ANNA’S HAIR

I stand in the garden with my eyes closed and arms stretched up to the sky.  Then slowly I bring them down to the sides and rest, waiting, gathering the energy around me. The sun hangs in the air above the trees, ineffective, too distant to touch my skin, yet bright enough to cast shadows of relief and comfort throughout the garden.  I want to be out in the open, casting a shadow of my own, waiting, listening as they do.  I plant my feet firmly into the earth, wet and moist from the rain of the night before.  The cool air of autumn wraps itself around my bare arms, defying the sun.  I wait, and I listen.  I need to do this, now that she is dead.

Forester told me it would be good to write again. “Get a journal, talk to it. Start small.” He’s probably right. “I can’t write anymore,” I told him. “You’re a writer for God’s sake,” he said. “Call it writer’s block then,” I said.  We were sitting on the porch drinking lemonade. “Why don’t you come see me.”   Forester’s my brother.  He is also a psychologist. “I don’t want to talk about it or write about it Forester,” I told him.  He never mentioned it again, but he did buy me a sketchbook. It had a blue marbled binding. “Draw then,” he said.

There had been times in my life when I could not go a day without touching a pencil, opening a notebook.  Now, the pencil seemed awkward in my hand.  I opened the first white page in the sketchbook and wrote the date in the right corner.  An incredible weight rushed through my arm and hung heavy on my fingers.  The pencil barely moved under my hand and I quit.  Sitting and watching was easy.  I spent most of my day on the porch watching the grass, the trees, a squirrel here and there.  It was effortless and it was all I could do.  I rarely went inside and when I did I left the sketchbook on the porch table.  Inside the house was oppressive and made me dizzy. “It’s the photos.  They are all over the house.  Take her photos down,” Jamie said.  A photo of us on the hammock at the beach house stood on the bedside table in my room.  She was only six then.  Her cheeks pink from a day on the beach pressed against mine, her eyes bright, happy, stared back at me.  I tried to put it in a drawer, but the smell of sunshine in her hair kept rushing at me and  I couldn’t shut the drawer. Her eyes peered at me through the matte finish on the photograph, questioning me maybe, or answering mine.  But we couldn’t reach each other.  She was in some other world, trapped behind a plastic screen.  The drawer stayed open for a few days.  I finally had to put the photo back on the table. 

Out on the porch there were no thoughts, no images, nothing that allowed me to feel enough to write or maybe I was feeling too much to write, I’ve never been able to make that distinction.

Her teacher from school, Mrs. Mendez came to see me.  She was a small woman with too much makeup, very latin, used to crying, lamenting and cursing.  I envied her for the room she held in her, room to cry for Anna. Jamie offered her some lemonade and I needed badly for her to leave.  She stayed a long time. “So young, just 12… dear Anna,” “she was such a good girl,” “I sometimes wonder if there is a God, no…no..I really do wonder now,” she just rambled on about her mother, her sisters, the children she taught, the parents she’d seen, the Anna she thought we shared.  I watched the lemonade in her glass and she drank slowly taking small drop size sips.  When she stood up to leave, she stepped in closer to me and squeezed my hand, a gesture of bonding maybe.  Then she said, “We must keep praying for her soul.”  When she had left, she had taken whatever room I had inside me along with her. “I’m glad you finally felt something,” Forester said, straightening out the bent pages of the sketchbook I had flung against the tree in the garden. “Not exactly what I had intended for you to do with this though,” he added shaking the book back to life.  He left a page open to dry.  It stayed open for days.

First dust gathered on the page, specks of indescribable small somethings.  I blew them off and pushed some off with the back of my hand which left streaks on the white page.  I traced the streaks with the pencil Forester had left.  Each line I drew seemed to pull out to the corners of the sketchbook and pour over the edges.  A small leaf drifted on to the page and I traced it too.  I traced it over and over again, as if marking a spot, leaving some sort of memory, of what I wasn’t sure.  Then I closed the book, trapping the tiny leaf between the pages.  I took the photo of us on the hammock out of its frame and put it in the book, next to the leaf.  Then, I closed the pages tightly on them both.

With the pencil behind my ear, I began to carry the sketchbook with me everywhere I went and that seemed to please Forester.  “She’s making progress,” I overheard him tell Jamie in the kitchen.  I never thought of opening the pages.  I let the sketchbook rest against my chest as I rubbed my hand against the marbled binding.   The leaves had begun to fall.

Jamie cooked food for us and Forester tried to get me to take medicine. “Look, it’s been over 2 months. You aren’t eating, you aren’t sleeping properly.  All you do is sit here.  At least take the medicine.  It’ll help you pull out, help me pull you out. Please take it,” he pleaded.  I watched the leaves fall in the garden and held the sketchbook to my chest.  Forester sighed, put the pills in a small box and left them on the porch table. “Please, please take them. I’m only trying to help you Fay,” he said, resting his hands on my shoulder before he reached down and kissed my head.  I didn’t take the medicine and in time Jamie gave up cooking ‘real’ food for me.

“Have you drawn anything in there?” Forester asked once while we sat on the porch.  I didn’t draw in the sketchbook, but there were many leaves in it now.  When Forester and Jamie were at work, I went out under the large tree that stood off to the right.  Sitting in her shade, I would open the notebook to where her picture was, and I would watch as leaves of orange, green, red and brown fell on her, caressing her face.  Then I would close the pages and trap them inside. Within its pages, my sketchbook now held the last remnants of life. 

Anna had her first haircut when she was 2.  You do such silly things when you have a child in your life for the first time, things like keeping hair.  I found her baby book in the attic and tore out the page with the lock of her hair taped to it.  Anna’s first haircut. The words in Jason’s beautiful handwriting leaped out at me.   I had shared a world of words with Jason for many years before Anna had entered our lives.  First his feelings had poured out for me, his words soothing my soul, verifying our love and then our words had shared the joy that we had created together.  Now all they were, were feelings, unable to move, trapped inside the blue of dried ink.  Jason wasn’t here anymore but a part of his soul, a feeling from him remained in those lines and I put them, folded, into the page of my sketchbook, next to her photo and the leaves.

They were talking in the kitchen again.  “It’s too soon, I’m expecting too much from her,” Forester told Jamie. I felt sad for him, for the effort he was putting into me, for his frustration at not being able to ‘treat’ me. “First Jason, now Anna,” There was silence.  I knew then that those two names would always bring silence to our lives from now on. “These things take time,” Jamie whispered. “Isn’t that what you always say?”  Forester came out on the porch and rested his hands on my shoulders.  He kissed the top of my head and said “time Fay, time.” then he gave my shoulders a squeeze and left.

Winter came and the porch grew cold.  There were fewer bugs now and squirrels didn’t seem to come for food much. “Do we have to sit out here?” Forester whined. “It’s warm inside.  You can sit there.” I said. He sighed and said, “I’ll get a blanket and some coffee,” then went inside.  The doorbell rang and there were voices - one I didn’t recognize.  Not many people came to see me and Mrs. Mendez had been back just a day ago.  Then Jamie’s voice, panicked, a pitch out of control, rang out, “Are you insane? How dare you come here?” A man’s voice followed, “Please. Please let me see her.  You don’t understand I have to do this,” he pleaded.  Forester’s the psychologist, he gave in.  The porch door opened behind me and heat rushed at my neck, I shivered.  He stood before me, a chubby man of about forty or fifty, I’ve never been good with ages.  “I’m Chris,” he said, looking down the whole time. He was balding and the distinct smell of peppermint leapt out at me and made me nauseaus. I pulled the sketchbook tighter into my chest. “Can I sit down?” he asked and did without waiting for an answer.  Forester stood behind me and held on to my shoulders anchoring me for the storm that was to come. The wind blew cold and the air smelled of coming snow.  “I had to come,” the man said.  He was a small man and now he sat hunched over looking even smaller. It was night and the porch light lit up the skin around his thinning hair.  “You can’t imagine what I’ve been through…I can’t sleep nights anymore….Jack…at the AA told me to see you.  He said it would help.” He began to shiver as the wind blew around us.  Forester squeezed my shoulders.  I stared at the bald spot on the man’s head and felt queasy. “I was afraid to come…to see you,” he said.  “I’m so sorry.  I’m so so very sorry.”  Then he began to cry, letting out a horrible, sickly howl as his body shook. “I know I can’t bring her back.  I don’t drive anymore….or drink…haven’t had one since the accident.  I’m dead too you know,” he said as he looked up at me, tears streaming down his reddened face, anguish distorting his features. “Get out!” I told him.  My voice was soft, almost a whisper.  He leaned in to hear better, the tears abrubtly interrupted, surprised that I had spoken to him.

Anna had been 3 and we were working on potty training.  Tears had streamed down her face as she realized that I had thrown her poop into the toilet.  Amidst her wails and protests I had called to her softly, saying “I’m so sorry,” in a whisper.  Her tears had stopped suddenly as she had leaned in to hear me.  Expectancy seeped into his eyes as he strained to hear me. “GET OUT!” I screamed at him and threw the sketchbook.

The book lurched into the air, hit the porch light and the pages opened up and fluttered in the breeze.  Leaves flew in all directions, drifting slowly to the ground.  Anna’s face smiled at me from behind the matte photo finish.  The man and Forester stood frozen, like children caught inside a snowglobe, watching the multi-colored leaves drift down around them. “GET OUT I SAID!” I yelled again as I fell to the floor, pulled Anna’s photo to me and began to frantically gather the fallen leaves, her hair and Jason’s words. Jamie rushed out, threw Forester a look and dropped to the floor, gathering the scattered contents of my sketchbook with me.  I saw Forester drag the man into the house.

“Why are you keeping those things in the sketchbook?” Forester asked me one day.  A month had passed since Chris’ visit. “I like them,” I told him. “Why leaves?” he asked. “Repetition isn’t it?  I mean it is a pattern, over and over again,” I said. “And besides I think she likes it.” He looked worried, but lately Forester always looked worried.

The weather had warmed up again and I sat in the garden now.  The man, Chris, had called several times to see me.  I overheard Forester and Jamie talking on the porch. “She is acting awful strange Forester,” Jamie told him. “She won’t sit on the porch anymore either…it’s as if she is moving further and further away from this house.  Right there under that tree.  She just sits there with that sketchbook.” Forester looked at me and waved. “Time” I heard him say. It had become his sole consolation.

I sat on the grass, my legs stretched out infront of me and I pressed my back against the body of the tree. It felt solid, crusty, unpredictable and yet reliable.  Above me she had sprouted new, green leaves and I watched them grow, memorizing their places on the branches.  When I opened my notebook once to see the colors on my leaves, they flew out with a breeze, dry, brittle and dead.  I cried uncontrollably as they scattered over the new grass. Forester ran to me and held me tight. “The leaves…” I said to him.  “My leaves are gone…” He looked at the dry dust that remained of the leaves and tried to salvage a few but the wind had carried them away over the lawn. Frantically Forester looked around then he stood up and said,  “Look there are more,” as he picked a handful of fresh green ones off the tree and put them into my sketchbook.

When Forester had left, I spread the leaves around the base of the tree making sure each one touched her bark and then I leaned against her, tears flowing down my face.  “I’m sorry,” I told the tree.  “I’m sorry, he thought he was helping me,” I said.

The heat of Summer was now upon us and I spent more and more time in the garden.  I’d sit under the tree and feel her strength seep into me.  She held me up and I never wanted to be in the house.  “Look, this really isn’t normal behaviour,” Forester said. “You have to come into the house.” “What’s normal behaviour Forester?” I asked.  He looked at the sketchbook and said, “written anything yet? Drawn? Or do you still have leaves in there?” “I’m going to sleep out here tonight.” I said.  I saw them, Forester and Jamie, watching me from the kitchen window.  The light was on all night and I knew Forester didn’t sleep.

It was a balmy night with a full moon that shone down through the branches of the tree.  Stars were scattered across the vast night sky and I leaned back into the tree and opened the sketchbook so the stars could see Anna’s photo.  Somewhere near morning, I must have dozed off because it was the large drops of rain that fell hard and wet around me that brought me to and made me realize that I had left Anna wide open.  The rain fell merciless on her photograph and her hair had become wet.  “NO!” I screamed, furiously trying to shove the raindrops away from Anna.  Forester and Jamie rushed out.  Inside the house, I took a warm bath and Jamie dried my hair while Forester blowdried Anna’s photo and the lock of her hair.  Jamie made tea and they both watched me as I put Anna and Jason back between the pages of my sketchbook. I knew they were worried beyond words but I was beyond caring.

When Summer left, the pattern set and leaves turned color.  The tree held me as I leaned into her and watched her let go.  I saw her release what had to leave.  Closing my eyes, tears trickling down my cheeks, I listened for her pain, for the tears we would share.  She gave only strength.  I shared her loss and sat with her for over a month as the leaves fell all around us.  Forester hired a clumsy young boy, thirteen or so with pimples and a stripped shirt to clear the leaves away.  I told him to get lost.  “This isn’t like you,” Forester said. “Chris wants to talk to you.  He says he is fully sober now.” I closed my eyes and let my back rest against the tree and listened to her sounds, the ones I had grown accustomed to.  “Maybe you should see him now,” Forester said.  There was silence.  Then Forester sat next to me and the tree welcomed him.  “It’s nice here,” he said.  I smiled.

She had no leaves left as I watched the last one fall.  I stood up and breathed in the cool crisp autumn air.  “Thank you,” I said to her and touched her bark gently.  I went to the middle of the garden and stood, clutching the sketchbook tightly against me.  “What are you doing?” Forester asked standing next to me trying to look sensible.  “Listening,” I said.  I listened all autumn, through winter and into the next Spring, and slowly I learned to hear what the tree could hear, and then it told me that time had come.

So standing now in the middle of the garden, my arms stretched out to the sides, her hair clutched tightly in my fists, I close my eyes.  The earth moves to greet my feet, naked and grasping, reaching back down to her.  The sky, the sun fall effortlessly into my arms and I listen.  I hear the earth and feel her power climb through the soles of my feet, moving up through my body to greet the sun. Then I hear it, a gentle breeze that rushes to me, and like parts rehearsed in a play, on cue I open my fists and release Anna’s hair.

© copyright Yesim Cimcoz 2003

Work in Progress....A Rainbow of Words...Writing through the Chakras