Güd wrtr

Every day the grandpa erects a castle
for his grandson who spends weekdays
with his grandparents at the home

where his mama grew up, the grandpa
knowing that his grandson will behold
the intricate blocks-and-Lego structure

for perhaps all of three seconds before
he King Kongs his way into the edifice,
sending towers sprawling, a mass

of primary colors flung hither and yon,
the boy chortling as he performs his own
act of creativity, which the designer

delights in, too. And, after the boy’s mama
has retrieved him and taken him home
to his own blocks and bed, the architect

will gather up all the pieces and start
anew, building the next day’s castle from
from scratch, each one a unique invention,

anticipating a small boy’s delight as he
surveys his kingdom before knocking
it all down again.

(for Kevin and Ashley Just)

And just like that the house
of the Haags becomes
the house of the Justs,

the next generation of
Justs with the signing of
legal documents and

thumbprints affixed
and notarized. And a
Just who was once

a Haag passes the keys
to her son as the last
of the Haags snaps

a photo or four, while
the two Haags who made
that house our home

look on from their
spot in the firmament,
cheering like they did

when that once little
blond boy stepped up
to the T with the ball

resting on top and gave it
a mighty whack, sending
it flying into his future,

the one that we think of
as the here, the one
we call the now.

Breathe, darling,
This is just a chapter.
It’s not our whole story.
—S.C. Lourie

And given that it’s just a chapter,
you are free to close the book
of you for a bit,

take a break for now to,
yes, breathe. And while you’re
inhaling and exhaling,

maybe lace up your walking shoes
and take the book of you outdoors
to walk in the world,

pull the breezes into your pages,
illustrate them with the first daisies
of early spring winking like stars

in fresh grass. Sprinkle a bit
of birdsong in there, too. But know
that the book of you is still a draft—

and a good draft it is—though
there’s so much more to be written.
This chapter may well be thick

with gray, heavy with sorrow,
but that doesn’t make it the end.
By no means is this the end.

•••

(for Lisa Morgan… happy birthday!)

As we take apart their house,
we wish for the single object that
encapsulates their lives to carry with us
into ours, one that sums up the story,
settles the score, calls it a day.

We have candidates—Dad’s ski boat
that pulled his three girls around the lake—
Mom, my sister and me—jokingly
christened the Jandolene by Aunt Judy,
using syllables from each of our names.

The mystery light that insists on turning
itself on without timer or a hand nearby,
to which we say when we enter the house
and see its bright greeting, “Hi, Mom and Dad!”

And while we will keep these things in the family—
along with the 1950s upright piano and all
the music stuffed into its bench and nearby
bookcase, as well as Mom’s pale pink wedding
dress draped by the bathrobe she wore while
nursing two babies—they aren’t what we’re
looking for.

I am alone in the nearly empty house
that once cocooned us all when my
cerebral cortex lights up like the vintage
Christmas lights that Dad used to string
under the eaves, the message crawling
across the movie screen in my head:

Honey, you’re done. Both of you. You did good.

It’s the news flash of our lifetimes that
comes not in words but in fading, flickering
photos from a celestial album:

Two parents, two daughters—we enacted
the story of our family quartet to its conclusion,
sang and played our respective parts as scripted,
though we never saw the pages. We could not
have done it differently or better. We could not
have changed it—what happened to us,
between us, among us—was meant to be.

And now the curtain has closed; we mere
players have made our entrances and,
for two of us, our exits.

And that’s when his voice resonates,
the bass in our quartet, accompanied by
his great bear paw on a daughter’s shoulder
after a band concert or a synchronized swimming
meet, the sweet grip as he hauled a single ski
out of the water and gave us a hand up
into the boat, dripping and grinning:

Atta girl. Good job. Bee-yoooo-ti-ful.

(for Sandra)

I felt all the love of the universe
envelop me, the beloved,
by the beloved,

all the beloveds here and gone
surrounding us in that embrace
of one who blesses others

with generosity of spirit,
with lovingkindness, and, in sharing
that with me, replenishing what

I imagined had been lost,
but, of course, has always held
me, will always hold me,

till our souls float away
when our bodies no longer
need them.

Amen.

Gene [Hackman] told me he only needed four instructions
from directors. Louder. Softer. Faster. Slower.
—Dan Ackroyd, Feb. 27, 2025

•••

When you think about it, they’re among the best
directions anyone can give—and sure,

now you’re thinking about sex, and sure,
they work for that, too—but imagine for

a moment a nothing-special interaction
between two people, whether in life

or on film, and think tempo, think volume,
think how softer/slower lands on the ear

compared to louder/slower or certainly
faster/louder. Couldn’t we all lower

the decibels in our overheated dialogue,
drop the threatening tone, deliver

kinder words clearly and at just the right
pitch? Might your icy shell melt a little

if someone you’ve classified as antagonist
murmured a soft and slow “I hear you”

at just the right moment and then
proceeded to truly listen? Might you

return the favor and begin to watch
the gulf between you and your

former foe imperceptibly, impossibly,
start to shrink?

(for Lauren Just Giel)

Our mother’s drawers and cupboards,
every one an archeological dig—

the farther in we go, the deep
the dive into decades past.

Her pristine, unfolded nurse’s
caps lie ready for the job she quit

just before I was born. The
surprise of a gift, I imagine,

given at a baby shower, which,
she, heavy with me, must have

opened, laughed at, perhaps held
up to the assembled women, then

modeled, tying the joke apron
around the two of us.

“Expectant mother,” it says, on
still-bright orange cotton

the color of fresh lava decorated
with cartoons of a very PG woman,

captions joking among other things,
about the possibilities of twins.

I was the first of two, my womb mate
sister-to-be taking up residence in that

space a couple of years later. And though
that sister who unearthed this treasure

and I doubt that the recipient ever
actually wore the apron, we now

look at each other and grin,
knowing instantly who must

inherit it—the next generation
in the family—her daughter,

my niece—expecting her
second child, a daughter, whose

great grandma has left her
such a legacy of love.

The pale pink ones by the garage, the bush
deeply pruned by the next generation
who will soon call your house home.

Instead of the great haystack of shubbery,
it is now an artful bit of sculpture,
its perfect blossoms gazing west

into late February’s gentle sun.
I would’ve missed them had I not
been walking through the utility room,

carrying bags of your former belongings
to my car, when I felt you and Father
so close behind me, as if your slender fingers

rested lightly on my right shoulder,
his thicker ones on my left, whispering,
“Out there, honey—look out there.”

So I did, and we all lingered, admiring
the miracle of such beauty in winter,
just two days after the 68th anniversary

of your wedding, the sweet blooms
pulling me outside to study them closely,
their petals, I realized as I touched a few,

the same color as your wedding dress
still hanging in what I will always
think of as your house.

(for Barbara in Lane #2)

I am the visiting one who has flown in
and landed with a gentle whoosh

in this five-lane pond, one who
some might perceive as an interloper,

one who might need to be chased
off by other floating fowl who

think of this bit of liquid as theirs.
But here, this kind one bobbing

in her familiar spot welcomes me,
the out-of-towner, slipping into

the blue of an early morning.
I feel my body incline into

weightlessness again and lean
into the aqueous arms that hold me,

that support us all like a longtime,
unseen friend.

•••

Thanks to Barbara in Lane #2 and Terri in Lane #3
for including me in their early morning Shadow HIlls
lap pool swims.

As the murky horizon gives way
to a watercolor sky out the windshield,
me riding shotgun, Terri wheeling us
into what’s become her spot in
the empty parking lot.

We might have the big pool all to
ourselves this morning, Terri says,
for our 45-minute 6 a.m. slot in
Lanes #2 and #3.

And we pretty much do, as Terri jogs up
Lane 3, and I breaststroke my way down
Lane 2, while outside the big windows
today blooms into the color of a new
duckling.

Two early mornings ago from my spot
in the pool I watched the sky flush
soft pink, much like my cheeks when,
as a freshman in high school, the tall boy
I had a crush on slowly turned to look
over his shoulder at me four rows
behind him on the bus.

Now goggled in the pool, I scan my
my brain cells trying to retrieve that
boy’s name, which floats away on
the small wake stirred up by my
flutter-kicking feet. Later, in
the shower, his name continues
to elude me, though I can make out
the fuzzy contours of his young face
as Terri and I head out to breakfast
before 8 a.m.

It’s still not my time of day, but oh,
look at that soft light making landfall
on the tawny mountains ringing
this desert valley. I can hear my
beloved far away at home chuckling.
Who are you, and what have you
done with Janis?

And then it comes to me:
His name was Mitch. Is Mitch.
I hope he’s still out in the world,
rising into the day, as safe
and warm and loved as I so
swimmingly am.

Sun City Shadow HIlls pool, dawn / Photo: Jan Haag