Inhale the quiet

It is quiet and the lights of the day have come to a close. The children are sleeping in heavy breaths… curled up with tufts of covers surrounding them like a mother’s comfort.

I remember my grandmother cupping my cheek in her hand as she looked into my eyes. She would tell me that children can only grow when they sleep… she kissed the memories of my past.

The Christmas tree is full and bright. The scent of generations past falls on my eyes as I focus on one ornament and then the next. I feel the comfort of the season with every breath. And I inhale the quiet.

                               Shannon R Killman

Something from Nothing

drawing by Natalie Killman Meggs

I watched your little hands pull at the thick wooden puzzle pieces that sat in front of you. The colorful shapes were a stark contrast to the warm glow of the antique table top. Plastic buttons helped you grasp the pieces as you looked at each one… studying the shapes.

You would look at the puzzle board and back to the puzzle piece and gently guide it into place. You were always rewarded with cheers and laughter… you would clap your hands and smile with joy.

You progressed to crayons and finger paints. You would create shapes and words where there was only a blank sheet of paper. We would draw in the dirt in the yard… we would make sandcastles at the lake in the heat of the summer while the cool water lapped across our skin.

You would collect cutoffs of wood and arrange them into something new. You could take a piece of scrap lumber like an artist’s canvas and create something from nothing… drawing what came to your mind. Shells, twigs, cloth and anything within reach were only building blocks to your imagination.

And you set your goals on higher things… the goals of a young woman reaching out into the world. I love you for who you were. I love you for who you are and I love you for who you will be… and all the time you are creating something from what only your mind can see.

                                                        Shannon R Killman

Watery Cityscape

I swept out the bathroom that stood unfinished for too long… it held the promise of a shiny new room for too many summer nights and too many cold mornings. The time had come for me to finish what I had started… and the children were excited about the process.

The wall studs held pink insulation I placed between them as a sound barrier between the den and an additional unfinished bedroom. The bathroom had become a catchall for boxes of clothes in transition for younger children or on the way to Goodwill. I found a box of tools I don’t remember hiding away… a dusty sheetrock saw stood sentry over a once favorite hammer and forgotten needle nosed pliers.

I measured and cut sheets of gypsum board and hoisted them over my head while my daughter Darby stood ready with my screw gun and a small fisted number of black screws. She stood smiling as I held out my arm in her direction. We finished hanging the sheetrock that evening and over the next few days the three layers of mud filled the joints. We were on our way.

The tile floors were next. I pulled out my old dependable tile saw and set out the pattern. The familiar sounds of the thin set spinning in a bucket under a powerful drill filled the rest of the house. I would look up to find little hands eagerly trying to hand me the heavy tiles that were stacked in nearby piles. I grouted the floors the next day and was happy to see the children sponging off the powdery haze left from the drying grout joints.

I assembled the toilet with new gaskets, new interior flappers and valves. A new sticky wax ring and bolts held it firmly to the tile floor. A test on the valve and waterline provided smiles from everyone. The pedestal sink rescued from an old job site provided a challenge for my large hands. The water lines and drain lines merge together in a limited amount of space better suited for a much smaller man... I managed to get the water running hot and cold after reassembling the stubborn faucet.

An accent of glass tiles holds the moisture and water from above the shower. It has been polished and finished and matches the floor tile and fresh paint perfectly. After a lapse in memory over the correct way to wire the switches and receptacle, everything is working like it was designed to work. One double switch controls the exhaust fan and light. A single switch controls the light over the sink along with a light near the shower. There is also receptacle that stays at the ready.

I installed the glass doors in the shower along with the hardware and watched as Darby moved in and out sliding the doors open and shut and sampling the water on her bare feet. The doors moved smooth under their heavy weight and fell lightly upon the rubber bumpers screwed into the pocketed frame.

I took the first shower as a test run. The water ran hot and comfortable. My little bottle of shampoo has now been joined by bottles of shampoos and conditioner of various brands. I noticed body gels and washes along with three types of bar soap. Colorful wash cloths join a fluffy scrubber on a crowded shelf. The other bathrooms sit dry… waiting for the children to return. And I search for my shampoo in a watery cityscape of plastic bottles.

                                                            Shannon R Killman

The Hunt

I had the opportunity to go hunting the other day. It is late fall and the evenings are crisp and cold. It’s the time of year when the deer are skittish and fear to come out of the woods and into the clearings.

My son-in-law took me to his family property. It is a large swath of land in the middle of a neighboring county. I learned the land was once a plantation site before and during the Civil War. The heirs of the slaves from the plantation still live in dotted plots of land around the area.

We arrived a couple of hours before dusk. The tree tops held full sun as the filtered light pooled on the floor of the mixed pine and oak forest. We detoured onto a church property that sat abut to the hunting property. Its century old building held onto the weight of time with ancient timbers and stone foundations.

We drove behind the church on an old path that was being taken over by thorny vines and low hanging pine branches. The thick layer of pine needles and leaves surrendered under our truck tires as we idled our way toward an ancient graveyard… the graveyard of the landowner’s workers. Its thick walls were stacked with large stones that were pulled from the country side and away from the fields. I could feel the time and toil it took to complete the wall that surrounded us… it was heavy with its own personal history.

The hand forged gate was pinned into square pillars that stood as high as my arms could reach… I slid a loose stone back into its intended place on the pillar’s top knowing it will be secure for another generation.  Inside, I rubbed my hands across the chiseled names of souls that lived and worked on this land in the eve of the 18^th century. I could only imagine their life's journey.

We made our way into our deer stand and sat in the silence… only hearing the movement of small birds as they foraged under the crisp fallen leaves. We sat quiet for an afternoon looking for movement in nature, but I found something I wasn’t looking for…

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Peace tonight

All of my children were within my arms today… together my six.

I looked into each of their eyes as they smiled and talked and as they laughed.

I found parts of myself within each one… inside of a reply or gesture.

I felt their voices in my memory… in a dance with time.

I realized peace tonight… my soul will live on through them.

And I pray they have only the best of me.

                                                  Shannon R Killman

Through the Thinning Leaves

We began the final phase of our yearly game today… my yard and I. The leaves from the surrounding trees that keep me shaded throughout the spring and summer have started there trek to the ground. There is moisture in the air that pulls from high above in the spider web of clouds. They contrast against the light blue sky… and I watch. I watch for a hint of wind that will steal my breath in the cold morning.

I plugged in the leaf blower and untangled the cord I have used with it for years. I know it’s the right one because of the repair I had to make several years ago. I knotted it about a foot away from the end. In the loop sits a patch of electrical tape that holds together the tender green, white and black wires that are intertwined with nylon cording.

The cat wakes up from her nap in the sunshine when she hears the whine of the small electrical motor. It makes a quick pull to my left against my wrist as the torque of the motor fills the black tube with exhausted air… and the leaves blow in swirls.

The leaves are in every crevice of the yard… and in every fall color. The crepe myrtle leaves are pointed at both ends and blend brown with pale yellow on both ends of the driveway. The red bud tree is almost bare and has spread her yellow, heart shaped drapery in the yard. The striking brown from my neighbor’s pines have made their way into my yard along with an adventurous pine cone or two.

The river birch is shedding its serrated edged foliage in record time. The squirrels skip around the tree tops and cause a haphazard cascade that falls like the waves of the ocean. Her papery bark pulls at their path as they make their way down.

And then there is Mother Oak. She moves like a thunder cloud in the light breeze… twisting slightly to the left and to the right in a dancer’s motion. She releases just enough of her leaves to keep herself entertained. She knows tomorrow we will be together again. Her brown leaves hide the green ivy that crawl along her trunk. But, she holds on to the green and bronze in her mighty canopy.

We will dance the dance of fall and winter. The grass will be cut a final time and wait for its raking. The blower will push the grass in a swirled pattern and the cat will watch from the safety of the street. The children will pull on wooden handles attached to rake ends and long for the warmth of hot chocolate. And we look to the skies through the thinning leaves and barren branches toward a time of spring when we will begin again.

                                                                        Shannon R Killman

Her sign to Me

My centuries old oak tree flexed her muscles today. I have been watching her for weeks now… waiting for her sign. The large glossy acorns have been falling like hail for a month or so in anticipation of her next cycle.

Her leaves have been fighting against the cool evenings and the afternoon rains. The shiny green shadows that stand over my rooftop have softened into a mixture of olive greens and soft brown. She relaxes her intentions… the wind takes her leaves as she releases them at her will.

She knows I’m watching her. She smiles upon me as I inspect her… as I have through the years. She only teases with wisps of leaves, but we both know what is coming. The browns of late fall will be her sign to me.

I will toil for my friend and rake her leaves into piles. I will sweep around the drive and I will blow the leaves from the roof. But for now, we look upon each other in the misty dusk and ready ourselves for another day.

                                                                                            

                                            Shannon R Killman

                                                                                  

and She will Cry

And then time stood still…

We looked to like-minds

for understanding on this night.

The world shifted in its stance.

We echo the ways of other lands.

Perhaps we cannot recover in time.

But, we can only wait and try.

The years will pass slowly, divided.

And she will cry

with the failures of her people.

She will rust under the debt.

Her torch is dim tonight.

                       Shannon R Killman

Soul

I looked through snap shots

of my daughter's wedding.

It came back to me in waves,

I had forgotten the nuances.

He was perfect, she was perfect.

The aura was palatable.

I miss the youth of my life,

they brought it back to me.

I cried softly, with a smile.

I am thankful for my soul

for without it I am lost.

Without it I have no tears.

                        Shannon R Killman

Worthy Foe

I carry a burden of decades…

It lingers in my lungs,

It hangs heavy in my mind,

It follows as shadows do.

But, we toil today…

Like a mask, I shed you

And you struggle,

And we breathe together.

My mind is cloudy

And you mock me in whispers,

My blood screams behind

The sweat of our years…

I approach the crest...

And you drag at my heels,

But I pull ahead, with a smile

As you claw within my brow.

I tire of the struggle, victorious

But I feel your heat,

You sit and wait... always ready.

A worthy foe…

                        Shannon R Killman   

and God was there to See

I saw the life in your eyes and my breath was shallow… I felt the fear of the unknown pass through my mind. I held you for a brief moment and passed you to your mother… she waited for you in anticipation. You were new to this world and God was there to see…

I would hold you close in the eve of the day. The soft music would swirl through the air and fill our home with calm. I held you as a protector with the love that words cannot describe. And then we would dance, just the two of us in the beginning of your life. I would cradle your neck and look into your soul. We would sway together as one and God was there to see…

With the music in the air and shoppers all around, you would hold my hand and dance with the smile of a princess. We danced between the aisles of clothing in the department store under the speakers from above. You twirled under my hand and filled the room with your joy. We didn’t care who saw us together because the world was full of happiness. And through it all God was there to see…

Time pulled you away in the chorus of our song. You were not there under my eyes and under my arms. You danced with others and swayed in the moonlight as I thought of you in my mind. I danced with you in my memories and prayed for your safety… I longed for a glimpse of your joy… of your eyes and of a daughter’s touch. You never left my mind… and I knew that God was there to see…

I didn’t know that it was possible… you were the most beautiful bride of all time. I looked upon my baby… my child… the infant who first took my heart. You took my hands in a crowd of friends and family and we danced once again. We danced as eyes looked upon us. But I was alone with you in that moment… I was young and full of hope once again. I cried the joy of our first embrace and was hopeful of your future and of your love. And through it all God was there to see…

                                                         Shannon R Killman 

the Sound of Cicadas

I was on my way to one of my daughter’s engagement parties yesterday. My Jeep and I have made many trips through the narrow county roads across the middle of the state and it was a beautiful afternoon for the drive.

My mind was filled with the vision of our two families merging into one. I knew I would see the smiles of cousins and nieces and nephews. I knew the aunts and uncles and siblings of both families would be there under the warm winds of this summer night.

The wind blew into the Jeep as it always does and muffled the sounds of my surroundings… I could still hear the echoing cadence of the cicadas as they sang in one voice through the trees and thickets of countryside. I was lost in my thoughts…

And then I heard what my mechanic describes as an “expensive” sound. I first thought I had run over something or had a flat tire because the rear of my Jeep dropped suddenly… then there was another “more expensive” noise. As I looked to my left, I saw a tire and wheel attached to a steel rod moving past me and gaining speed. That’s when I realized the axle and wheel belonged to me.

I quickly pulled off of the road and watched the tire make a path into the vines and trees to my left. I knew I would have to retrieve it. I was dressed in a new, clean shirt so that wasn’t an option just then. After a few phone calls and words of explanation, I was able to get to the party and enjoy the evening as I knew I would.

As the evening drew to an end, we made arrangement for a tow truck to meet us back at the Jeep. I watched them drag my three legged baby onto a flatbed truck with the wheel and axle safely by her side. I made arrangements to get home knowing they would put her back together for me in a few short days.

As the bright lights flashed on the tow truck and through the shuffle of the heavy chains dragging against medal… through the strained power of the winch and the diesel motor of the truck… and through my thoughts, the realization that I had finally driven a vehicle until the wheels fell off, I could still hear the sounds of the cicadas in that warm summer night.

                                                     Shannon R Killman

Painted Driveway

My crepe myrtle trees have grown into maturity under my every-watching eyes. I planted them years ago as little colorful sprigs and watered them daily to ensure their survival in the hot summers of the South.

I spaced them for the future… for now. I watched their limbs grow toward the sun. I watched the thin bark pull from the trunks and fall in lacy patterns under my fingertips. I pruned the errant branches that worked their way in the wrong direction.

My little trees line both sides of my driveway and have finally grown together in a hand holding canopy. The trunks are thick and smooth and bare the marks of climbing cats and squirrels. They have survived the heaviness of cold winters and the torrents of rain in the springs and summers.

The heat of the summer brings afternoon showers of temporary relief. They leave behind the memories of seasons past and the heavy humidity that can be seen and felt in the lungs. The heavy drops of rain drive the tender petals of the crepe myrtle to the ground and blanket the brick and concrete like a pink powdery snow…

This is what I thought it would look and feel like when I pulled at the rich soil so many years ago. This is what I wanted to see in the summer… a summer in my life with the eyes and imagination of a boy… a boy with a painted driveway.

                                                            Shannon R Killman

Comfort Food

When I am having a bad day… I think of the creamer in my hot coffee. It settles into the heavy porcelain cup and swirls its way into the deep flavors of my morning... in the quiet, calm.

When I hear the angry words that fall like arrows into my soul… I think of the crusty pecan pie my grandmother worked to perfection in the old gas stove. Waiting on it to cool was as hard as waiting on Christmas morning. She made it sweet and chewy like glazed candy.

When I am hot and feel the sun draining my strength… I think of sweet Southern tea. The ice sang a familiar tune against the heavy glass that held the brew of my memories. The droplets of condensation felt sharp and cool against my hands…

When I feel the fire in my throat from a winter cold… I think of the old maple rolling pin in my mother’s hands. Its familiar rhythmic clink sings a comforting tune to the soft flour dumplings that would swell and simmer within the chicken stock waiting on the front burner of the stove of my youth.

When I feel the doldrums of the day… I think of the wooden ice-cream churn in my grandfather’s backyard. The hand crank played a gentle game of tag with the checkered cloth that covered the salty ice that we watched with wanting eyes. We rolled the wooden handle in squeaky circles knowing the paddle inside would provide a treasured treat.

When I feel the sadness or withdrawn... I think of the homemade chocolate chip cookies that brightened the darkest of days. The colorful glass mixing bowl held the time tested batter that was too tempting not to taste. The unmistakable aroma filled the house and spilled to the outside through the open window.

                                                          Shannon R Killman 

the Parts of Me

How else would I have learned to be a patient man?  I had to learn to turn the pages of life at someone else’s pace. You taught me to think of others first and to make the decisions of life with careful deliberation.

How else would I have learned to dance without care? We would play together among watching eyes and dance to our own tunes. You would spin in circles while holding my hand as the world was only ours in that moment.

How else would I have learned to love another before myself? I felt complete as I watched you sleep… each breath was a continuation of my mortality. I longed to hold your hand and to see your smile. Nothing else mattered.

How else would I have learned humility? The pride of my youth was of no use to me when you shared your world with me. You taught me the lessons of life that I thought I needed to teach to you.

How else would I have learned to cry? I learned to feel the joys and the pains of others. It became a reflex that worked its way into my protective shell. You taught me to show the emotions of a caring father.

The parts of me that I claim as my own are not really mine at all. You have made me the man I am on the inside with the life experiences that you have given to me and the things you have taught me. That is what makes this Father's Day special to me…

                                                            Shannon R Killman

and Never Alone

I walked alone tonight… in the cool air and in the sleepy neighborhood.

I walked alone as I stretched my neck to see the crescent moon floating in the dark… perched like a mirage.

I walked alone as I spotted the first lightning bug of the summer… It hid from my eyes in spurts as I tried to track its path.

I walked alone with my shadow. I followed the flowing giant from lamp post to lamp post. Its pace was steady.

I walked alone with the sounds of the tree frogs… they sang as one in the echo of the streets.

I walked alone with our dog Cash… the rhythm of his collar kept tempo within my footsteps. He marched from curb to curb, staying alert to my reassuring voice.

I walked alone with the stars that blinked through the treetops. They remain constant and observant.

I walked with my memories of the quiet and of the calm. As I trace my steps… never alone.

                                                    Shannon R Killman

Through it All

I held an old photograph, its edges scalloped. The image was of a beautiful young girl. She held a tiny baby doll in her arms. You looked lovingly into her big blue eyes that closed and opened as you moved her up and down. All around were the things you needed to keep her safe… her blanket, her bottle, her toys and her crib. When your mother asked what you had decided to name your new little girl, you held her close and looked through her long shiny eyelashes… and you told her “Baby”. You were a wonderful Mother.

In another photo, you brushed the long, flowing hair of another doll... this one slender and tan. She was missing one of her petite, pointy shoes. You would pull her hair back and brush it into a ponytail. The rubber bands would hold the nylon hair tight as you dressed her into new outfits. Your mother watched as you struggled to get her arms through the small holes in the sleeves. She was fancy and beautiful and you would look to her as you fell asleep at night. You were a wonderful Mother.

Time would find you next door at the neighbor’s house… their young daughter still very dependent upon the touch of a caregiver. They left you in the care of her for a short while as they drove away for the evening. You played with her and held her… her trust in you was evident as she held your hand. You changed her clothes and fed her a snack while you sang a sweet song. She looked into your eyes and smiled the smile of trust. You were a wonderful Mother.

You sat in the low light… the hum of your voice was soft… and clear. There could have been crowd around you, but you were in your world… the world of your purpose. The warmth of your skin gave life to your children. Your hearts beat as one through times of sickness and tears… through joys that only a mother can know. You hold them close when they are afraid of the world and when they may only need a touch. You feed them your soul. There have been times of turmoil and fear and yet they still look to your eyes for the security that can come with the calming light of a mother’s eyes.

Through it all… you have been a wonderful Mother

                                                                  

                                                          Shannon R Killman

Ode to O2... by Jackson Killman

You, oxygen, are taken for

granted by so many.

You are the origin of life.

I want to breathe you in

and never let you go.

You bring my cells life

as you enter my domain.

Once you are within me,

oh how my life is changed.

Inhale… exhale…

Inhale… exhale…

You are the best part of life,

never failing to bring my body a burst.

Inhale of oxygen…

                             Jackson Killman

at Fifteen

Me- good morning Katelin
Katelin- what time can we go get my permit?
Me- do you have all of your stuff for school?
Katelin- what time does the DMV close?
Me- what kind of cake you want sweetheart?
Katelin- do I get to choose my picture on my permit?
Me- I love you baby... Happy Birthday!
Katelin- How long does it take to take the test for the permit?

                                                                         Shannon R Killman

                                             

the Blue Velvet Rope

We met today… downtown… in an old theater behind the State Capital building. The old theater was dark with plywood floors and mix-matched seating. You could hear the hollowness beneath every step. As I walked into the double doors, I had to pause to let my eyes adjust to the heaviness of the dark. I was looking for an aroma… there should have been an aroma. Perhaps the aroma of aging plaster walls… perhaps the aroma of time and of the old sagging rafters that held back the Southern humidity. But there was none.

We all said our names and where we were from. Some were from the Upstate, some were from the Pee-Dee, others were from the Low Country and I was from the Midlands. I was surprised how my voice carried in this little theater… the walls fell upon my ears as I said my name out loud.

We were meeting in a strategy session… a grass roots get together. I don’t know much about the inner workings of the State Legislature, so this was my opportunity to observe. A young lady with two counterparts introduced herself as a lobbyist for the Solar Business Alliance. They are a group that is trying to lobby passage of a bill that would give consumers a tax credit for installing and using solar energy… the H.3346 SC Jobs Creation Bill.

Almost everyone else in the group had participated in a similar meeting in the past. I was taking notes as the lobbyists spoke. And suddenly I was lost in my note taking… I realized it was better to listen and just work my way through the process. They spoke of cabinet meetings and local Legislators, county officials, Senators and Representatives. There were the Senate floor and reform meetings to consider. She hurriedly spoke of sub committees and bills in the calendar… she mentioned committee chairmanship and who to look for. My pen went into my shirt pocket and I smiled into the dark.

We were to meet the Senators in the State House lobby. We were the faces behind the industry. We were showing the Senators that we needed there support in continuing the bill through the sub committee in the Senate Finance Committee… a baby step… but a step.

We made our way around the capital building… a beautiful blue granite building that held, for memorial, the gentle scars left by cannon fire from Sherman’s Army during the Civil War. The entry doors were narrow and led to a grand hallway with arched staircases that led up to the lobby. The Senators were meeting in the Senate chambers on the left and the Representatives were meeting in the House chambers on the right.

We were only a handful of people in the crowd. There were hundreds of us. Everyone had an issue to support… or not to support. I walked through the crowd… listening as I went. I heard the accents of the South. I heard the accents industries… some from other countries. A German gentleman felt confined as he tried to talk with his hands.

If they desired, a Senator would appear from within the chamber and approach a blue velvet rope. We were instructed not to cross the blue velvet rope… they didn’t look kindly upon that. The noise level remained constant. It wasn’t too loud, nor was it quiet… but it remained consistent. The sound of rehearsed laughter pierced the air on occasion and I thought about the sincerity of it all.

I shook hands with many. Some were on the Senate side and some I found on the Representative side. I had no business on right side of the building, but I was curious... all the time, keeping an eye on the blue velvet rope beneath the Senate Chamber Doors.

The Senators looked like Senators look everywhere. They were well dressed and had gray or graying hair. They had learned the art of leaning slightly back in their stance… I assumed it was to maintain their personal space within the crowd. There were abundant smiles and nods of approval and looks of concern. It seemed to be a vital part in the play… the play of politics.

As I made my way back to the staircase, I imagined myself in these chambers so many generations ago. The style of dress would have been different, but the lobby would have been much the same with its colorful marble floors… with the paintings of South Carolina Heroes on the walls and the chatter and conversation on the matters of State of the day. And I know just in front of the double doors that led into the inner chambers stood a boundary in which not to cross…

On the first floor of the State House stands a marble replica depicting the South Carolina Declaration of Secession. It is carved with the signatures of the men that held office in both chambers in those years. I took the time to read over the names… and was surprised to see the same sir names of the men who hold office today… behind the blue velvet rope.

                                                                   Shannon R Killman