Before the ultrasound
we cleared the junk room
and made it a nursery, Jed and I.
White beadboard wainscoting,
soft seafoam green walls
festooned with framed Mary Cassat baby painting prints.
Two double hung windows with blackout shades
draped over with green, dotted Swiss pullbacks.
The white spindle crib was fitted with a green skirt
matching the flannel sheets, a yellow teddy sentry
next to a white country style changing station,
and a seagreen velvet swivel rocker/glider
with a crochet coverlet I made
dawdling away time, trying to make it go faster
thinking about all I would do
spending time with my expected blessing.
At 20 weeks ultrasound defined welcome joy
to my upcoming daughter
who was yet “baby Holcomb,”
because lasting traditions feared bad luck
naming a baby before birth:
but in deepest secretly, she was “Josephine,”
after a sister in my beloved “Little Women,”
a reckless wild Tomboy, and smart as Hell.
At 28 weeks my pediatrician crushed me,
finding a congenital heart defect in my Love,
calling it hypoplastic left heart syndrome,
but all I heard was “serious defect,”
and taking a scribbled note
containing the phone number of Dr Bill Scott,
a neonatologist that would be needed
immediately upon birth.
I tranced my way through 2 baby showers:
one from family, one from gal pals.
Without the comfort of wine,
I cried over every baby blanket
bunting, mobile, stuffed fuzzy, or diaper bag.
The cake tasted of acrid cardboard
and indulgent smiles and hugsjust made me more despondent.
Dear Jed held me whimpering at night,
uncharacteristically indulgent,
soothing me with his strong but gentle hands,
confidently telling me
“It’s going to be all right,”
making sure I was hydrating,
getting healthy food,
and dragging me out in the sunshine.
Then came the day -
Contractions feeding fear,
surrounded by mint green masked apparitions imploring,
“Push, Push, Push,-breathe, breathe, breathe.”
Jed was there. But ashen.
I was not at all a “prayer”
but that day I was fervent in my plea,
“Please, Please, Please.”
Josephine became. She was real. She was mine.
With profound Joy I cried copiously in relief.
It didn’t last long.
Dr. Scott said “urgency.”
“Jo” stayed in Natal intensive care.
Jed was constant companion, taking me home,
but I never felt more alone
and desperately disconsolate.
Two surgeries.
I can’t remember how fast things went by
until today... tears exhausted,
I kneel amongst flowers with no smell,
and people with no faces.
‘That’ nursery only nurturing spiders now.
My dearest daughter Josephine,
held by a cold cradle of mahogany and brass.
-Jerry Wendt 2019
We live in a old house on a hill with one tree,
just Gerda, Hortensia, and Me.
Our ancient helper helps us sorta clean and scrub,
but Otto is a dim slow kind of schlub,
so out of our windows it’s very hard to see
The old gals in that big house on the hill above the village
have been there longer than anyone remembers.
They keep to themselves and never get any mail.
Children, of course, call it “haunted,” but there never have been any reports of irregularity , so interest in them has long been forgotten.
We can view the whole town standing behind that tree.
We share looks in the glasses, Gerda, Hortensia and Me.
The many juicy things in our view,
if you only knew,
fills us with immeasurable glee.
Few have seen the three ladies, but those have reported the women are there when they think dusk is occluding seeing them behind their tree, spying down on the town. Goodness knows why , as they could just as easily come down in that old automobile. Gus at the Texaco garage says that car is a Hispano Suiza , a brand that was last made in 1930 . It likely can no longer run, sitting outside forever in all sorts of weather, but there it sits; derelict and unused all the years we can remember.
They wonder why they never see
us shop for nary a pea,
nor venture out very far
for a drive in our ancient old car.
We’re just secretive as secret can be
The Ladies handyman Otto is seen in town very rarely, but when he does come down the hill to make purchases like canning jars , candles, and stuff, he is pleasant enough and returns greetings, but isn’t at all conversational and pretty much keeps to his task .
With no worry our door is left open; There is no key.
Because curious take one gander inside and flee-
There’s a library covered with spiders ; it’s very dusty-
Three chairs and a candle , all smelling quite musty.
But we’re happy here in our home; all agree.
Here and again some of the more rambunctious kids venture up the hill to gander at the house despite warnings against disturbing the old women. Years ago Chandler McInerany and Scooter Landover went up and brazenly found the ladies’ front door unlocked. Peeking in, they found it looked like no one lived there. Big open room with a lot of old books stacked to the ceiling on shelves covered in dust. Three overstuffed chairs sat before a fireplace. I should interject that no one has ever seen smoke coming from the chimney. Anyway, Scooter stepped on a stoop board that creaked , scaring the Hell out of the boys, who ran lickety split back down the hill, curiosity quenched forever.
We ladies admit we’re not the best at cleaning our rugs,
besides dust, we think they are infested with bugs.
We always amble about scratching at our unders,
that while walking can lead to bumping blunders,
but we never bleed from our tugs.
There is concern for their health. No doctor ,dentist nor even the clinic has ever had a visit from any of the three. At their advanced age, things must go wrong, but they seem to endure. Curiously, our town has long history of anemia. County health worker Madeleine says anemia can be hereditary, but that doesn’t account such a large portion being afflicted. The state had their people in taking tests. We all wrote down what we ate and drank along with lifelong medical histories . They only found anemia has been around for generations and seems to center exclusively around our village. We worry the old gals could be afflicted.
We must relate that the sun never rises on us three
During daylight we are snug in our basement you see
for your blood is our life,
and constant supply keeps us from strife
‘cause, we’re vampires: Gerda, Hortensia and Me
-Jerry Wendt 2019
