Deferring Attachment

Driving through Kalkaska, I think about cell-phone reception.  I'm almost there.  It's all so foreign with a ghost-like feeling of memory.  Driving past the miles of pines in neatly planted rows, empty gas stations, stands of washed cherries, small plots of vegetables next to run down two-story houses, in the middle of nowhere.  Grass only grows in clumps among the sand and rock.  The abandoned farmland has a look of past, futile attempts to settle.

Before I realize what I'm doing, I catch myself checking the gas prices in the small 45 mile per hour towns.  I stare at a porch with a large towel tossed over the railing.  I imagine someone headed for a little lake nearby to cool off in this heat.  Like the waves slowly licking the shore on a hot day, I'm watching memory slides in my mind.  I make myself focus on the road and picture what would happen if a big deer jumped out of the tall grass while my eyes were closed while they were wide open.  I chew on some more small carrots to help concentrate.

I find it hard to believe I once wanted to settle on these rolling hills between Mancelona and Gaylord.  I always loved the look of the grasses and snow as they whip around on the hills and valleys. I imagined myself walking those hills, being protected from the wind.  I wanted to build a small home close to the hill.  Safe from the cold northern winds.  I never thought of the spindly roots of loneliness growing strong. Winding itself along the limestone rocks jotting out from the hills, among the lichen.  My naivety wouldn't allow me to conceive of the isolation the miles of snow-closed roads would create in the long months between January and March. The lack of phone, internet, or human faces.  The desolate places painting a beautiful, seductive scenery.

When you're with someone you love, the warmth of their body and intimate kindnesses blind you.  Even when you think you are conscious.  The isolation and claustraphobia slip in unaware.  Like the gas burner turned on with just a thin trace of blue for simmer.  The mind stays unaffected it seems forever.  Then the tiny, bubbling agitation begins, waiting for a hand to turn it up to a boil or turn it off forever.  The turn of the knob is inevitable.  

I drive through Mancelona and am forced to wait at the stop light by the railroad tracks, where the big historic cannon looms over the intersection.  My eyes stop on the renamed "Dairy Queen".  So many memories flip over in sounds, tastes, smells and heat of summers past.  Fresh, warm, newly picked raspberries tossed over styrofoam cups of machine-twirled ice-cream.  Barbecue pork sandwichs, huge french-fries drowned in ketchup, and chili hotdogs.  Napkins everywhere, eating in the car to avoid big black flys and strange people with their large "friendly" dogs on a leash. Their tongue hanging down to their collar, trying to keep cool.

In spite of warding off any personal attachment to my home, my eyes begin to fill and my throat feels like it just landed at an old wooden dock, bouncing off the rubber bouys meant to cushion the landing. I can't swallow, my ears ring, probably from not taking a breath.  

The sun is behind the trees and it will be dark soon.  I try not to look at anything specific.  But I can't help but notice the weeds growing up by the wooden porch steps leading to the door as I close the car door and start up the porch.  The third step still needs repair.  It rattles and shifts a little under my weight.  I try to use the word hate in my thoughts.  I want to defer any attachment and sentiment I feel in this undertow pulling me under.  I call the neighbor right away to ask for help with the luggage.  I know I need people to pull me up from my drowning. The luggage can wait, but I have to have some air soon.

It's late.  I feel like a child afraid of the dark.  I keep almost every light on in the house.  I don't want to sleep here. The air-conditioning is starting to feel cool, but I need more comfort than temperature.  I wander from room to room.  What am I looking for?  I open drawers, look through books.  Nothing seems to satisfy my useless search.  I lay on the floor trying to collect myself. Face what I'm not facing.   I remember the fresh blueberries I bought at the Glen's store in Kalkaska.  I pull myself up from the rug, wash the bowl of berries and sit down on the couch.  I open a book and begin to walk out the door, down each step of the aging porch into the dark night.