. I used to walk in the woods, alone. Now, I walk along a sidewalk, past the goldfish bowls of people's lives. In NY, people closed their curtains at night. Here, most people do not. Biker Buddy says it’s a wheeled society—no one expects you to be walking past at night. A different movie plays in each window, but we see only fragments and pay little attention. One thing that catches our attention, though: some rapid-fire gunshots when we are almost home. They worry me.
When I walked in the woods in upstate NY, I often heard gunshots. Deer hunters, bird hunters, foxhunters, small game hunters, target shooters. What is there to shoot here, I wonder, but other people? But no one screams, there is only silence. A car turns a corner and drives off. The streetlights lap the sidewalk. We go inside.
I reread these first words I have written and think of my mother. She died in January, and I wonder why the sudden pang of sadness and loss. And then I know. I used to share my journal entries with her, in the form of letters and notes, when she was alive. No one else cares what I have to say quite the way my mother did. I love you, Mum.
PS: I left the bunny dark--it was dark! I wanted it that way.
