What Gets Noticed (a Haibun)
by Yvonne Blomer
At the hospital a man praises an elderly woman, frail and in a gown, for noticing the star lilies out the window. He had not seen them, I heard him say as I hustled past with my son. My mom noticed plenty. My dad’s sadness. My sister’s struggles. My special son. She noticed dark shadows on my skin when I’d visit at her nursing home. Notice acne and lipstick. She said once, watching my old dog circle, “When Kirin dies, I’m going to go too. I’ll go with her.” Though she stayed on. Stayed long enough to meet the puppy, sometimes her hand stroking him or patting her blanket thinking it was him. These days, a year without her, my cup too full of grief, I forget to notice things. The trillium blooming in the garden. The softness of things. Forget the green of her eyes in mine. At the hospital my son’s specialist discusses weight gain, puberty, iron levels, scoliosis. Does every box in his diagnosis have to be checked? Can’t we skip a few side-effects, I think, having dropped him at school before heading to the dog park. The dog notices my mood, scratches at my hand for a cuddle even though I’m driving. He doesn’t seem to care. Maybe I’m writing an essay here. I run the puppy round the park, well, he runs me. His excitement makes other dog walkers laugh. One lap around takes my entire life or I’m surprised when I come to the fence that it’s only my first time around. The sky above is too bright. The hours in the day –
dog wet with dog scent,
my feet muddied
I carry yellow pollen home on my legs.