Jacaranda

We did not come to remain whole; we came

to lose our leaves like the trees.

Robert Bly

I am walking past John J. Pershing

Junior High, though now it might

be a Middle School. I am listening

to jazz, something inspired by Gurjieff.

Something sacred which takes me

to the long Petersburg afternoons

that inched their way to night,

sipping strong sweet black tea

from the samovar, staring at the

frozen Neva with Nina. Glen Gould

in the background. Or Jacqueline

du Pre. Digesting and debating

Gurjieff and Ouspensky and Madame

Blavatsky. We decided we definitely

were Anthroposophists. At least then

it seemed to make sense. To my

not-even-thirty-year-old mind. But,

now? I pass the class where I had

second-year Spanish, my teacher

the only teacher I remember from

those two years. Though her name

escapes. But her hair! Bright

maraschino cherry red. And she

had big teeth and wore flowery

dresses. And she smiled. A lot.

And spoke Spanish with the strongest

southern accent, unlike my teacher

the year before at Theodore Roosevelt

Junior High School. Who pronounced

her yo like jo so I said my I’s like

jo till the red-haired teacher who

said yo like yo-yo corrected me.

Who knew there were so many I’s?

Who knew the Jacaranda leaves

would fall so fast? Or are they

petals? The purple flowers now at

my feet, so soft. I slow my pace a

bit, my aging back feels its age. This

change. And the jazz plays in my

ears.