Yesterday

It is yesterday as usual, and so I drive out to Poseyville which is where yesterday begins and ends.   St. Francis cemetery is deserted except for two men working on a concrete pad near the chapel. I park on a gravel lane near my parents’ grave.  I leave my phone in the car because the one person I want to talk to can’t be reached by phone or in any other way.

Her grave is just in front of Mom and Dad’s.  It is almost, but not quite, covered in grass. It seems strange for her to be here with Mom and Dad.  Being the youngest, she was never alone with them.  Being the oldest, I was the only one ever alone with them.  I should be the one here alone with them now, but she is here instead.

I sink down onto wet grass, covered in clover.

When she was little, I used to take her out to the backyard of that white house in Poseyville and sit her in the wet grass, covered in clover, and make necklaces for her. Without even thinking, I begin picking the flowers with the longest stems, weaving them and tying them together.  The fields surrounding the cemetery steam gently in the humidity and I feel like years are passing as I weave, going backwards.

I am holding her in my arms, walking all over the house looking for her pacifier. I am in the in the post office, lifting her up so she can open the little box to get the mail.  I am in the park at the edge of town pushing her on a swing that will never go high enough. 

“Higher!” she yells, “Higher, Karen!”

I am making her bologna sandwiches with the mustard on the bread and not the bologna which seems impossible, but she is confident that I can do it.  She believes that I can make the swing go all the way to the clouds, that I can make impossible sandwiches, that I can fix anything that breaks – bicycles, rosaries, hearts.

 I took her to see ET when she was in grade school.  I got her popcorn and we sat in the dark North Park Theatre and we both cried for that lonely alien.

I am covered in sweat now, and the necklace is finished.  I drape it over her gravestone and return to the car and crank up the air conditioning. My phone is lying on the center console.  I have three new messages, but I don’t read them.

I wish I could phone home.

812-874-2227.

Only no one will answer.