In the Shadow of a Cement Mill
Photo by Semyon Borisov on Unsplash
Throaty wail of the mill whistle.
Chuff, toot, slam of trains.
Towering smokestack,
puffs of smoke streaming across the sky,
as lovely to a little girl as any cloud.
First the tiny, four-room house
in its neat row of mill houses,
then a two-story clapboard
closer to the mill
set on a wide expanse of lawn.
Grape arbor fragrant with bees.
Cherry and apricot trees, lilacs.
Rope-and-board swing
hanging from the oak
at the top of the hill.
Touch toes to the ground
and the world falls, falls away.
Even a teetertotter
built for children we never knew.
(A visiting boy shimmies off when I’m up high,
laughs when I crash.
I never trust boys
on teetertotters
again.)
My parents bend over gardens,
day after sun-dazzled day.
Still, the potatoes, the peas, the beans,
even the roses,
my father’s beloved roses,
seem to me to come free,
bounty of a generous Earth.
Free, too, the spicy onion-tops
folded into a slice of buttered bread
carried to the garden.
Free, the tomatoes
bursting with summer sun.
Lick the satin skin
so salt can cling,
even on the first bite.
Slam the screen door into freedom.
Scrape dams in the red-slag road after rain.
Tramp through the woods.
Hold a dandelion under a playmate’s chin.
“Do you love butter?”
Carry golden handfuls to Mommy
even though I know well
love always wilts
in a glass.
Stand a dozen steps away from the backdoor
to call a friend to play.
“B-e-t-t-y!”
Don’t knock. Never knock!
A grown-up might
appear.
Snowmen, snow houses, snow forts,
snow angels.
A game of pie.
Slide and slide again
down the humped hill
behind the mill superintendent’s house.
Burst shivering into the fragrant kitchen.
Clamber onto the tall radiator to dry.
Leap off howling when sodden wool
tips suddenly toward scalding.
So in love with the booming, banging trains,
bellowing whistle,
clapboard house,
green spread of lawn;
so in love with the deep woods
surrounding all,
holding all;
so in love with the entire dusty world.
But drawn, nonetheless,
to the highway
at the end of the lane.
The highway that stretches
into the waiting world,
the calling world.
Tie a few necessities in a red kerchief—
a bologna sandwich,
my teddy bear, Tim—
then hang the kerchief on a stick
and sling it over a shoulder,
hobo style.
(I am nothing if not a romantic.)
Leave a note telling them how much they’ll miss me,
then walk to where the mill road
meets the highway.
Stand,
filled with a longing
that has no name.
Stand and stand and stand,
then turn back,
retrace steps,
tear up the note.
Except for that once when,
the tearing part forgotten,
Daddy found the note
and read it out
at the supper table.
Laughing. Laughing.
Humiliation scouring my bones.
An idyll, all.
Except for that laugh.
Except for the nameless longing.
Except for Daddy’s warning:
“Don’t play near the mill.
Bad things could happen to little girls
who play too close to the mill.”
He never says what the bad things might be,
but he leers,
seems to be delighted
to be thinking about them.
(My brother gets no warning.
Bad things don’t happen to boys.)
I don’t believe in Daddy’s bad things,
not really,
yet Betty and I take care
not to play too close
to the mill.
Still … it’s my mill,
my longing.
My life.
Yet one day I grow up
and leave it all
behind.
Almost.
