sandra florence

Everything is Folded

fragments

In the sea my two great-granddaughters, Victoria and Lilly, play in bathing suits that keep them afloat. They pretend to find mermaids just below the surface and I play along. Yes, I see her over there; there’s another one. Soon everyone in the sea near us is playing. The girls are fearless in their belief as they move through green waves, its nuance, edges, and beautiful hallucinations. I drift with them wanting to believe, no matter the reality, the shore and hot sand. I stay close to them, so close I can feel their breath, each intake of air, the salt overwhelming. In this effort in the water we begin to see dolphins surrounding arching, spinning, guiding us to the shore.

At one point Lilly, who is just three, tries to get to shore by herself, but the waves are so strong the sandy bottom gives way and she is pulled out, then pounded back into water. I grab her and manage to climb out of the waves. She is covered in sandstones that fill her hair and cover her skin, but she is undaunted by this and simply clings to me like some strange little sea creature I’ve discovered. I carry her to the shower and I have time to study the beads, white and blue, etched with orange, yellow, and green. I wash away most of the stones from her small brown shoulders, and water falls on her fat baby feet. Her hair will take longer.

Soon her sister Victoria is out of the water and they carry their game of mermaids into the spa. Victoria goes under the bubbling foam wearing goggles and pretends there is a cave. The hot tubbers don’t seem to be bothered by this intrusion. They smile and move their bare feet to make room for the girl’s explorations. Vic comes up and says she can’t find any but goes under again. She won’t give up and she’ll keep trying as long as I let her.

“Let’s go under to the mermaid cave,” they chant. I have to pretend; this is easier in water where the weight is lifted off and I can immerse myself. But I can only pretend; the girls won’t let me be a full mermaid—some lack of trust or their strange logic. According to them, I have not earned my full mermaid membership in spite of my hours of water time. Maybe they know I don’t really believe in mermaids, that even in water my body feels its pain, but my body aches for the water, the water talks to me, embraces me—the aquamarine sand, the turquoise branches, dunes of blue shadow that I take shelter in.

The clouds move in like bullies, elbowing and blustering their way across the sky. Where have they traveled from? Some Kansas plain with its embroidered fields turned, sowed, and harvested? But they give up their aggressive motion and begin to float gently above us. They become cities of ecstasy that plummet into the light and bounce against the horizon.

Grandeur. We could take a basket of stories and blow them around the city, dancing between sea and sky. We tread along in the sand, and I wonder who these girls are, at their strangeness and familiarity, at the intimacies we share. And even though I’ve known them since birth, do I really know them, my grandson’s daughters? Haughty little relations who showed up in my life to tell me I don’t know what I think I know.

Lilly takes my hand, wants me to follow her to the tree where Victoria is hiding. She’s stuck. Her belt loop caught on a sticky branch.

My daughter and her husband have redone their house and now their backyard, the patio and pool, to make room for the girls who now live with them. The office is now a bedroom, the dining room an office. The family room next to the kitchen is the dining room. The girls bring their American Girl dolls out to the patio and tie them to the front of their scooters with rope. Each doll is a small version of themselves. They begin rolling around in this space. Victoria goes fast and knows how to maneuver around cracks and brake with expertise. Her three-year-old sister uses her tennis shoe to brake, and the rubber becomes a shattered fringy mess as she slides to a stop. The girls seem like small dandelions in this white area. And as soon as they begin this activity, they move to another. They rustle in this white world. It is warm and they are drawing pictures on clear screens, then projecting them against the wall. The bikes lay on their sides, wheels spinning, the dolls still tied to handlebars.

When their parents separated, Victoria would say, “I don’t know where we live; we don’t have a home.” She said she was going to build a house for Lilly and she began saving everything—straws, gum wrappers, bottle caps, pencils, sticks, thread, and pieces of cardboard. Vic built many houses so Lilly would always have a home—small cardboard houses, small stick houses with pointed roofs, slanted, flat, lopsided—and I built two big cardboard playhouses with painted roofs and trees and small animals along the wall. Later, we added a Teepee, a bamboo cabana, and a river raft. The last time their mother came to visit, she fell asleep in Lilly’s tiny bed. Lilly was in her loft. She came down her ladder through butterfly curtains, went to her mother, kissed her on the cheek, then covered her with a blanket.

-<>-

It’s Christmas break at the University of Arizona and with students gone, this is one of the best places for riding. Back and forth, up and down, the girls glide through gardens, arches, and inclines until we get to the top of the parking garage. There are small inclines between each level and this allows the girls to have an exhilarating ride. I’m the lookout for cars, though there are none. When they are ready to come down I yell, “All clear.” They begin with a soft rolling, a gentle crunching of wheels on gravel. A bird chirps, a church bell rings. Each girl has her doll roped to the front of her scooter again. The dolls’ arms are turned upward above the handle bars, their eyes bounce behind movable eyelids as the scooters hit bumps and ridges in the sidewalk. Soon they’ve gone all the way down the three-story garage ramps and I yell for them to stop. I’m on foot, so I run after them, then they are speeding past the few pedestrians on campus, weaving in and out of their way.

“There’s a unicorn by the dance studio,” I yell. “Let’s go see it.” We head over and find the small bronze animal behind hedges. The girls clamor onto the statue and I take pictures. I sit on it and let them take pictures of me. This activity doesn’t last too long because they are always hungry and they climb on the bench to get snacks, goldfish, grapes, apples, and peanut butter.

“It doesn’t move?” Lilly asks.

 “It’s not real,” Vic says, with slight contempt for her younger sister.

“Why not?

“It only comes to life at night,” I interject, hoping this will satisfy (and it seems to).

Soon we are heading down another slope of concrete to the tennis courts where mothers and fathers sit in stern silence watching their daughters battle it out. We find a place in the stands to sit. But only for a while. This is so different from Vic and Lilly’s tumbling classes where there is noise and laughter and the girls are restless and I am self-conscious, so we move to the outside of the court. The winner of the match is congratulated by her opponent’s mother. The opponent is in tears. As my two girls fly by on their scooters outside the courts, another mother confronts her teary-eyed daughter. “Why is that girl crying?” Lilly asks. “Because she lost the match,” I whisper. “Oh, she’s sad,” she says matter-of-factly and pushes off on her scooter. I don’t have to explain loss. They’ve experienced it early.

Cities of women move through the streets in unusual ways. In large circular motions. The spokes of a wheel take them out and keep them connected to a center where they return for sustenance, imagination, plucking leaves, running fingers over the gentle surface of things; no machine ticking, swallowing. A woman moves through the city holding the hands of two little girls, weaving in and out on a small sidewalk where the moon is light and true.

-<>-

Victoria refuses to take a nap even though she can barely keep her eyes open. Instead she insists on constructing a fleet of paper submarines. I don’t argue with her because, I’m sure by the time we pick a story and begin reading, she will slip quietly into bed next to her sister. Lilly is already in bed flipping through story books. I put on Lullaby Renditions of the Beach Boys, sand pails and sailboats. Hand me a lullaby to give them, a story of a brave cat who saves all her kittens from a fire, a tiny rabbit who is faithful to its owner, two sisters with courage to spare, living by their wits, learning to build houses and submarines. When Victoria tip-toes into the room and climbs into bed, I let the book fall out of my hands; I can fall asleep now, close my eyes as the warmth of the sun fills the room.

Women move through the city in relation to others, always connected by chords, threads, ropes of life. Their mother calls once in a while when she is clean and sober. Her voice is hazy, sleepy, but she claims her motherhood and wants to see them. A week after Christmas she brings them gifts: lip gloss, nail polish, and plastic bracelets. At times they ignore her, especially Victoria. She continues setting up the doll house in front of the TV. I can’t give the girls more strength than they already have. When I drive their mom to the place she’s staying (her cousin’s house, she says), we pass old blue churches, old grocery stores at every corner, their inscriptions barely visible—Root Beer 5 cents, Chardonnay, Soda Helada 5 cents. I pull up in front of a small bungalow. It is run-down, needs painting and some yard work, but isn’t that bad. Their mom gets out, and there’s a flurry of kissing, hugging, and tears; I miss you mommy, I miss you too, I love you, love you too, be good for GGma for great-grandmother (that’s what everyone calls me now). Their mother’s family has little names for all relatives: Tata, Nonni, Poppy, Nana, Nene, Tia, Titi… Once all the goodbyes are said, the door closes. I open the car window so the girls can blow kisses until their mother is out of sight. When we get home, Lilly draws a picture of me and her friend Lola, a girl several years older. She brings it over to me and whispers, “I love Lola.”

A woman cuts through a narrow passageway between two buildings. She clutches her purse to her chest, moves and leads with her head. Two girls walk in front of her; they speak rapidly, stringing words together like a pop-bead necklace, and their laughter pulls her forward. The girls giggle with delight as though they have found a secret passageway to another world. It is another world. The U of A world of clothing boutiques for small young women, yogurt shops, ice cream and donut shops, Hookah lounges, candy stores, bars and lots of restaurants. When I’m with the girls, I usually get free passage through the streets and art stores. “They are so beautiful,” a young male clerk says, handing them each a small bag of candy. “What are they?” he asks and laughs, embarrassed. “I mean, they’re mixed right?” “Yes, very.” I smile. “They’re brown, black, white, and I think their Tata is also Chinese.” “It’s a rich heritage.” Sometimes an extra scoop of ice cream. At the art store, the owner gives each a pencil with glitter inside and small pads of paper. We take them over to the grassy area at the University. The pencils sparkle in sunlight, moving quickly against paper. Victoria begins a story of a crow family. She writes sentences and her name; Lilly draws funny faces and prints her name. Victoria will not finish her story anytime soon, and she won’t want to go home until it’s finished. We prepare for a long afternoon, moving into the shade as the sun moves over to the turtle pond. Several of the turtles have left the pond and are speed walking across the grass. I’m shocked at how fast they are and, soon, two or three have made it to the utility road on campus.

“Oh no, they’re going to get run over,” Vic cries. “Hurry, help them.” I’m not sure whether to pick them up or not, so the three of us form a barrier around the creatures as they begin to walk into the road. Soon, oddly enough, a maintenance truck comes down the road very slowly and we wave it down.

“The turtles are running away,” Lilly says. “They might get hurt.”

“Oh, they run away every day. It’s my job to find them before they get to the candy store on University.”

“They like candy?” Lilly asks.

“Especially gummy bears. Thanks for your help.” He picks up the turtles and waves goodbye.

-<>-

At karate class the music is so loud and fast I don’t know how anyone can hear the instructions. There are at least five different groups: green belts, orange, yellow, white, purple, and black. It seems like a free for all, with older kids throwing punches and kicks and little ones throwing each other on the mat. Lilly is completely attentive to the instructions and seems to be able to hear over the pounding music. Mothers and fathers sit on benches surrounding the practice area, most are texting or playing on iPads. I step out of the practice room into the entry room and find a group of teenagers ravenously eating burgers and fries under the practice room window. I pull out my phone and a boy of about twelve comes over and says, motioning at my phone, “That would be better outside.” He directs my attention to a No Cell Phones sign. I’m speechless after the noise and chaos of the inside and, yet, I’m embarrassed that I’ve broken some rule. I stare at him for a minute, then reach over and squeeze his arm. Harder than I should. He removes my hand, and I grudgingly take my phone outside to the front of the building. The smell of fast food follows. The sound of the night hits me, crunching, shattering, crackling, pieces of stone flying. People making their way home. When I drive the girls home from karate class, I point out the moon, which seems bigger than ever hanging right in front of us.  

“Look at that moon. It’s so big and beautiful.”

“The moon isn’t bigger than God. God’s toes are huge,” Lilly says. I agree; they probably are. An image of God’s bare feet stepping through the clutter of rush hour traffic pops into my head.             

“The moon doesn’t move. The earth moves,” Victoria tells Lilly. I search my brain, trying to call up a little astronomy knowledge. I think the moon moves a little, but I keep it to myself. Don’t want to show my ignorance in front of a seven-year-old.

“When do you think he’s coming back?” Lilly whispers about their dad. I can’t hear Victoria’s response.

-<>-

After school, the girls and several friends run outside the house yelling, gathering their bikes and scooters and begin whirling and spinning in the driveway. The trucks gleam as they roll down the street past Lilly learning to ride her bike. I wave them off to the other street so she has room for herself. The drivers wave back, seeming to understand a child’s need to experiment with movement and gravity, the ground’s light and the trees’ light opening between leaves, leaving patterns on our faces as we speed through the day. The child is moving rapidly down a street that will lead to other places someday.

I am one adult with a dog on a leash, standing in the street as four girls—8, 7, 7, 5—race back and forth across the street. They holler and scream. They ride into yards and driveways of two houses where no one lives, where sometimes there are squatters who hole up in the house until the police kick them out. The girls scoot and glide through the dust, rocks, and gravel. The afternoon sky is gray. They ask questions continuously. “Are there cars, is it clear, can I ride the big bike instead of the one that’s my size?” She wants to reach, to push herself as far as she can. “Can I use the skateboard to race down the hill, and do I have to wear a helmet? Do you have anything to eat?” After an hour of this, we go inside and, while the girls distract themselves with Strawberry Shortcake play house, Shopkins, and Lalaloopsy dolls, I frantically forage through my daughter’s refrigerator for turkey lunchmeat, apples, popcorn, Gogurts, olives, and pickles. Lilly is the first one in the kitchen. She leans against the table where I have laid out the snacks. She dips into a bowl of pimento olives and says, “I like olives with holes in them, but when I eat olives with [pinto] inside, I feel like the queen of the world.”

-<>-

When I pick up Victoria and Lilly from school, they fall into paroxysms of grief when I tell them we can’t go to the playground today. Soon, however, a stampede of children bounding toward the playground causes me to give in, change my plans, and realize how important this routine is for them. My own plans get washed away in this flood of energy and I find myself being swept along with other moms and dads to sit in the sunshine and witness this joy. Later, at home, we play hide-n-seek. I am always it. Lilly is easily found because she can’t keep quiet or stop herself from giggling when I get close. Victoria is a different story. She can shrink into the smallest space and be as quiet as a ninja. After nearly fifteen minutes of searching for her in every corner of the house, we find her curled up in her laundry basket in her room, where I had looked before.

When I’m looking for her and can’t find her, a fear comes over me, an empty place inside me that will open if I don’t find her soon, if she hid herself so well, so quiet and still, that a soft spot in the universe opened and retrieved her. Of course she isn’t really gone, couldn’t be, yet that space in me threatens. 

-<>-

“Come on; go up in the tower. Go up in the tower.” The kids find many ways to use the big slide, and it rarely involves sliding down. The abandonment of play is infectious. I especially love their clothing: ruffled dresses over jeans, pink furry boots, boat shows, slippers with red bows, Nike athletic wear, Crocs with frogs on them, sloppy T-shirts, cowboy boots and white dresses and red ties. A ferocious game of ball tag ensues with everyone taunting the child with the ball until he or she slams it into someone’s back. Kids scatter around the play equipment, across the chain bridge and onto the grass. 

Lilly comes over and sits next to me. “What do you have for snacks?” 

I pull out an orange and peel it for her.

“What’s this?” I point to a pink scab by her eye.

“Victoria accidentally tackled me. But I don’t want to talk about it. It’s all better.” She’s off with the orange cupped in her hand. I let them play until the wind comes up and almost all the other children have left. By the time we get home, they are fussy and grubby like street urchins and don’t want to stop. “I want to have a pillow fight; let’s wrestle on the trampoline.” Things are spinning out of control, and soon Victoria is crying because she hurt her neck. Between the pillow fight, wrestling, pit bull barking and nipping at Lilly, and Vic’s hurt neck, I realize that they are exhausted and I am exhausted and we need to lie down.

Our Fridays are like this—the end of the week of school and victory drills. There is something woven into the text, a love story, a real relationship, a template for one, an act, a play, a flirtation with the edges of possibility. But on the playground, the mothers talk about non-dairy, non-gluten diets for their kids and about writing blogs, a blog for Christian fundraising called Believe.com. I weave myself into the text of the holy landscape, a sometimes cyberspace of moms searching for affirmation, feeling their way across the terrain of love, life, strife, sometimes waiting for a sign, a blog post from another zealous spirit, the sprawling playground, the modern day cathedral, a huge brown box-like building. Mostly I sit by myself watching the children play, sometimes sketching, but it is difficult to capture the children on paper, darting here and there on the fake grass.

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