Crafting Form

The clothes lie clumped before me. Reds mingled with greens intertwined with a pale yellow. A purple sock sticks out the side of the pile. A blue sleeve is compressed like an accordion. I survey the mess before me, sigh and reach out, unfolding the blue sleeve and pulling out the patterned shirt last worn three days ago. I lay it flat. The familiar hatches criss-cross over the fabric weaving a memory in my mind. I can feel the warmth of the sun on my neck as I did then. A cool bead of sweat gathers on my brow descending into my eye where its sting forces me to take my eyes off of them. A dark haired mother with a pale complexion stands grasping the hand of a small girl. The girl’s round face smiles in the sunlight. The noon time heat swallows them up. The woman’s dress is painted with delicate lilies. The girl’s match. They walk toward me as I stand waiting along the shore. They’re framed by the angry ocean raging behind them and the gulls circling overhead. The waves pound the staggered pylons of the pier. The salty air lays thick upon me with the stench of rotting seaweed hanging in it. I set the folded shirt off to the side.

A child’s yellow blouse comes next bringing me back to that radiant day. The sun beams down its rays filling the earth with its warmth. Birds call to one another, squirrels chitter in the trees and the squeals of children at play fill the park. I sit on the rough wood bench watching her play. The small ringlets of golden hair bounce over her shoulders as she chases after the other kids. She turns and gives me a reassuring smile before taking off up the ladder and diving down the slide. The lemon yellow blouse shines like a beacon among the greys and blues of the other kids. I follow the light as it dances across the playground and then back again. “Dad!” She breathlessly grabs my hand. “Push me on the swings!” I’m pulled up and break into a trot as she runs pulling me towards the swing set. She jumps up and starts to pump. “You’re getting good at that.” I say as she goes higher and higher. “I learned from the other kids.” She pumps a few more times. “Come on Dad!” I move behind her and give her a big push sending her up too high. The chain goes slack. She falls. The chains catch her and she bounces back. “Not so hard Dad!” “Alright.” I reply, giving her a smaller push this time. She giggles as she goes back and forth. Her eyes staring up at the powder blue sky and then back at the greying wood chips. “I like swinging Dad.” “Yeah, why do you like it?” “I think this is what angels must feel like.” I set the folded blouse aside.

A dark blue shawl lies in front of me. She wore it that day. I walk beside her again through the neighborhood. A gentle warmth is held against the earth by the blanket of clouds. A stray beam of sunlight breaks through, but the grey sky lingers. We pass the old homes. Different details catch my eye today than did yesterday: a swooped porch with disintegrating bricks; a cockeyed red front door; a dilapidated soffit flapping in the slight breeze; a wavy roofline; a crooked pillar. I reach out my hand toward hers and feel the softness of her palm. She forcefully pushes it away. I draw my hand back. We continue on in silence. She stops and looks at me. Her grey eyes are worn and sad. “Do you love me?” “Yes, I love you.” I reply. She looks down at the buckled sidewalk and then continues walking. She glances up at me. “How can you love me after all I’ve done?” I look up at the grey sky looking for an answer there. “I know you. Because I know you - truly you - I love you.” Her head snaps towards me, that nasty fire has entered her eyes. “You don’t know me!” I lay the shawl aside.

The small red dress lays on top. I stare at it. It seems to stare back. Do I want to go down that path? I let the memory flood back. A bowl of cereal crashes to the floor. “What the fuck is going on?” My wife screams as she rounds the corner. Cherrios swim in milk on the floor strewn everywhere like a Jackson Pollock. “What happened?” She screams as our daughter’s face starts to streak with tears? “What did you do?” “It just.” “Things don’t just!” “I uh.” Tears stream freely now. “Spit it out!” I’ve gotten a rag and am wiping up the floor, a pit in my stomach. “I don’t know.” “You don’t know? You don’t know how the cereal went crashing to the floor. Do you know how much work this is for mom? Do you know that you just making messes all the time does?” She sobs and stares at the ground where I finish wiping up the mess. I look at her and give her a gentle smile. “It makes my life miserable.” “Enough Catherine. You’ve made your point.” “I’m just starting!” She snaps back. But she turns and walks out of the room. “You better be ready to leave in 10 minutes!” Her red dress is now damp with tears. I gently pat her face dry. “I’m sorry, dad.” “No need to be sorry. Accidents happen.” “Mom, doesn’t understand accidents.” “She doesn’t believe in them.”

Later that day I sit at my desk. The phone rings. “Do you know what the hell just happened?” a gruff voice on the other end asks. “No, but I guess I’m going to find out.” “You’re damn right. Your guys just walked through the wet concrete and ruined the whole fucking pour.” I scratch at a loose piece of wood along the edge of the desk. “We’ll take care of it Frank.” “Damn right you will and tell them dumb sons o’ bitches to use their fucking brains. We’re letting it set and will sawcut in the morning. We’ll re-pour on Wednesday.” The line clicks. I rip the wood away and drop it in the trash can. My eyes drift to the computer screen and I see hundreds of unread emails. I take a sip of coffee. The phone rings again. “Yeah, Frank.” I answer. “This isn’t Frank.” “Oh, I’m sorry.” “This is Deputy John Hargrove with Humboldt county sheriffs department. Is this Mr. Erickson?” I open an email to read. “Yes, sir how can I help you. Is it about the construction?” “No. We found your wife and daughter.” “Found them?” “They crashed along 121.” Well, are they alright!” “No, sir. They’ve both died. We’ll need you to come to St. Mary’s to formally identify them. I know words won’t help right now, but I’m sorry for your loss.” The coffee drops to the table. I set the tattered red dress off to the side next to the tiny socks that will never be worn again.