Stick To It - InkSpot.Com

About This Author

A changeling spirit,
constantly evolving,
revolving around an inner core,
spinning forth legend and lore,
stories and lives
as I come to grips
with who and what I am,
have been and may be.
I am a phoenix:
rising ever above and beyond!

Stick To It

Stick To It

I

As a child, my grandmother, Annie had a baby grand
in front of her bay window. I couldn't
understand, make sense
out of baby and grand and grandmothers.
Annie said words didn't always make sense,
or, they did, but that we just didn't know enough yet.
Stick to your books; you'll figure it out.
At the time, I remember telling her
I couldn't read. I understood the how
and the 'sounding outs', but, letters got all jumbled up,
refused to make words. Right and left
reversed, letters changed.
Annie showed me sheets of music-
dots climbing steps, she said questioning
if I mixed up my 'ups and downs.' I didn't.
Each dot is a note, a sound. The sounds climb stairs
and run back down. Just like you!
Holding my hands in hers, blue-veined, with gnurled knuckles,
she told me to make a fist except my 'pointy finger.'
Together we played a song, her fingers guiding mine.
Soon, I could do it on my own. She showed me the dots,
she showed me the notes and the stairs.
This is what you just played, she smiled.
I remember wondering the name of the song; 'Chopsticks'
she said. I thought it was a funny name for a song.
Stick to it, she reminded me; one day it will make sense.

II

As I grew older, Annie always found more
to explain, have me try. When I set the table
for dinner, there were always three forks, three spoons,
two knives, three glasses, and three plates. At least.
I didn't mix up bowls and spoons. Bone dishes,
bread, and butter plates didn't confuse me;
they stayed where I put them.
She'd hand me a ruler to make sure each piece
of silverware, each glass or plate was the correct distance apart.
I could read the ruler. Learned addition and subtraction
without realizing it; without numbers dancing around.
I also learned what to use for what and why. I didn't
understand why one couldn't use the same fork for salad or meat,
why one used a different spoon for soup or ice cream.
One simply did, Annie said, in her 'Don't argue' voice.
Her implacable, 'I know everything' voice. Same voice she used
when she said that I'd thank her one day.
Stick to it, she said, and you will remember each item in its place.

III

One day, after I'd learned where everything went, she had me set the table.
She'd only set out two bowls, two plates, and two sets
of long, skinny sticks.
Chopsticks, she said. Time you learn that not everyone
uses a knife and fork. They didn't?
Chopsticks? I thought that was a song.
I didn't understand. Then she filled the two bowls with cooked, white grains.
She held the two sticks in her fingers and proceeded
to, deftly, consume her bowl of rice. I tried.
It was like holding a pencil,
except there were two. My fingers didn't work right.
The little bits jumped and jumbled. As it cooled, it got sticky.
I could squish some together. Getting the squashed goo
to my mouth was another issue.
I understood why Annie had put a sheet
on the floor on my side of the table!
We had just those grains for lunch. And dinner. And breakfast!
Stick to it, she said. Takes practice.
I did. I was hungry. Two weeks of varied colored grains.
white, yellows, browns, greens, and blacks.
Learn or starve. I cheated when she went to the kitchen.
I used my fingers. Her eyes could see through walls.
Stick to it, she said. Chopstick to it, I giggled.
And I learned.

IV

Time doesn't stick. It flies. Summer days at Annie's passed
in baby grand moments and chopstick weeks. Annie made everything
into some sort of lesson. But that summer, I learned to read
and started to write poetry. I learned haikus and counting syllables.
I learned arithmetic, then geometry folding sheet corners
into right angles, parallel lines of blankets and quilts, lined just
precisely so. She taught me the symmetry of corn in
x number of rows,
y seedlings per row.
And I knew we had planted thirty-six plants. We rolled down grassy hills
and I counted revolutions. The steeper the hill, the faster we rolled
to crash to the bottom in deep, sweet lavender. Simple physics, Annie said.
We picked roses and Queen Anne's Lace, sassafras and dandelions (we needed yellow)
and arranged them in numerous vases on multiple tables
and I understood that many put in different containers was division.
I watched as the moon went from Cheshire cat smiles to a good China dinner plate,
how stars moved yet made pictures in the sky and how to find true north.
Annie reminded me, See what sticking to stuff accomplishes?

V

The years cycled by and my grandmother was the glue
sticking me back together after an accident. She stuck close
as I learned to navigate with bandaged eyes still weeping shards of glass.
To hear when a container was almost full by how sound changed, to tap-step
my way down flights of stairs. Then, we were back to dots.
Arranged in sets and patterns, read by finger tips. Frustration
was not my friend. But it is, Annie said, taking me out to the meadow,
telling me to flat out run, wide armed. And I learned I could still
roll down hills, pick flowers and arrange them in vases.
We didn't know, you see, if I would ever see again.
Annie taught me to see with my ears, my nose, my fingers.
Annie was my true north that summer.
The light was so bright it hurt.
But the bandages finally were thrown away, yet Annie
stuck by me. Through the bullying about my thick glasses.
The being made fun of because I still read slowly.
She taught me words the others didn't know.
Probably would never know. Having friends meant nothing more
than being one, even when it is difficult. Takes practice, she said.
Stick to it; you'll get there.
Because, she added, how can you not?

VI

Back in the day, punishments were often being on the receiving end
of long thin sticks. Whispering Sticks, they were called.
One could hear the whispering through the air until the sting
made me whimper. Didn't hurt so much, through clothes, but
truly, the punishment was far more in the trek to the woods to pick
out the stick and carry it home. Did a lot of thinking on those walks,
remembering other times, knowing I knew better.
As an early teen, I stole twenty dollars from Annie.
Her eyes still could see through walls.
We walked to the woods together: she was talking. I listened.
She picked the whispering stick, chopped it down.
All the way home
I was dreading the words it would whisper.
Misplaced dread, for it was far worse than I imagined.
Annie held her hands out, palms up.
Ten strokes, five each hand, she said.
Math again. I knew the division of it, I didn't understand the why.
I couldn't comprehend the why.
I didn't teach you well enough. She said it was her failure
more than mine. Do it, she said.
Stick to it. You'll learn. We will be here until you do.
I couldn't. I begged. I pleaded. I cried.
Annie stuck to her guns. Day blurred to night.
In the darkness, as a lonely owl hooted, Annie softly explained
about principles, about inviolate, intrinsic trust. About honor.
As the sun rose, I closed my eyes and swung.
She moved her hand. Keep your eyes open, she said.
Watch it. See it. Learn it. Know it. Now do it!

VII

Never knew anything could hurt so badly.
I felt each whisper slice into my heart.
Consequences, Annie said, her voice rock steady.
Actions and repercussions. Cause and effect.
Karma, she intoned after the sixth stroke.
Balance must be maintained;. we are both
learning a lesson here. Keep going.
I swore I'd remember. I swore I'd never forget.
I'd have sworn anything by then.
If only she would let this stop.
I could, she whispered,
but then neither of us truly learns the lesson.
I don't remember the last few strikes. But I know
I did as she asked, demanded, instructed, wanted.
She told me she loved me for sticking to it.

VIII

Annie passed away four years later.
She was in a nursing home, preparing for what
she said she knew was coming.
She was neither afraid or regretful.
She only missed her dog: they refused to allow it to visit.
I snuck her basset hound on to the property, tied her to a tree.
Went in and brought Annie, in her wheelchair, out for some sun.
For an hour she rolled in the grass with her dog, pet her Samantha
and the two of them had a long, quiet conversation.
As I brought Annie back in, she smiled and said I had learned
all she had to teach me and more. I'd proven it that day.
She thanked me for being her proudest accomplishment.
I didn't understand, not really, even though she managed
to make me smile through my tears.
Don't cry, she said. Just make sure what I've taught you sticks.

IX

Almost half a century has passed. Among the physical things Annie left me
was, so Annie, a walking stick: gnarled, twisted, bent.
I collect walking sticks, have for years. But I hadn't thought of them
for a while. My eventual husband and I were on a journey
north. We saw sticks stuck alongside the road.
No rhyme or reason to them, haphazardly placed, long thin branches
every so often. Stick, I said pointing.
Stick, he said a few miles further along. Dead stick, I said, pointing
to a tall spear of dead tree. Drift stick, he said while walking
along Lake Superior. Sticking to things became our thing.
Instead of 'love, me' on cards, I began to write just 'stick.'

X

Would you stick with me for the rest of our lives? --
His proposal. We say we are stuck with each other.
We smile as we say that.
Inside my wedding ring is the date we got married
and the word Stick.
We are stuck. Almost ten years stuck.
Sometimes, life is full of brambles and thorns.
We've been stuck and bloodied along the way.
But we stick to it. Get through it to days
rolling in sweet grasses.
My words still jumble occasionally
but I've become adept at putting them together just right.
Because I will stick with it until I do.
He is a drummer. Over fifty years a drummer,
he yet practices: he makes his drumsticks dance.
An older granddaughter calls 'stick stories' her favorites.
A daughter returns from her honeymoon
with an eight-foot long bamboo stick that barely fit in the car.
You needed a really big stick up on the wall, she says.
It's stuck up there now crossing the apex of a cathedral ceiling.

XI

Same daughter with one of his grandchildren
plinking on a keyboard, making 'her music.'
I can't really play it, she confides. It's too hard.
My daughter teaches her Chopsticks.
It just takes practice, is all. My mom always says
Stick to it and you'll get it.
Grand says that? asks our next-to-youngest grandchild.
And her grandmother told her the same thing, answered my daughter.
If you listen very carefully, any time something is hard,
you can almost hear her. I've heard her.
Truly? asks the granddaughter, then just sits there a moment
after my daughter nods.
Can you show me again? I gots to stick to it, right?

Prompt for: Feb 25 (RenFyn)
Subject or Theme: Chopsticks
Word(s) to Include: finger, lavender, grass (or any derivatives of these words)
Forbidden Word(s): food, eat, rice, piano, pair (or any derivatives of these words)
Additional Parameters: at least 19 lines, rhyming or not.
Remember, do not use forbidden words ANYWHERE, including title or the brief description.

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