It was third grade before I received an article of clothing that wasn't handed-down or hand-stitched.
I remember trying on my new winter coat in that smalltown clothing store, bringing it home in a big white box cushioned in soft white wrapping paper .. and .. especially .. I remember the first day I wore it to school.
It was a beautiful red wool coat that fell below my knees, had sleeves that went all the way to my finger tips and a black, furry collar that made me feel like a queen in ermine. It had that wonderful smell of new; and I had never been so warm.
It was a bright, cool, fall day when I wore that coat outside for first recess. The trees in their autumn splendor had nothing on me. First I strutted. Then I sequestered a swing and dazzled the birds in the sky. Dizzy in my warmth and joy, I climbed aboard the most popular spot on the playground: the merry-go-round.
Merry-go-rounds have always made me nauseous. I've tried riding with eyes open and with eyes closed; with screeches, grunts, hums and silent prayers. The least-worst way of riding, I'd found, was to climb to the center hub, close my eyes and wait for the top to stop.
There was never any question of not riding the thing. I didn't know anyone who didn't; and even with a new red coat I wasn't confident enough to become the exception.
But the center hub of the merry-go-round had been newly greased. Whether to increase the spin or decrease the din, I didn't know. I just knew, when I disembarked, that the black grease on the back of my new red wool coat was frighteningly visible. My attempts to clean it off in the little girls' room with water and paper towels were less than effective.
That night the coat disappeared to the dry cleaners. I went to school the next day in my old, too-small, tired, old coat. Weeks later, when my beautiful red coat was returned, it's 'new' smell had been replaced by the stench of dry-cleaning chemical residue.
For the rest of the winter I wore that smell; a nauseous daily reminder of my last hub ride.
''twil not be your coffee table
Gifted by the mother
of the child within us all
the tree stands mute
against the sky
old and grim and tall
Do you see the shelter
for the creatures of the wood?
Or the promise once destroyed
as you voice ' if I could...'?
Tear asunder all your thoughts
of the future of this tree
shining in your living room
a place to put your feet
I will not send this treasure
to the grinding dream of man
I will not give her up to you
even though I can
Warm Embrace
Eastern Red Cedar
