Mother’s attic

I went on a journey today. The drive to my mother’s home was quiet for my daughter Natalie and me. We watched the wintering landscape as we drove through the back roads that led into the countryside. We drove toward the lake where the cool wind found its way across the water and into the house through the brief entry into the back door.

We had a cup of hot coffee as we looked through old photographs of relatives we only hold through brief memories in our mind. We talked about the past and reflected on our times in other days. We ended up in the attic looking through long-ago packed boxes... boxes with fading labels written in black magic marker.

We pulled through crispy packing tape that had weakened from the exposure from summer heat and winter cold. The sturdy cardboard resisted our grip as we pried them open… exposing old news print that had weathered to caramel brown. And there was Mom… telling the tales of the past with every item.

We found old stoneware and glassware that once held the gravity of our ancestor’s desert home. There was an old bamboo serving tray from the 50’s along with bamboo cups and an ice bucket. We filtered through fragile tea cups and sturdy milk bottles that held the scars of decades of use from metal racks delivered to front porches by men who were known by their first names.

And there was a familiar coffee pot. I didn’t remember its existence until my eyes fell upon its familiar shape. The stainless steel held its shine and its form. The slender pouring spout came to a smooth point in front of the glass dome that adorned the top. And I remember… I remember watching the red, glowing light that grabbed my attention while the percolating coffee popped against the glass dome in a sound I remember in the kitchen of my youth.

I held it close and remembered the sound of ground coffee being scooped into the coffee holder. I could see my mother and my grandmother steadying the slender straw-like aluminum tube that sat in the bottom of the pot. It guided the hot water to the glass dome that directed the water over the coffee granules. I replayed the task when I got home tonight… with the same anticipation.

And I stood watching just as I did ages ago. I listened for the pop of the hot water and the sizzle that echoed from its insides. I watched the red light on the front of the base. And I stood in the memory of my family with the aroma of mornings past. I blinked as the red light went out… signaling the coffee was ready and I poured some coffee into a heavy stoneware cup.

I held the glass dome with one finger as I poured with the other hand. And I inhaled the sounds and the flavors of my youth and am grateful… grateful for the quiet reflection.

                                                                   Shannon R Killman

My father’s hands

I didn’t see it before…

I didn’t see his effort, in his work…

I didn’t see the years upon us…

I never noticed the angles of his limbs…

I never noticed the weather in his skin…

I never noticed the casualness of his skill…

I see him in the mirror in my image…

I see his purpose and I aim to follow…

I see his strength and I reflect…

...in my father’s hands and now in mine

                       Shannon R Killman

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