Blank Verses

I am standing in the back of the Portland, Oregon home we have been invited to stay in- the owner of which is Charles’ 2nd cousin, Jon Graber, and his wife Terry, who are “brewmasters,” brewers of beer, and people with very fine taste in many things.  I am inhaling one of the few cigarettes I have been allowing myself lately, and observing things such as the ice on top the cooler, the rigged backyard brewery Jon has set up for his home taps, a clay molding of a bearded crescent moon against stars, hanging on the wooden fence.

The garage side door is open, the light is on.  I step closer and there is music playing through speakers.  There is a metallic wind-chime next to my head, dangling, a CDR on the end of the string in the middle, the long part that hits the metals and causes the sounds I suspect only need to go so far a distance before transforming into the wind and carrying themselves about the ear canals of Earth’s atmosphere.  I bring them into motion, surprised at how they resonate.  I have a nastily opinionated preference for certain types of wind-chimes, metal ones constantly do not make the cut, but these, their waves linger.  They sound like the Home Alone soundtrack mixed with what would be the sound of snow being created, were you to hear it, and that with the music playing in the garage brings me to a time in San Diego four years ago, at Audrey’s great aunt’s, swimming in her backyard pool, gallivanting.  

Her husband has died recently and, in an interval of exhaustion, more likely of “Audrey feels like sunbathing now, not swimming,” I ventured into an open side garage door and saw all these things everywhere, much clutter, orchestrated clutter, and found a funny hat, at least a hat that looked so outdated and dusty and flat-billed I just had to take it down and try to make Audrey laugh.  So I took it off its nail and onto my wet head, barely, letting it rest on my head, not truly putting it on.  I walked outside and hoped for a beaming smile.  I received a jumping up from laying-out position, quick please put that back

Why

that was her husband’s and she hasn’t moved anything of his yet.

A bit of a scold afterward for questioning.  Understandable.  Soon after Audrey gets nervous because we’re running late to have dinner with her father, and oh did she ever get worked up about running late.  

I’m experiencing this while looking into Jon’s garage, who has no children, and is so nice, as we people judge most others, considering who is going to go first: him, or Terry, who just walked downstairs in her pink, fully-outfitted pajamas to remind Jon what time he needs to get up while he’s telling Charles bear stories, what is the multitude of their love for each other and others, how long is this wind-chime going make the music it makes where it is, which of them will have to contemplate whether or not to move it after the other loses presence here.