Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance…

A few words on coming and going – for Kazi

We brought Kazi home, two days old, on a day like this: breezy, cool, drenched, soggy… only that day in Madison there was a carpet of leaves underfoot, layers of leaves slick with autumn rain and stained with autumn colours. It was late September some twenty years ago, and come to think about it, Kazi’s first meeting with the world outside the red brick walls of St. Mary’s Hospital was this very touch of early autumn’s chill, this very taste of the sweetly rain washed world.

Perhaps this is why Kazi loves the rain, loves days like this that entice with the promise of a world emptied of the bustle of sunny days; a calm, freshly washed world in which quiet is the first you hear.

After days of sunshine, we awoke this morning to rain. Bergen weather, I said, and Kazi replied, “I love it!” Last night we watched the weather report and saw that the forecast for here, 200 km north of the Arctic Circle, was the same as for Bergen, aka Rain Capital of Norway, 2000 km to the south: cool temperatures, rain, and more rain on the way. I began to question if Kazi has good enough shoes and rain trousers, as if before this moment no one had thought of rain being a factor in her moving to Bergen. She didn’t answer, knowing it was just the kind of futile nagging mothers cannot help but do; knowing that her two suitcases, containing the essentials distilled from the piles and disarray of all her worldly belongings that have been strewn about the den this summer, were now zipped, locked and standing by the door. Whatever they held was the makings of her new home in Bergen, a city she has never set foot in, but couldn’t wait to get to.

The poet wants to make something of this: the day Kazi came home from the hospital being like the day she leaves home for the university… but what is there to say, really? That day she rode home with us in a car seat rented from the Red Cross. Today she took the bus; no room for her and her luggage in my little car. Her father arrived separately in his truck. That day the nurse who handed her over took our picture. Today she told me to put my camera away. But still the rain was there, then and now, the rain, the pearl grey sky, the autumn chill.

We watched her take her seat on the waiting train, her face barely discernible through the rain blurred window. The platform was rain slick and empty. All the elements of a country song were in her leaving: the rain, a train, a dog, a truck, the hometown boy she will always love. But when she rose up from her seat and went to the door to tell us something, it was that we could just go now, get dry, get on with our day, ha det så bra.

We must have been a bit of a spectacle. A tiny crowd of teary-eyed people of varying heights looking eager and forlorn, the women fighting back sobs, the men with their hands thrust into their jacket pockets. The kind of crowd you see standing on the platforms of departing trains in films. Once, when Kazi was not yet three, she sat quietly in her car seat as we drove through the Wisconsin countryside. Suddenly she clutched my arm. “Look!” she cried pointing to the scenery rushing by outside her window. “Look, a movie!” She’s had that eye of the camera ever since: observing, zooming in, panning out, choosing new lenses and filters to alter vantage points.

She’s probably about half-way to Trondheim now, on a train ride that is going to be 26 hours long. She was looking forward to it; plenty of time to rest and think, plenty of time to write and watch dvds. A few days ago she told us that the last three years have been the best of her life. Now she’s on a train with the world rolling by outside her window. I wonder if it looks to her like a movie, like the opening scene to all that will come next.

Information

This entry was posted on 01/08/2007 by in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , .
Poetry International Online

Poetry International is a world class literary magazine based on the campus of San Diego State University which caters to an international community of poets.

Brain Mill Press

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance...

The Line Break

A poetry & wine blog

BREVITY's Nonfiction Blog

(Somewhat) Daily News from the World of Literary Nonfiction

Lou Treleaven

Children's author, writing coach and playwright

North American Review

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance...

Tuesday; An Art Project

poems, photographs, prints

my life and times

Marideth Sisco

The Telling Project

It's time to speak. It's time to listen.

Sibling Rivalry Press

D i s t u r b /E n r a p t u r e

Structure and Style

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance...

ELJ Editions

Be Well. Write Well. Read Well.

She's in Prison

Poetry by Leanne Rebecca Ortbals

AMY KING

POET + VIDA: WOMEN IN LITERARY ARTS

Jack Frey

where all the missing words end up

I Remember You Well

Things were happening... and I remember there was music playing.

Ylva Publishing

Publisher of lesbian fiction and women's literature

Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance...

%d bloggers like this: