Maxine

It's autumn- a few leaves are desperately clinging to the almost bare branches of the trees on this desolate Ohio country road. Farther down this dusty road a care-worn farmhouse, once sparkling with pride, pristine white, stands strong amidst years of struggle. In the front yard, now primarily dust and bits of grass, a semi-rusted swing with room for three children squeaks as a ten year old girl swings in the autumn chill. She is alone with a life void of possibilities. yet here she is. She knows nothing else. her straight, long, blondish-brown hair blows in the breeze as she swings back and forth, back and forth, never swinging very high. her feet barely leave the ground. Her cheeks are chubby, round, yet no glimmer of hope, childhood youthfulness, or cheerfulness appears. Her eyes are glazed over as if in a wakeful sleep of obligation and duty. The life she knows is one of scraping the dry, brown, barren earth, settling for whatever she is given. Behind her is a large, blue canvas glove lying on the ground. It's new, never used, and swelling with possibilities. She never looks behind her. It isn't in her realm of vision to look anywhere but at the ground in front of the swing, back and forth, back and forth. If she would only look back...at the glove. Daily she swings alone, looking down at her white bobby socks and brown and white saddle shoes. A fuzzy yellow sweater, buttoned from the top to the very last button, covers a clean, well-worn brown shirt. Faded blue jeans hide her thin legs. Her hands are cold from the chill of the autumn air. Her fingers turn pink from tightly grabbing onto the rusted chains of the swing. Desolateness permeates the clear, cold air. Inside the farmhouse a Thanksgiving meal is being prepared: fresh, crisp, yellow corn, a modest turkey, freshly baked bread, and large green peas. The peas are in a slightly cracked pottery serving dish which has been part of the family tradition. A large pat of butter slowly melts over the top of them. Her mother silently mashes the potatoes. She is the one who is keeping this little farm together by the very tips of her nails, making this parched land give all it can. The girl gets off the swing as methodically as she sat upon it, going inside the run-down farmhouse. Her father comes inside after feeding the few animals they have left. The front door blows shut. The little farmhouse no longer holds its door open to company. They dine alone this Thanksgiving. With great care the mother spreads out the washed and ironed, faded brown tablecloth her mother used over their round, wobbly dining table. It sits in the middle of the room, four wooden chairs around it. A reproduction of the Ascension of Christ hangs on the faded striped wallpaper. Under it there's a mark left from a hutch which was sold to purchase feed for the livestock. She returns to the kitchen for the feast. Each dish is majestically brought to the table and placed in the center for her husband and child to see. The three sits down to dinner. They join hands gratefully and humbly giving thanks. Years later, the ten year old girl, now a grown woman walks the beach alone. Fog, which has shrouded the beach, begins to lift. A thin shred of pale sunlight begins to show through the sky. The soft, soothing ocean touching, then running from the shore is the solitary sound. Not even the cry of a bird can be heard along this pristine stretch of white beach. The eerie vacancy stretches as far as the eye can see. With the clear, blue sky overhead webs of kelp and seaweed become entangled in her toes as she walks along the wet sand. Its soft, squishy coldness sends shivers up her legs. The odor of decaying seaweed engulfs her as she methodically walks this familiar stretch of beach. Slowly seagulls begin to come on shore rushing, pecking at the recently washed-up seaweed. Another crisp, cool breeze parts the remaining fog as the beach transforms into a winding street. The farther she walks the more people she sees upon the street as it branches into a maze of winding, crowded roads which evolve, meeting into one large main street again. A large, pale yellow building resembling a castle stands above the rest at the end of the main street. With eyes fixed on the building, the woman watches it turn from a light lemon yellow to a pale, soft, rose-pink with an orange tinge. The entire sky over and behind the building transforms to a beautiful pure blue, cloudless sky. She stands with her head turned upward gazing at the sky, not concerning herself with people coming and going around her. Gently bumped by people as the crowd thickens, she realizes some people are wearing large, papier mache heads. Walking by floats with streamers she notices there is a carnival, reminiscent of those which are held in Brazil. An atmosphere of carnival floats in the air. It's intoxicating.. The woman yearns to take part in it. A bump in the road...my head hits the window of the tour bus. The dream holds me prisoner. I try desperately to keep my eyes closed, to find out if the woman finds the yellow building and takes part in the carnival. Startled, my eyes open wide as another bump jostles me and I groggily sit up straight with the cloud of carnival lingering about me. Yawning, placing my hand over my mouth, I look out the window as the cottages of gray-blue stone come and go. A few autumn leaves dance across the roadway as the recently purchased tour bus rolls quietly along heading to our destination.