relationships

33

By Lindsay Crouse

www.wayoftheheart.net.au

In the pre-dawn dark I remember a snippet of a

dream. My dying daughter comes to me and lays

down on the bed. We smile at each other, propped

up on our elbows.

“Let’s make new names for each other. Let’s call

each other what we like best.“

“I’ll call you coffee, “ I say. She laughs.

“I’ll call you Lucy in the Sky.” I touch the end of her

nose. She disappears.

***

Why get up? What are the reasons? I list some, lying

in the dark. I stop and start, but as I speak I realize

that the real ones lie way, way down, and I am

forcing them, like a bulb.

Standing in the kitchen, my thin gown is waving

from the open door. I move to lie down on the

granite counter. It’s cold and as naked as I am.

Granite is like plants under the weight of time. I lie

in a pre-Cambian field, and in the green early light, I

feel the fingers of ferns stroking my face.

***

The morning is cool and dark. I open the heavy

door.

“How was the night?”

“Lots of banging.”

“Was something wanted?”

“String.”

I look into her eyes and see such tiredness, questions.

I would move to her but the sea rings in my ears.

I pause before the door upstairs. My legs are numb,

and I look down. Phosphorescence spins around my

ankles. Tiny shrimp run across my feet, each carrying

a basket in its mouth.

I turn into the room with its high, vaulted ceiling.

In the small bed there’s a lump under the covers.

The pillows are all gone. A light burns on the floor,

casting a shadow like a dark mountain range. The

mountain does not move. I find the chair and sit. I

wait. I wait. I wait. I wait. Will nothing ever move?

“You are old, Henne, older than time.” I wait. I wait.

I wait. “Once you were fire but the great ice caught

you and held you. Nothing could move. You are a

piece of basalt tossed up in a coughing fit. You are

quite striking.” I wait. “If you stay longer you will be

crystal.”

“No!”

First word. I stand, and speak louder, demanding.

“You must know a few things that I don’t, so I’d like

to ask you why the shrimp are carrying baskets?”

34

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Lindsay Crouse

Lindsay Crouse, American theater and Academy Award nominated film actress, lives in Los Angeles, CA. Together with her husband,

Rick Blue, they work with the Venerable Lama Marut at the Asian Classic Institute’s Mahasukha Center (Bliss Center) teaching

classes related to personal growth through meditation, awareness, and Tibetan Buddhist philosophy.

See www.aci-la.org and www.lindsaycrouse.org

An arm rips out of the covers, and bangs down on the bed.

Legs straighten, and on the wall the whole range flattens.

“Well, don’t expect me to know these things, I’m a relative

new-comer compared to you.” I throw my coat across the

chair. “Henne.” The valley doesn’t budge. “They were carrying

baskets and they were in a big hurry. And there were stars

in the water. It’s an unusual day.” I see him stiffen. “Henne

are you under a spell?” One arm releases, and a finger points

straight up. “Aha! Then I will break it. Here comes the moon

to help me. An eyelash moon, brand new and shining, exactly

what we need.” I push the chair in closer. “Now, you can see

what’s in the baskets, Henne, why don’t you take a look.”

I sit leaning forward, watching him. His hand, with forefinger

and thumb pressed together, makes a slow loop in the air.

“Are you sewing?” One finger up. “Is the eyelash moon

your needle?” The finger is still there. “The baskets! Are they

sewing baskets?” Henne’s feet pound on the bed, and he rolls

from side to side. The mountains rise and fall. “Are you aware

that sewing baskets are magical?” His back is arched, his face

is tightly squinched. “There’s always something good in a

basket.” The shadow is a bridge.

“This must be important magic, for you to disguise the

baskets so cleverly? I wonder what could be in them?” He

flops on his stomach, like a fish that’s been caught. With his

forehead he starts making circles on the bed.

“Sewing baskets would have thread. Could it be thread?”

“Neh.”

“Yes. It must be thread, isn’t it?”

“ No!” He presses down. “Rrreh. Rrrrreh.“ He squeezes out

the words.

“Red - red - red - red thread!”

The circling stops.

“You’re an artist and a genius and I bow down to you. How

beautiful. The color of coral, the color of life in winter. It’s

winter here for certain, Henne, the water is so cold. Red

thread is beautiful poetry. You must have a job to do, a

deeply secret job.”

The boy rocks from side to side. Behind him waves are

building.

“It’s urgent, isn’t it? Could it break the spell? You know that I

will help you. I can sew. But we must start, Henne, let’s start

to thread the moon.

“Stars!” The boy sits up, waving wildly, the shadow a giant

bird.

“We must thread the stars! Oh, Henn, there are so many!

They’re tiny just like beads. Quick. Quick, we’ll need every

single basket!” He tries to stand on the bed. I get up too.

The shadow bird is huge.

Loudly I ask him,”What shall we sew with the thread we

have?

“Dumms! Fangs!”

“Aha! Show me, Henne, where?”

“Noweets!”

“The sheets?”

“No, no, no, no.”

“Then where? We’ve got to break the spell.”

“Noweets!”

“Tell me. Show me, Henn.”

“No - foo - moo!

“I don’t know.”

Dahhhhhk,” he rasps. “Momo. Momo stee.”

“Mother - in the dark - sleeping -”

“Reh! Rehhhh deh!” His arms are pumping, the shadow

running.

“Red. What else is red? The tongue is red.”

“No!”

“The heart is red - you want to -”

“Rayaaaa!” He’s bending over, rocking, and tramping on the

bed.

“Gaaaaaaaa!”

“A heart - sew, - red - thread. Do you want to sew her - to

your pillow - “

“Gaaa! Gaaa!”

“And she will always be - unchanging - Oh my god, Henne,

you want to sew her to your heart!

Henne hurls himself at her, hitting out.

“Oh my boy, my boy, how can I say it? She is gone, Henn, I

know this pain. Let her sleep, you make her sleep. Set the

spell upon her now and break it for yourself!” I’m close in.

He’s struggling, “I’ve got you, Henn, come here to me. Don’t

cry, Henn. Please don’t cry. You are magic and crystal and

time. Thank you for the baskets. Thank you for being alive.

Sew your mother to you and never be frightened again. The

moon and the tides can’t pull her away. The thread will hold

her here.”

I close my eyes, my daughter smiles. “Your heart will hold

her here.” We are rocking, he is whimpering. We stay rocking

in the chair. b

www.wayoftheheart.net.au