For Clifford Ernest Polland May 21, 1952–March 18, 2001
On this day of green, of imminent spring, of green beer and drunken celebration, I think of you on that terribly ordinary day, setting off to eat corned beef and cabbage with your siblings, me planning to see you the next day, none of us having any idea what was soon to happen.
As it should be.
We should all live fully to the end, death sneaking up on us like a little one we love tapping us on the shoulder, smiling, gently saying, Come with me.
And we do.
We should drink that last green beer not knowing. We should hug those we love and say goodbye as though we mean it.
Cliff and Jan at home in Davis with their first Macintosh computer, 1984
Three years ago at this time we could not see what was coming at us, could not imagine the unseen that would lock us inside, afraid of the very breath of others.
We learned too well about isolation, about grief and pain, gripping hope to our chests like a soft pillow, not entirely able to absorb its comfort.
Two years ago at this time a young muralist wielded her imagination and brushes to flower my century-old garage with poetry and poppies.
We were not entirely out of the woods, but hope slowly made itself known, unfurling like the iris bulbs I’d forgotten lying in the back yard bed.
Last year at this time we felt hope rising along with the iris’ purple tongue, with new buds on the Japanese maple and ginkgo in the front yard,
and the muralist returned to paint giant wings on the back of the garage, flowering, thriving.
And this year, drenched, finding relief in the sunny moments between storms, we pay attention to the tiny pink flowers springing from wispy branches, as living things seasonally do, filling us with breath, light strength of spirit to take a small step forward, and another— onward.
Last night I stared hard at the clear vase holding two dozen pointy green stalks like paintbrushes tipped the color of canaries, willing them to open.
If I ignored them, I thought, one might shyly loosen a lemony petal, let it begin to fall like a satin camisole strap, or another might open enough to reveal a bit of sunny petticoat.
This morning, when I turned on the light, all 24 girls stood tall, unfurled, twirling their parasols, beaming with the brightness that can only mean spring.
Worry descends before the rain, remembering the last one—water, water, so much water deluging our arid selves, power outages and snow, snow, deep blankets of snow, pristine icing layers thick atop groaning roofs, shoveling that doesn’t stop.
And now another atmospheric river chugs up from Hawaii, the Pineapple Express barreling toward us—warmer rain to melt all that snow up the hill, lots of water predicted for us below. We hunker down, sit tight, wait. And wait.
As the Express finally arrives, spitting like a petulant child, I head out on errands anyway, surprised to see the pet food store deserted, the single employee shivering— heater’s out again—and to my favorite local Mexican lunch spot— good to see you!—alone, watching watery trails stripe the large window.
Back at home, yes, rain, but no ferocious wind yet, and, just to be sure, I offer up prayers to La’amaomao, the Hawaiian wind goddess, the keeper of dozens of winds from soft to stormy.
Please, I entreat her, makani olu olu— fair winds, gentle, wafting breezes— ones that do not rattle the trees and leave us powerless.
All night, as the wind builds to a ko’olau, the kind that chops calm seas into treacherous peaks and valleys, I whisper into the dark: Calm down, ease up.
And in time it does, dead calm by morning, wee bits of blue piercing the gray, widening by midday into a sunny grin.
More inclemency is on its way, they say, but for now we’ll bask under momentary fair skies.
Mahalo, I murmur to the gods. Malama pono. Take good care. Keep us all safe.
