The motorcyclist came so quick and close to her car she nearly swerved, but then he was gone.  If her window had been down she could have reached out and touched him ever so gently as he raced past, her hand praying, her fingers spread.   She watched him weave through the current of cars ahead, her heart in her throat.

And then there was another, and another, and another.  A whole troupe of motorcycles, roaring past, dodging bumpers and racing down the highway.  She watched them come up in her rear view mirror, then disappear into the cars ahead, leaning and swerving this way and that.

Her sons reacted with excitement, but she could barely catch her breath.  “They are dancing with death,” she told her boys, and she felt that, she felt the dark shadow that chased them, hot on their heels, felt it reach out and grab at her, tearing her breath from her body for one hot and terrible second.

The lights flickered a bit, and his hands spread with their own wisdom to cradle the child.  The bones of a memory sprung to life, of his own grandfather, the one he could barely remember,  the one that was so great, so big-hearted that his passing left a gaping hole in the lives of everyone he had loved, a hole that pulled at them with an insatiable gravity.  Try as they might, they could not hold themselves together without him, his grandmother flying after him after a few terrible years of bewilderment, his father trembling with a grief no drink could quell, his uncles stumbling through life.

He could remember his grandfather holding him in his large hands, the strength that filled his own small body from the wide and rugged fingers, the smoke of his breath and grizzle of his cheek.  In the space of a breath he felt his grandfather there, with him, the magnitude of his presence filling his own body, coursing in his blood, filling his hands and radiating over the child.

He closed his eyes, a little unsteady, then looked at his daughter, the child he had not loved enough, who had raged at him  for his failings, over and over again, then finally, blessedly, had turned her face away from him to leave him in his own shadows.  Somehow she had found her way into light.

“He is beautiful,” he said, in almost a whisper, his voice shaking a bit, “and blessed to have you as a mother.”  Her eyes were open, without their usual and righteous resentment, rare and loving.

A tear surprised the dry wrinkles of his skin, slid through the cracks along his eyes before drying up.  Had she seen it?  he wondered with slight embarrassment.   He could not wipe it away.  He handed the child back to his father,  then stepped forward to his daughter, his rough cheek scraping her soft face as he kissed her.  “Perhaps I will be better as a grandfather,” he whispered in her ear.

“I love you anyway, Dad,” she said, without hesitation, her eyes looking straight into his.

He stood up, humming with love, loose and lifted at the same time.  He said his good-byes and congratulations, tripping over the words a little, smiling all the same.  He walked out the door, the small weight of the child in the memory of his hands.

Really, she was tired. She was making excuses for going to bed. They were sitting at the picnic table. Everything was damp, especially her eyelids.

At first it did not seem real. A thin high sound, far off. He held up his hand, and their eyes met in disbelief, in awe as the eerie howls of the wolves–red wolves–touched their ears, their ear drums beating to this wolfsong, carrying that wild message deep into their brains.

She looked away from him, into the darkness, the chorus of wailing unhinging her, knots and bindings slipping, her heart memorizing this thrill, this ache of a beauty so rare, this song born in the throat of a small wolf, then thrown into the air, this song that had driven men to gather their guns and their traps, there are no words for the beauty of it, so deep it touches you.

And as quickly as the song had begun, it ended. The night became a scattering of crickets. They looked at each other, but said nothing. The night was finished for her. She went to bed.

But she made a place in her body that held the memory of that sound. She could enter that place, if she walked carefully in her thoughts, as one might enter a temple. It was near the center of her chest, with tendrils spreading to her throat.

There are very small things that change you. There are things so–beyond–that when you experience them they pull you into a place you could have never imagined. What could make her body rejoice like that? What sound had ever made her feel so alive? It was as if the wolves had sang her into creation.

The air was cool, and the moisture from the rain was lifting, swept up from the  dark firs.   The low clouds were thinning enough in places to show the last blue of the day.  She was glad for her sweater, and for the movement of her body.  She pulled the mountain air into her lungs in long, slow breaths, relishing the scent of the firs mingled with rain-soaked earth.  No wonder Boris pulls so hard on the leash, she thought, this forest is thick with new smells for his fine nose.

The trailhead sign said the hike to the overlook was 1.2 miles.  She had grabbed a little flashlight, just in case.  She had considered not stopping, continuing on to her aunt’s house some two more hours down the road, but it was so rare that she came this way, through these mountains, so rare that she visited her aunt anyway, that she couldn’t pass up the opportunity.  The storm was clearing and the light was fading.  She guessed she had forty-five minutes before dark.

The clouds continued to lift, the dog continued to pull.  The trail went over ledges of rock that jutted out of the earth, and there were puddles everywhere, on the trail, even in the little dimples in the gray rocks.  Some of these caught the turning light like jewels.  Behind the clouds the sky was turning yellow, and everything that could hold light seemed to want a piece of this sunset.

She began to quicken her step.  She thought it would be marvelous to reach the overlook in this light.  Her shoes were wet, and her toes were catching the cold.  Boris’ slick red coat quivered with excitement.  They began to run together, two animals, their breathing quickened, their bodies alert to the changes in the terrain, the movement of air across their faces stimulating.  They had found their music.

The trail steepened, their gate slowed.   They began to climb up the rocks, the dog clambering up, his claws scraping at the rock, she searching for footholds.  Their eagerness did not dissipate.  The light had become golden, and a cathedral of clouds opened up above them.  The air was imbued with reverence.  She breathed deep and hard, pushing herself to reach the pinnacle of the trail.

And then she was there.  The trees thinned, and the wild blueberry bushes that had lined the trail parted.  She was standing at the edge of a cliff, looking out onto dark green slopes stretching out far beneath her, licked with remnants of clouds, that shifted over the trees, then rose before  dissipating in the clearing breeze.  The Blue Ridge mountains stood as giants on the horizon.  And everywhere there was golden light and above clouds holding the gold and laced with pink.   The last drops of rain, caught on pine needles and grasped by the points of blueberry leaves,  hung like tiny orbs of sun.   The air was alive with light.  Its cool movement kissed her cheeks.

She would not think.  She would not try and photograph it.  She just stood there, breathing the beauty into her body.

Work had become impossible.  The new girl mangled every thing her hands touched, but Peter, his recently divorced supervisor,  was absolutely smitten with her.  When Will mentioned that perhaps the long list of blunders Amanda had committed might mean something, Peter had responded that it meant Will hadn’t trained her properly.  Later Peter had taken Amanda out to lunch, and this made things achingly clear to Will.

Now one of his most important clients had lost money because of Amanda’s bungling of phone messages–the simplest of tasks!  He would have to figure a way around it.  He rubbed the back of his head, ruffling his hair and massaging his scalp with his long, nimble fingers, as if his hand could sort out the thoughts in his head.  But lately nothing had this skill.  Everything was a tangled heap of rubbish.

Things were even more complicated at home.  His teenage son seemed to be getting into some kind of trouble.  The boy had only just sprouted the first prickles of a beard when an unquenchable rage had stirred within him, boiling over at the slightest of disturbances.  His wife seemed to only make matters worse, digging her heels in and engaging with this snarling animal their son had become.   It seemed to Will that the best thing might be to give the boy some space.  Let him turn his music up, let him slam the door, punch the wall even.   But his mother kept harping on him, letting nothing slide, until the boy wouldn’t even look either of them in the eye.

Will just wanted some easy distraction from all the conflicts of his life.  Yet even these minor storms  kept his eye off something bigger, something deeper, that watched him from the shadows.  He’d felt it in the center of his chest for a long time, this lurking presence, but couldn’t figure out what to do with it.  Sometimes he thought a drastic change would fix things, something that would make him feel alive again.  But then he realized he had no idea what might make him feel alive.  This sent him into a despair that he’d rather pretend didn’t exist.  His life had become a painful exercise in maintaining mediocrity.

He turned the corner, and walked along the edge of the  park.  There were a few walkers on the paved trail, and a mother with two small children in the swings.  The air smelled slightly of daffodils and green.   He remembered being sixteen, that wild and restless hunger for sex, food, and danger.  The overwhelming pleasure of having a girl.   He wished he could bring all that desire back into his body.  He did not blame his son for hating him.

A fire truck wailed in the distance.  He could see it storming down the long stretch of road.  He stopped and watched it grow larger, until it was right there beside him, a massive rush of air, the  sirens pressing against his heart, ringing in his ears, the thunder of the engine moving through the soles of his feet.  He turned and watched it go past him, then disappear around the bend, a red and hungry monster seeking out the fire.

Carved into the mountainside behind her home was a trail, the Appalachian Trail, and a long span of rock stairs started at the edge of her backyard and  climbed up and up into the wilderness.  First thing she’d done when they moved in was to run up those stairs and count them.  Her mother  saw her and cut her eyes at her.  “Them stairs are dangerous,” she scolded,  “I see you playing on ‘em again  your daddy’ll tan your hide.”   There were forty-seven stairs, a prime number, and she’d never set foot on them again.

So she’d watch.  People were always walking along Main Street, crossing the road just after her house, and then climbing up the steep rock stairs.    If she was playing in the yard, she would wave to them, but then her momma reminded her they were strangers, and to keep to herself.   She wanted to watch when a hiker came by, but was afraid they might wave to her.  Then she would be torn between waving back and getting into trouble.  So she just averted her eyes if someone came around, pretending she didn’t see them.

From her bedroom it was different.  She could watch folks climbing up the trail with an unrelenting gaze.  And if she squatted down and looked up she could watch them climb up to the very top stair before they disappeared altogether.  The other two bedrooms faced the street, and the curtains were always drawn in the living room.  Only she had this view of the backyard with the trail that stretched all the way to Maine.

At school there was a map of the Appalachian Trail, and she liked to look at it, and imagine what it must be like, to walk all that way.  There was a star on their little town, and she could see the exact spot where the trail crossed the road before it went up and up and up, through North Carolina, Virginia, West Virginia, and on.  I’m right there she would think, her finger pressing on the map.  She did not know what Maine was like, or Virginia even.   The farthest she’d ever been was across the state line into Tennessee to visit her aunt, which she hated to do because her cousins were all boys, and mean ones at that.  She would sit in the safety of the living room and watch TV blankly, the air harsh with cigarette smoke.

It was late January.  A sparse snow lay on the ground.  Her brothers were watching TV with Dad, her momma was making supper.  She’d been reading on and off all day, “Little House in the Big Woods.”  She thought that might be a fine life, with no electricity and farm animals, and she’d mentioned it that morning to her mother,  who’d replied that electricity made life possible, “something you’ll figure out soon enough if the power goes out.”

She looked out the window to see snow flurries starting to fall.  There might not be school tomorrow, she thought.  That’s when she saw a couple making their way carefully down the stairs.  The woman was dressed in a bright purple coat, with lime green gloves and a knit cap with a tassel that matched her coat.  The man wore a black leather coat, a black fleece cap , and jeans.  They were smiling.  The woman  looked down at the house, her eyes scanning the windows, then seeing the pale face of a girl looking up.  The moment their eyes met, the woman slipped on the slick stairs and fell, down, down the steps, then tumbled off the stretch of stairs headfirst onto the sloping black Earth.  The girl put her hand over her mouth.  She watched as the man ran down the stairs, and reached out to the woman.  For a moment the woman lay still, and a fear gripped the girl’s stomach.  She had caused the woman to fall, she was sure of it.   Her cheeks burned with shame.  But then the woman lifted her head, and  stretched out her hand, and the man pulled her to her feet and helped her sit down on the stairs.  They sat there quietly for a few moments, the man standing a few steps down from the woman, asking her if she was OK.  Then they started to laugh, and she could hear their voices come into her room.  The woman turned and looked into her window.  She smiled and gave the girl a thumbs up sign before standing up and continuing carefully down the stairs.  When they reached the bottom, the man put his arm around the woman’s waist, and they walked on, across the road, and down the sidewalk, disappearing around the bend.

The girl sat in her pink room and wondered at the stairs she was not allowed to climb.  Her mother was right, they were dangerous.  But they had laughed.  She thought about Maine and log cabins and snow.  She hoped that there would be school tomorrow.  She wanted to look at that map again, to claim again her spot in it, and dream of where she might go.

Except for today.  It was an unwavering gray.  Snow was falling.  It was late February, so there was no charm to the weather, no charm to her home, cluttered as it was with the restlessness of Winter, no charm in the cold of her fingers.  There was no place in the house that Legoes were not, and she began to feel as if she were gathering little pieces of herself, spread about carelessly, this red wing-shaped thing her passion, this gray block her obligations, these little round buttons her breasts.  She began to gather them with a fierce intensity, as if this were the only way she could reclaim herself from the familial chaos that had ruled her life for years, scouring corners and shelves and out of the way places.  She scrounged for them like coins, then threw them all into the Lego bucket.

She sat down, stirred the cauldron of legoes.  She hated legoes.   A sigh hedged out of her throat, and in that breaking away there followed a galloping of horses, wild in their sorrow, their grief, their confinement.  The wildness of her sorrow disturbed her.  She must maintain order and calm.  There was no place for this rumbling emotion.   She stood up, grabbed her coat, pulled on her boots, and walked out of the house.

Outside the air licked her face clean, the sifting hush of the snow lulled her thoughts.  She began to walk, down the drive, down the road.  The wind picked up, blowing snow in her face.  She passed the old farmhouse, dark and empty, and the fields around it which mirrored its desolation.  She passed the tall stand of pines that swayed in the wind, and the wide patch of briers that guarded elderberries in September.  She walked until she came to the spot where the road and the river touched before turning away from eachother,  the road going up the hill to the right, the river turning down and left.  Here there was a shore  of cold  stones that in the summer drew kids and adults alike.  Now, it was like everything around her, desolate and bleak.

There was one lego in her pocket.  It seemed to be the windshield of some space ship.  She set it down on a wide rock, blowing the snow away as if to protect the piece from the chill.  Then she picked up another large rock, one that fit nicely between her hands, a solid weight that she brought down resolutely on top of the little lego piece. It broke easily enough, but she continued smashing until the piece was more ground into something unrecognizable.

This is the violence of women, she thought, destroying the things that represent ourselves. She was tearless, cold, relieved.  She stood up, shoved her hands in her pockets.   The river wore on, over the course stones.  The wind relaxed and looped around her.  She pushed the smashing rock with her foot, and it rolled towards the river’s edge, so she finished the job my picking it up and heaving it in.  She turned away and headed back, wondering when it would end.

I take pleasure in writing about those moments in our lives that are small and subtle, yet hold some kind of magic, as if a window has opened inside us, and thus expanded our awareness of our world. Even so, these are just moments, so delicate and fleeting that they live on the periphery of our memory.

My goal is to write an ongoing series of these moments, micro-fiction of 500 or more words. I’ll put links here, and keep them posted at my web page.

Here’s the first two:

“February Woman”
There were Lego pieces everywhere.  Tiny bits of plastic color spread across the carpet, on the bathroom counter, on the stairs.  It had become such a habit for her to gather these pieces and toss them in the bucket that she was mindless in the task…

“View from the Window”
The girl’s bedroom was pink.  She did not ask for it to be pink, nor did she like the color.  It was her room, though….