Read Online All the Dancing Birds by Auburn McCanta - Free Book Online
Authors: Auburn McCanta
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the world it must be time for a glass of wine.
I place the box back on the shelf and stand in the dim closet, not really anxious to leave the dear space that wraps around me like Ma’s arms.
I place my fingers over my eyelids and feel each round hardness beneath. I press sharply into them until I see star-pointed sparkles of light.
With my fingers pressed tightly to my eyes, I pray that what I see—sparkles of bright and dark together—will be etched into the slate rock of my mind and that I will not forget this moment.
My eyes are good.
What they see is good too. I spread a prayer across the walls of the closet. God, if you’re out there somewhere, you probably know that something is taking my mind. But still—please—let me remember this one small thing. Help me to always remember the generosity of good eyes. Oh, and a Southern porch . Please don’t forget the Southern porch, because I probably will.
I leave the closet and go to the kitchen, where I open a bottle of Cabernet that grips my palate with thankfulness that I still remember how to work a corkscrew.
Chapter Seven
N ow here I am, my mind crisp and crackling, words springing easily to my lips. I am invincible today.
Yes. The day is brilliant and the joy of it washes over me like a warm summer rain. I feel as if I’ve circled back from the dark side of the moon and now I fiddle with the bright side of everything.
Angels once again live in my mouth, moving my tongue, forming words out of the crack-hard fissures and crumbling monuments within my mind. I’m told that’s the way with this Alzheimer’s disease thing I supposedly have—good days here, bad days there. It seems, though, that my days are sectioned into moments of good and bad.
This is a moment of good.
Allison and I are sprawled across my bed like teenagers at a sleepover. Her hair smells of fruit and flowers and I swoon beneath its scent. I’m mesmerized by the simplicity of her deep green eyes.
“Bryan tells me you’ve come down with some sort of disease,” she says. “But maybe you just need a nice vacation. So, listen to this. I’ve decided to forget fishing in Canada and now I’m thinking of a couple of weeks lolling on some beach in Maui. How does that strike you? Grass skirts, little umbrellas in some tall, rummy-yummy cocktail. Bare-chested men .”
“Oh, well… I—”
There it is—the bad moment! Suddenly, thoughts fidget in my mind. Doors slam in my face—one by one—shutting out content, meaning and distinction, closing off the soft nooks and crannies of all my delicious words. All that remains are the hard and ragged edges of a dark and empty mind. Entire syllables, usage, syntax and pronunciation are suddenly locked away. Unavailable.
I’m aware that I’m a sudden wild-eyed mute; I hate these moments that come and go like storms on a November Sacramento night.
Thankfully, Allison chatters on, unaware of the clattering chaos in my head. Perhaps the angels that live in my words have flown to some other woman’s mouth. I know what Allison is saying, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to initiate a sentence of my own. I can only manage puny responsive sounds. Simple yeses, noes. Little sighs and shrugs. Words that should accompany these gestures are simply missing.
I’m swimming through an expanse of mud.
Finally, I stumble across a few small snippets of misdirected thoughts lying on the floor of my brain. This gives me hope. I manage to string together a small daisy chain of words.
“You’re a… a… um, a sweetheart , dear. Hawaii sounds nice, but what I have won’t go away… by… by simply taking it somewhere for a good tan.”
“Maybe all you need is some pampering. Look at you. You need a manicure. A facial. A nice coconut-butter massage, and who better to do all that than a handsome native in a Speedo?”
“Allison! How could you say—?”
“Come on, Mom. Maybe you just
I place the box back on the shelf and stand in the dim closet, not really anxious to leave the dear space that wraps around me like Ma’s arms.
I place my fingers over my eyelids and feel each round hardness beneath. I press sharply into them until I see star-pointed sparkles of light.
With my fingers pressed tightly to my eyes, I pray that what I see—sparkles of bright and dark together—will be etched into the slate rock of my mind and that I will not forget this moment.
My eyes are good.
What they see is good too. I spread a prayer across the walls of the closet. God, if you’re out there somewhere, you probably know that something is taking my mind. But still—please—let me remember this one small thing. Help me to always remember the generosity of good eyes. Oh, and a Southern porch . Please don’t forget the Southern porch, because I probably will.
I leave the closet and go to the kitchen, where I open a bottle of Cabernet that grips my palate with thankfulness that I still remember how to work a corkscrew.
Chapter Seven
N ow here I am, my mind crisp and crackling, words springing easily to my lips. I am invincible today.
Yes. The day is brilliant and the joy of it washes over me like a warm summer rain. I feel as if I’ve circled back from the dark side of the moon and now I fiddle with the bright side of everything.
Angels once again live in my mouth, moving my tongue, forming words out of the crack-hard fissures and crumbling monuments within my mind. I’m told that’s the way with this Alzheimer’s disease thing I supposedly have—good days here, bad days there. It seems, though, that my days are sectioned into moments of good and bad.
This is a moment of good.
Allison and I are sprawled across my bed like teenagers at a sleepover. Her hair smells of fruit and flowers and I swoon beneath its scent. I’m mesmerized by the simplicity of her deep green eyes.
“Bryan tells me you’ve come down with some sort of disease,” she says. “But maybe you just need a nice vacation. So, listen to this. I’ve decided to forget fishing in Canada and now I’m thinking of a couple of weeks lolling on some beach in Maui. How does that strike you? Grass skirts, little umbrellas in some tall, rummy-yummy cocktail. Bare-chested men .”
“Oh, well… I—”
There it is—the bad moment! Suddenly, thoughts fidget in my mind. Doors slam in my face—one by one—shutting out content, meaning and distinction, closing off the soft nooks and crannies of all my delicious words. All that remains are the hard and ragged edges of a dark and empty mind. Entire syllables, usage, syntax and pronunciation are suddenly locked away. Unavailable.
I’m aware that I’m a sudden wild-eyed mute; I hate these moments that come and go like storms on a November Sacramento night.
Thankfully, Allison chatters on, unaware of the clattering chaos in my head. Perhaps the angels that live in my words have flown to some other woman’s mouth. I know what Allison is saying, but for the life of me, I can’t seem to initiate a sentence of my own. I can only manage puny responsive sounds. Simple yeses, noes. Little sighs and shrugs. Words that should accompany these gestures are simply missing.
I’m swimming through an expanse of mud.
Finally, I stumble across a few small snippets of misdirected thoughts lying on the floor of my brain. This gives me hope. I manage to string together a small daisy chain of words.
“You’re a… a… um, a sweetheart , dear. Hawaii sounds nice, but what I have won’t go away… by… by simply taking it somewhere for a good tan.”
“Maybe all you need is some pampering. Look at you. You need a manicure. A facial. A nice coconut-butter massage, and who better to do all that than a handsome native in a Speedo?”
“Allison! How could you say—?”
“Come on, Mom. Maybe you just
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