In the garden of Bramhill's General Store in Plymouth, Massachusetts lies a huge fallen catalpa tree, still growing. The hulk of its horizontal trunk is shaded with homegrown leaves.
I drove past last Wednesday, from a detour to find coffee—four shots of caffeine to awaken my leaden limbs. I'd been at a veterinary ER with our cat half the…
In the garden of Bramhill's General Store in Plymouth, Massachusetts lies a huge fallen catalpa tree, still growing. The hulk of its horizontal trunk is shaded with homegrown leaves.
I drove past last Wednesday, from a detour to find coffee—four shots of caffeine to awaken my leaden limbs. I'd been at a veterinary ER with our cat half the night. The cat was saved but I was paying. Leveraged from a few hours of sleep, I had nevertheless driven my youngest child the fifty miles to the living history museum of the Pilgrims of Plimoth. My daughter's weeklong camp would put on a play there by the end of the week and she was on time. I could now sketch and rest and take my ease. As I drove back to the museum, the morning already pulsated with heat. Ice clacked and rattled in my latte as the narrow road bumped and curved.
The scene of the fallen tree flashed past. Two or three children clambered along the sideways trunk. The sight of the fallen catalpa yet growing and the children so carefully, bravely stepping along the curved hump—whale? wave? ocean of firm, rough bark?—sucked me from time and now and 'drive.'
"Those children are this moment making the memory that will be their definition of summer," I said aloud.
("Remember that old tree at the ice cream shop? How we used to climb along its trunk? How hot it was that summer? How the leaves still grew?")
Now, my daughter's week is complete, her play a marvel of remembering and joy.
And now I wonder, was my moment of summer any less poignant, poised on the fallen limb of parenting, fresh growth still shading me, and life still burgeoning from my old tumbled dreams?
There is such a beautifully gentle quality to this piece, Michelle. I love how you have used the prompt to think about moments that might last in the lives of others, as well as your own. What I love in Woolf's The Waves, I get from your piece too: the interweaving of lives and the everyday sensations that last in their memory. How lovely to get this new piece from you. Here is your link:
Tanya, thank you so much for giving space to the voices of so many, and for welcoming this piece from me. I must reread The Waves and think more about that interweaving of lives. It is an honor to to take part in your project. I also wanted to honor your request for connection as you comforted and gave to your mum, and now grieve her. Though I could hardly bear to reply, holding my breath on your behalf.
I love the new prompt and look forward to writing another piece. Sending love. I am sorry you've lost your mum.
In the garden of Bramhill's General Store in Plymouth, Massachusetts lies a huge fallen catalpa tree, still growing. The hulk of its horizontal trunk is shaded with homegrown leaves.
I drove past last Wednesday, from a detour to find coffee—four shots of caffeine to awaken my leaden limbs. I'd been at a veterinary ER with our cat half the night. The cat was saved but I was paying. Leveraged from a few hours of sleep, I had nevertheless driven my youngest child the fifty miles to the living history museum of the Pilgrims of Plimoth. My daughter's weeklong camp would put on a play there by the end of the week and she was on time. I could now sketch and rest and take my ease. As I drove back to the museum, the morning already pulsated with heat. Ice clacked and rattled in my latte as the narrow road bumped and curved.
The scene of the fallen tree flashed past. Two or three children clambered along the sideways trunk. The sight of the fallen catalpa yet growing and the children so carefully, bravely stepping along the curved hump—whale? wave? ocean of firm, rough bark?—sucked me from time and now and 'drive.'
"Those children are this moment making the memory that will be their definition of summer," I said aloud.
("Remember that old tree at the ice cream shop? How we used to climb along its trunk? How hot it was that summer? How the leaves still grew?")
Now, my daughter's week is complete, her play a marvel of remembering and joy.
And now I wonder, was my moment of summer any less poignant, poised on the fallen limb of parenting, fresh growth still shading me, and life still burgeoning from my old tumbled dreams?
From Michelle Geffken
There is such a beautifully gentle quality to this piece, Michelle. I love how you have used the prompt to think about moments that might last in the lives of others, as well as your own. What I love in Woolf's The Waves, I get from your piece too: the interweaving of lives and the everyday sensations that last in their memory. How lovely to get this new piece from you. Here is your link:
https://thecureforsleep.com/stay-this-moment/#michellegeffken
Tanya xx
Tanya, thank you so much for giving space to the voices of so many, and for welcoming this piece from me. I must reread The Waves and think more about that interweaving of lives. It is an honor to to take part in your project. I also wanted to honor your request for connection as you comforted and gave to your mum, and now grieve her. Though I could hardly bear to reply, holding my breath on your behalf.
I love the new prompt and look forward to writing another piece. Sending love. I am sorry you've lost your mum.
Thank you for holding me in mind Michelle. And for your kind words about what we're doing here xx