One More Year

One more year has left us in the quiet…

One more year has found us amongst friends…

One more year has brought our family closer…

One more year has helped with our resolve…

One more year has led us to find new love…

One more year has surrounded us with loss…

One more year has gifted a new generation…

One more year has ended with a rush…

One more year has taken us to new lands…

One more year has welcomed us back home…

One more year has chased us through the seasons…

One more year has reflected onto the next…

One more year has drawn us into healing…

One more year has failed us for a cure…

One more year has drifted into memory…

One more year has passed the sands of time…

                             Shannon R Killman

Winter Sky

The moon was bright in the sky tonight… not full and not half, but in that in between place that makes my eyes see it in three dimensions. I picture the sun on the other side of the earth throwing a shadow on its surface that looks like the back of the sky and space.

The wind was high in the sky tonight… I couldn’t feel it on my skin, but the sound was faint and quiet. It pulled the clouds for as far as I could see. The bare tree-tops scraped at their view as they sailed silently by.

The clouds held hands tonight… like cotton balls on a child’s art project. They looked round and full… the edges fading into dark blue like the sky that held them. They raced to the moon and passed before it… and then pulled behind them an army of others. 

                                                            Shannon R Killman

and that Seems Normal

 

My children walk through their lives with phones linked to their eyes and their ears. The new school is wired for sound and for electronics. Every class is a wireless hub for the Internet… it turns communication and research into a modern marvel… and that seems normal.

We sit at a family gathering and young and old alike are fixed to their phones, ipads and ipods. The flat-screened TV plays in high definition and we almost forget how detailed life can truly be. We communicate through the palms of our hands as the reflected light shines bright against our eyes… and that seems normal.

Our vehicles have been transformed into fast moving computers. They tell us where to drive and what speed to drive. They allow us to move about without landmarks thanks to the updated GPS. And they help us to drive safer with backup cameras and automatic braking systems and auto parking options… and that seems normal too.

We move at a faster pace. Upload speeds direct our moods during the day. We are subjects to cell towers and the correct settings on our phones… and to the power cords and chargers that spray across the counters and tables of our houses… and that seems normal now.

But today, on Thanksgiving, I see a change… a slower pace and a familiar feeling. Today I watch as the phones and the computers sit blinking and sit idle. The electronics watch us today as we flip through the pages of favorite recipe books that don’t require downloading. Their familiar covers comfort our time together in the kitchens of our lives. Ours is stuffed with clippings given to us by grandmothers and aunts… and sisters and mothers.

On this day, hand written directions take the place of online videos. Snapshots of our favorite time of year flow through the air with the aromas of sage and allspice… of pumpkin pie and cornbread dressing. The turkey stuffed with onions and garlic takes the place of video games and microwave snacks.

We take the time to be thankful for our family and our friends… for our health and for our country. And for the people that have touched our lives. We remain hopeful for our future generations and for the technological advancements that will make their lives easier and happier. But we should never forget the touch and the sounds of a home cooked meal and for the aroma of togetherness… that seems normal forever…

 Shannon R Killman

American Made

I eased through the neighborhood this morning…

the wind pulled on the plastic widows of the Jeep

finding its way onto my exposed neck.

The leaves raced each other across the street

bouncing across the surface of the concrete,

singing in chirps with every contact of the road.

In a bend in the road… filled with cars parked

were tables in a driveway, overflowing.

People moved about… unaware of each other.

I was drawn to the activity…

I pulled to the side, my Jeep still cold inside

and I prepared for the chill…

There were piles of children’s clothing in a mass.

Plastic cups and used china held one table.

Toys of a forgotten time stood in a tumbled coil.

A broken wagon, a worn out mower

and the people dispersed without speaking.

The owner sat-huddled in a kitchen chair,

a scarf over her head… scanning her customers.

I spoke to her eyes with mine… with a smile.

I said it was early and she said it was cold.

Her daughter came to her with a basket full to add,

representing bits of money spent in the past…

A hope of small change today from 7 until 1…

I saw a shine under a red shop rag…

A wrench… a big one… and my heart raced.

I don’t need it, but it was beautiful, sitting there,

A quality Crescent tool… American made.

I held it toward her with anticipation.

It was mine for a small price

and my lady a new friend.

My wrench held its spot in the front seat for now.

The metal cool from outside air but soon to be warm.

It will join the other tools soon enough

with a story of its beginning.

                                                Shannon R Killman

the Family Before Me

My son went with his friend to the old homestead of his friend's grandparents. His grandparents have both been away from us for several years and the estate is soon to be sold. It is now an overgrown pasture that holds the forgotten framework of the family’s past. The old wooden planked home was modest in size and structure… the camellia bushes that once anchored the corners of the house are now overgrown and push their way into the spaces of the eves and crowd the shingled roof.

The boys stepped over weeds and blackberry vines that held onto their boots and held onto their shirt sleeves. The sounds of the cicadas echoed all around them and the mosquitoes quietly fed upon their exposed necks and dodged the slaps and the sweat and the summer heat. The shed stood before them… The tin roof was mostly tinted in rust with only patches of exposed gray metal. Its plywood door leaned slightly open but was held in place by the overgrowth of the yard and a barrier of a massive red ant pile.

They pulled their way inside and paused while the light found its way into their eyes. This was a forgotten place… a place where things were left for later. After so many years the papers on the bench were dark and layered with dust from the outside summers… the colors were the same on the walls and on the floor. Piles of cut plywood and timber were huddled together like frightened prisoners. There were paper bags filled with dirty cloth and coffee cans tossed into a corner. Hand nailed shelves held lawnmower parts and broken plastic jugs that had given in to the cold and heat of the years. And there was a heavy smell of oil that found its way into their lungs.

They found a stack of large Avon boxes that still held their shape… the green lettering was bright against the beam of the flashlight. They opened the boxes and found canning jars by the dozens. The jars stood like soldiers, lined up between cardboard dividers… waiting patiently. They brought them home to me as a gift… one box upon another until all were safe.

I stood alone at the kitchen counter and opened the first dusty box. It was filled with quart glass jars that revealed their shine with the light through my window. I took the time to notice the details of how they were packed with care and with thought. They were all placed up side down. I recognized the familiar molded lettering on the sides… the names of Ball and Kerr and Mason, written in swirled lettering. Most were made within my generation, but some were from before.

Each jar was loosely wrapped in soft brown paper. The brass colored metal rings very lightly held a flat lid within. They had taken the time to place a small square of plastic wrap under each lid to keep out the dust until its next use. The insides were as clean as the day they were hand dried beside the old porcelain sink in the kitchen of that country home. It is an obligation to take the time to care for them just as the family before me… and with every use the memory continues.

                                                         Shannon R Killman

Extra Change

I’ve been working on a beautiful century old building for almost three months now… the summer months found me searching for relief in front of a fan in the old brick building while we patiently waited for the new air conditioning systems to be installed. They now sit, perched upon her new metal roof.

Every morning as the sun fills the front glass and while I’m planning my morning, I hear the now familiar ringing of the bells on the railroad crossing arms. They are a prelude to the thundering sound of the morning train as it races through town… its air horn fills the air with deafening sound. And I always pause to watch like I have my entire life. I still count the cars and look for graffiti and I remember sitting in my bed as a boy in the night, listening to the distant train on the edge of the city.

The small town has become friendly to me. I see the faces of her people… in the bank, in the corner drug store that still sells small bottles of Coca Cola in an old fading Coke machine. I speak to the man that owns the laundromat across the street… his building once held the town’s post office. The beautiful columns and pressed metal ceiling feel out of place amongst the rusting, commercial washers and dryers and dusty floor littered with used dryer sheets.

The friendly ladies at the insurance office smile and wave as we walk to one of the lunch counters in town... they sit near the windows and look up from their desks. The petite oriental lady at the Chinese food restaurant has my chop sticks ready when I come through her doors… She speaks very little English but smiles shyly and quickly bows her head when I tell her thank you.

The elderly couple that owns the antique shop on the edge of the block is always full of conversation of the town… I know who is selling their estate and where the local barber is moving his business… there’s even word that the mayor is thinking of retiring after his present term is up, but that may only be gossip, mind you. And the elegant crystal blue eyed grandmother of four at the gas station doesn’t have to remind me that pump number two isn’t working… she always asks how the work is coming on our old building.

I still want to sneak out in the night and place pennies on the track like we did at my great-grandmothers house in the desert. She lived behind the tracks and after so many years, didn’t notice the trains as they rolled behind her unfenced yard. The train would rumble in slow motion in the evening as the sun fell near the purple mountains. My brother and I would search through the rocks and over the railroad ties for our pennies… flattened into shiny oval keepsakes. Grandmother Lena would warn us to be careful of the train and tell us the coins may derail it… all the while counting out one cent pieces into our young hands…

I think I’ll carry some extra change to work with me tomorrow…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

Just Words

We’ve had more children come through our doors than we can count. We don’t have the biggest house or the fanciest house. It’s not in a gated community and she’s not multilevel. We never put in that swimming pool and she’s always under some kind of remodel or upgrade.

The children of the neighborhood and the friends of our children have always been able to come and go freely and there’s always cold water and drinks in the fridge. And like we tell them all the time… we eat almost every day around here, so be sure and stop by. We would always cook for six, but never really knew if we were going to have an extra mouth to feed. Someone would stop by or one of the kids would have a friend with them. We loved them with food… and we love to cook.

There is one young man that grew up with my son… he’s a tall and well mannered boy who seems to know everyone in town. He is easy to have a conversation with and has an opinion on just about everything. But he never eats anything we prepare. He will show up unannounced and plop down on the couch just to visit and soon he will be on his way. He would show up even when my son wasn’t home, and we always welcomed him. Through our conversations I found out that his parents don't tell him they love him and he never says the words to them either... he assumes they don't need to because they know how each other feels. And besides, he told me, they’re just words…

They’re just words…

When his visit is over and after he has refused anything to eat, I always pat him like he’s my boy and tell him I love him. We laugh about it and he always pauses and nods his head with acknowledgement.

My son has moved out but we still see his friends. Some may come by for the laughter. Some may come by for advice… some may come by for a good meal. And some may come by for just the words…

                                                                   Shannon R Killman