death

Pre-election. Cows.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 3 Comments

November 2, and chatter is all about midterms and the lingering balmy and dry weather. Variables.

For whatever mysterious reason, I keep thinking of Hayden Carruth’s “Cows at Night” poem, which I’ve surely quoted here, perhaps numerous times over the years. This weekend, the moon waning, I drove home on a back road after dinner with friends. In the rural dark, I passed intermittent houses, windows glowing. Where I’d been was hot, so I drove with the sunroof open, in my thin sweater, the scent of woodsmoke drifting in with the breeze, my head filled with a killer live blues band. But where my road parts left, I kept driving, through the village mostly closed up, and to the town forest where I parked.

I’m mostly not afraid of the dark except when I’m terrified. I’ve lived a whole adult life to write this—mostly not afraid except when I tremble with fear—for the immeshed reasons of experience and will and desire that spiral into all our lives. In the thin starlight, I walked along the path, the woods redolent with fallen leaves. Where the path edged along a field, I paused and placed my hand against a white pine, listening, listening. Were the cows yet in the field? The night opened my eyes wide. Yes, indeed, the cows, shifting and chewing, steady.

The Cows at Night

The moon was like a full cup tonight,
too heavy, and sank in the mist
soon after dark, leaving for light

faint stars and the silver leaves
of milkweed beside the road,
gleaming before my car.

Yet I like driving at night
in summer and in Vermont:
the brown road through the mist

of mountain-dark, among farms
so quiet, and the roadside willows
opening out where I saw

the cows. Always a shock
to remember them there, those
great breathings close in the dark.

I stopped, and took my flashlight
to the pasture fence. They turned
to me where they lay, sad

and beautiful faces in the dark,
and I counted them–forty
near and far in the pasture,

turning to me, sad and beautiful
like girls very long ago
who were innocent, and sad

because they were innocent,
and beautiful because they were
sad. I switched off my light.

But I did not want to go,
not yet, nor knew what to do
if I should stay, for how

in that great darkness could I explain
anything, anything at all.
I stood by the fence. And then

very gently it began to rain.

Mending Myself.

/ Brett Ann Stanciu / 12 Comments

Mid-morning, abruptly the weight of my mother’s recent death lies on me, a physical presence, as if she’s leaning on my shoulders. It’s 21 days since she passed, days and nights crammed full. Like most mother and daughters, my mother and I had a relationship filled with 10,000 things and more. Again, today, on the eve of a short journey, I pack my laptop and books. I vacuum and mop and talk and talk and talk with my daughter.

Rain falls all day, so chilly I light a fire to the intense pleasure of my two cats. A year ago, my youngest and I flew home from Europe, my heart filled with our trip’s happiness. So, too, again, my life unfurls forward with an offer of good writing news. Spring in all her exuberance sings — such sweet joy for us in a northern sphere.

I wander outside. My shoes fill with rain. I stop in at a friend’s house. In her well-lit living room, with her purring cats, we talk about travels and love. Later, as I leave, she leans out the door, and we keep talking about honeybees and blossoms. The rain falls steadily, streaming down the collar of my coat. I have that walk home and more work, but I linger in the billowing fog, the gleaming green, our conversation gently pulling me back into this world, stitching me.