,
September Light
To record an event such as this, past but not distantly so,
is like picking up one of those fallen leaves which has survived a long winter pressed
to the ground. They’re a rare find, the
once-living matter browned and mummified, then worn away, leaving a net in the
shape of a leaf, a skeleton of itself.
Turn it one way, and it becomes a spiderweb; turn it again, and it transforms
into a map with no direction, the guy lines splayed. Turn it to the side, and
it shows nothing but a brittle edge. So it is with this story.
If you could spool the thread of time slightly backwards
from the moon, the creek, and that road of dust and sand, you would enter into
the way September blooms in the San Lorenzo Valley. The summer light, full of clarity, begins to
take on a golden aspect: a Rembrandt light, some say. Days become overlaid with a delicate veneer
of cold and nights promise colder weather to come. Skin feels like parchment in the dry air and
hair crackles with static; the whole body can raise a spark from touched metal.
Foxtails blanch to white; their seed
heads break and scatter. If a dog or cat
picks one up in its fur, the foxtail can augur into flesh, traveling deep: some
seeds don't let go. Creeks, starved for
water, turn shallow and mountain lions slip down from rocky hillsides,
following the deer, so silent they truly earn their nickname: ghost cats. Everything enters that scorched cycle: overnight,
an emerald summer grows pale.
When the light's transformation begins, I fall forever back
into that time, September, the month of changes, when Asha Veil, an employee of
the Ben Lomond Market, clocked out after her shift, put on her backpack, and
vanished into the gathering dark, almost without a trace.
I would be the first to admit I did not know Asha well; later, I would say that I did not know her as well as I might have liked. I stood in her checkout line several times; we made
small talk, as people do, usually about weather or news. One day, I walked into the market, steeped in
a low mood; Asha greeted me as she arranged produce in the outdoor display:
something yellow, grapefruit or melons.
Her kindness certainly helped; I wasn't as sad during my errand. People would say later that she had this
effect on them, a small grace-note in their day
The first time I really had a moment to study her was the morning I sat at my kitchen table, drinking coffee and scratching out a grocery list with a skipping pen. Kat, my younger daughter, walked into the kitchen and thrust a folded sheet of paper in
my hand. I opened it to see Asha, with her
wide, pleasant smile in a friendly face, the white collar, maroon neckband and
green apron of her market uniform just visible above the photo's margin. Heavy black text beneath her picture
described a woman visibly pregnant, five foot seven, 140 pounds, green eyes, red
shoulder-length hair, pierced nostril, decorative tattoo around her left bicep. The flyer stated that she, a reliable employee, had missed work and several appointments.
"But I just saw her the other day!" I said.
“Mama, I’m worried,” Kat said, “She’s almost seven months along.”
Asha carried "to the back," as my grandmother used
to say, and I did not know she was pregnant until the very last time I shopped at
the market. I'd been rolling my cart
along, exchanging greetings with other customers and with Mike, the store
manager, whistling as he pushed a dust mop near the meat counter, and Betsy,
the woman who worked in the nutrition aisle.
I wandered around a bit aimlessly until I reached the hardware
section. New items filled a top shelf: packs of votive lights, Sterno emergency lanterns, candles in glass
containers like the ones in a Catholic church.
Most were white, one had a jaundiced green tint—I couldn't see that
cheering up the house at all during a power failure, which often lasted up to
five days in the mountains—and one, with a picture of Our Lady of Guadalupe,
had a too-short wick. I finally chose
the candle at the end of the row, a bright watermelon pink. I liked to plan ahead before the onset of winter
storms.
When I lined up at Asha's register, two small girls in front
of me (first graders, I guessed) held bright packs of gum in their hands, the
kind I knew would tenaciously resist every effort to get out of their hair. The
girls had dimes and nickels in a red Hello Kitty purse, but when Asha rang up
the total, they were short by twenty-five cents. I saw Asha reach into her pocket and add a
quarter to the cash drawer.
The girls left and my purchases moved along the conveyor belt,
including the candle, which I'd put on its side. Asha said hello and I noticed a definite,
firmly-poking-out belly beneath her market apron. I decided to ask the question
which had hovered in the back of my mind for weeks: "Are you
pregnant?"
Her face looked warmly radiant as she nodded and answered in the affirmative.
Asha had an Eastern European accent and
I'd found out some time ago that she was from Poland.
"When is your baby due?" I asked, and she said,
"December." She told me she
was carrying a girl.
We exchanged animated mother-talk about infants; I told her that
my youngest son had been born on Christmas Day several years before. As we talked, Asha carefully wrapped up the
pink candle in a sheet of butcher paper.
"Don't want that to get broken," she said, and I thanked
her.
"Enjoy your baby girl!" I said as I picked up my
grocery bag and left.
I would unwrap and use that candle only once, at a twilight
vigil service for Asha and her unborn daughter.
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