I did not see the worms when I pulled the rattan chair, weathered pale, cracked and dry, across the mowed grass that stretched smooth to the river’s edge and curved like a fitted sheet over the green banks. They say that in the quiet you can hear the munching of the tent worms, their millions of tiny jaws, cutting summer short, but I did not hear them. Instead a lawnmower upstream hummed, the river bubbled over pebbles and fragments of conversation drifted across the yard with the scent of grilled meat.
As I passed the concrete rip-rap holding back the lawn and crossed the wooden bridge to the small island, avoiding the puddles where the river bubbled up between tree roots, I thought only of peace and solitude. Easing into my chair and thumbing through the pages of my book I thought nothing of the worms
until I felt a flutter in my hair.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dinner sizzles on the stove, the oven vent hums as I strain to hear Garrison Keillor above the din. Standing at the sink, I watch a light saber duel ensue in the living room. Plastic crashes against plastic. Knickknacks rattle. A third warrior runs the full length of the house, whizzing from the bathroom past the kitchen, dodging the light saber duel, to land both knees on the couch with a whoop. A pot boils over while the Jedis shout at one another. The steady flow of water runs from the faucet in the empty bathroom. My nerves sway naked and overheated.
Dinner is served. “Wash your hands. Get your brother. Sit down. Here you go. Eat over your plate. Pull up your sleeves. Watch your glass. Use a napkin. Just a minute I’ll get it. Sit down. Turn around. You don’t have to like it. Say, ‘No, thank you.’ Sit down. Use a fork. Cut that. Sit down. Put your plate near the bowl. Don’t drip across the table. Eat over your plate. Turn around and sit down.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the island, now sitting at attention on the edge of my seat, I run one hand over the top of my head and sigh in relief. Nothing. Closing my book, I work my eyes up the length of the nearest trunk. Like one of those pictures friends post on-line, “If you can see five wolves in the woods in five seconds, share this,” suddenly the tent worms rise up from each crevice squirming, brown and tan stripes fringed in whiskers. I shudder.
From bottom to top, I run my eyes up the long trunks of striated bark to the branches, stripped clean, naked and raw. I imagine the tents of dirty webbing pitched in the crooks of tree branches. The cocoons are gone now, but I remember from my childhood the feel of a stick pushing against the taut walls of dirty silk, the satisfaction of plunging a twig through the side of the massive cocoon, my fascinated disgust as I stirred the wriggling gray mass and watched the worms spill to the ground.
Moving my chair a safe distance between the trees, I reopen the pages of my book, willing my muscles to relax.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After dinner, we ride our bikes to the playground. The boys scatter about the wooden towers and bridges, flying down poles and slides in pursuit of each other. A father pushes his toddler son on a kiddy swing while mom takes pictures. A plump woman in short shorts smokes a cigarette with a friend and hollers at her kids. I find a bench at the back behind the swings. My skin feels tight, stretched thin, transparent, loneliness exposed. I’m embarrassed. I want to hide.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At first the crow’s scolding is nothing but background noise. I ignore it too, but the crow persists.
“What?”
The crow flies away into the brush across the river, just a few feet from the ground.
“What is your problem?”
Then, I see.
Over logs and in and out of the undergrowth sneaks the long sleek figure of a river otter. The only other otter I’ve seen swam behind glass at the zoo. I sit up straight. The otter’s front and back legs seem impossibly distant from each other, her smooth long belly moving from side to side as she leans into her walk, whiskers and brown nose pointed to the ground in fixed determination. She ignores the crow, weaving in and out of the tall grasses and tangles of brush until she disappears into the scrub bordering a neighbor’s manicured lawn.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Mom!”
I pad down the darkened hall, entering the bedroom to squint at the small lump in the top bunk, his narrow face poking out from the covers. His twin brother snores in the bunk beneath him while little brother sleeps in the bedroom down the hall.
“What, buddy?”
“It’s too quiet.”
“I know.”
I climb the ladder to lay my head on his pillow to curve my body around his warm frame to press my cheek to his blond curls.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wait for the otter’s return. My eyes strain for her sleek form amidst the jumble of tree trunks and brush. Did I imagine her? The river talks but not to me. It pays no attention to the otter but gurgles toward the next bend, churns around the rocks where crayfish hide, pushes past turtles sunning on tree trunks, slides under low-hanging branches where water snakes sleep. The big lake waits, the crash of unsalted waves, the silencing of ambition, the cold stillness of the deep.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The young warrior sleeps. I climb down from the top bunk, shuffle to the living room and sit at the end of the couch. The recliner is empty. The t.v. silent. The newspaper unread. Words, awakened slither and burrow in my chest, trapped.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I hear them first, a noisy chatter like a box of chicks. Wide-eyed, I gape at the three miniature otters following mother: small brown noses, long whiskers, short ears. Mother slinks but her children shout, “Here we come!” The leader pulls himself over a log by his hind legs, kicking at the air, reaching for a foothold. Another heads in the opposite direction, crashing through the undergrowth while the third one brings up the rear poking his nose in the water, his tiny feet sinking in mud. Mother stops in the deep shade of a tree. She waits with her long body facing forward and her sleek head turned back, small eyes fixed on her brood. Her children’s cheeps fill the air. Finally the young otters stumble in mother’s direction and slip through a tunnel hidden in the mud and roots. For a good while, I remain at the edge of my seat, eyes and ears squinting, but once again I am alone.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Oh, Mom, I want to see them!” The boys are fascinated by my story. “Can we see them?”
“Maybe.”
I smile and think of my three sons with me on the island. In my imagination, they lie flat on their bellies, cheering as boats made of twigs drift beneath the wooden bridge. The boys run about banging tree trunks with branches taken from the firewood pile and heaving buried bricks and debris out of the river’s mud and into the current. Their noise and action would fill the island, I know. Their shimmying along the tree trunk, their hanging over the water, their leaning out over the current, as they shout in bewilderment, “Mom, where are the otters!”
As I passed the concrete rip-rap holding back the lawn and crossed the wooden bridge to the small island, avoiding the puddles where the river bubbled up between tree roots, I thought only of peace and solitude. Easing into my chair and thumbing through the pages of my book I thought nothing of the worms
until I felt a flutter in my hair.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Dinner sizzles on the stove, the oven vent hums as I strain to hear Garrison Keillor above the din. Standing at the sink, I watch a light saber duel ensue in the living room. Plastic crashes against plastic. Knickknacks rattle. A third warrior runs the full length of the house, whizzing from the bathroom past the kitchen, dodging the light saber duel, to land both knees on the couch with a whoop. A pot boils over while the Jedis shout at one another. The steady flow of water runs from the faucet in the empty bathroom. My nerves sway naked and overheated.
Dinner is served. “Wash your hands. Get your brother. Sit down. Here you go. Eat over your plate. Pull up your sleeves. Watch your glass. Use a napkin. Just a minute I’ll get it. Sit down. Turn around. You don’t have to like it. Say, ‘No, thank you.’ Sit down. Use a fork. Cut that. Sit down. Put your plate near the bowl. Don’t drip across the table. Eat over your plate. Turn around and sit down.”
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
On the island, now sitting at attention on the edge of my seat, I run one hand over the top of my head and sigh in relief. Nothing. Closing my book, I work my eyes up the length of the nearest trunk. Like one of those pictures friends post on-line, “If you can see five wolves in the woods in five seconds, share this,” suddenly the tent worms rise up from each crevice squirming, brown and tan stripes fringed in whiskers. I shudder.
From bottom to top, I run my eyes up the long trunks of striated bark to the branches, stripped clean, naked and raw. I imagine the tents of dirty webbing pitched in the crooks of tree branches. The cocoons are gone now, but I remember from my childhood the feel of a stick pushing against the taut walls of dirty silk, the satisfaction of plunging a twig through the side of the massive cocoon, my fascinated disgust as I stirred the wriggling gray mass and watched the worms spill to the ground.
Moving my chair a safe distance between the trees, I reopen the pages of my book, willing my muscles to relax.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After dinner, we ride our bikes to the playground. The boys scatter about the wooden towers and bridges, flying down poles and slides in pursuit of each other. A father pushes his toddler son on a kiddy swing while mom takes pictures. A plump woman in short shorts smokes a cigarette with a friend and hollers at her kids. I find a bench at the back behind the swings. My skin feels tight, stretched thin, transparent, loneliness exposed. I’m embarrassed. I want to hide.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At first the crow’s scolding is nothing but background noise. I ignore it too, but the crow persists.
“What?”
The crow flies away into the brush across the river, just a few feet from the ground.
“What is your problem?”
Then, I see.
Over logs and in and out of the undergrowth sneaks the long sleek figure of a river otter. The only other otter I’ve seen swam behind glass at the zoo. I sit up straight. The otter’s front and back legs seem impossibly distant from each other, her smooth long belly moving from side to side as she leans into her walk, whiskers and brown nose pointed to the ground in fixed determination. She ignores the crow, weaving in and out of the tall grasses and tangles of brush until she disappears into the scrub bordering a neighbor’s manicured lawn.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Mom!”
I pad down the darkened hall, entering the bedroom to squint at the small lump in the top bunk, his narrow face poking out from the covers. His twin brother snores in the bunk beneath him while little brother sleeps in the bedroom down the hall.
“What, buddy?”
“It’s too quiet.”
“I know.”
I climb the ladder to lay my head on his pillow to curve my body around his warm frame to press my cheek to his blond curls.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I wait for the otter’s return. My eyes strain for her sleek form amidst the jumble of tree trunks and brush. Did I imagine her? The river talks but not to me. It pays no attention to the otter but gurgles toward the next bend, churns around the rocks where crayfish hide, pushes past turtles sunning on tree trunks, slides under low-hanging branches where water snakes sleep. The big lake waits, the crash of unsalted waves, the silencing of ambition, the cold stillness of the deep.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The young warrior sleeps. I climb down from the top bunk, shuffle to the living room and sit at the end of the couch. The recliner is empty. The t.v. silent. The newspaper unread. Words, awakened slither and burrow in my chest, trapped.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I hear them first, a noisy chatter like a box of chicks. Wide-eyed, I gape at the three miniature otters following mother: small brown noses, long whiskers, short ears. Mother slinks but her children shout, “Here we come!” The leader pulls himself over a log by his hind legs, kicking at the air, reaching for a foothold. Another heads in the opposite direction, crashing through the undergrowth while the third one brings up the rear poking his nose in the water, his tiny feet sinking in mud. Mother stops in the deep shade of a tree. She waits with her long body facing forward and her sleek head turned back, small eyes fixed on her brood. Her children’s cheeps fill the air. Finally the young otters stumble in mother’s direction and slip through a tunnel hidden in the mud and roots. For a good while, I remain at the edge of my seat, eyes and ears squinting, but once again I am alone.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“Oh, Mom, I want to see them!” The boys are fascinated by my story. “Can we see them?”
“Maybe.”
I smile and think of my three sons with me on the island. In my imagination, they lie flat on their bellies, cheering as boats made of twigs drift beneath the wooden bridge. The boys run about banging tree trunks with branches taken from the firewood pile and heaving buried bricks and debris out of the river’s mud and into the current. Their noise and action would fill the island, I know. Their shimmying along the tree trunk, their hanging over the water, their leaning out over the current, as they shout in bewilderment, “Mom, where are the otters!”
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