A note: Swansea is hometown of Dylan Thomas (famous poet). Dylan’s letters are what I am reading throughout this piece. Dylan reaches out to me from far away Swansea.
Non-fiction / An Early Morning Call From Swansea
I awake early while the bricks and shingles are still and resting; at least three hours before I must shower and be on my way. Through sleepy walls I can hear the ruffles of birds and squirrels digging in their feeders and angry Blue Jays banging their beaks on weary, gray fences. I brew the coffee and partially lift the paper blind to greet the sun and get a glimpse of the glittering field before Charlie wakes and licks up the fresh dew.
Charlie sleeps like a tiny, old military man; snoring and babbling things almost audible enough to understand. His paws comb the air and his lip curls up, twitches, and ticks. His limp tail almost completes a half wag and taps the ground in tempo with the perpetual tick-tock of the bathroom clock.
My book closet calls me in and I sit. I look over the handpicked library of anthologies, textbooks, and novels cradled on partially sanded, tri-color shelves. I rescued most of these books from antique and thrift shops; they smell of their previous owners: tobacco, moth balls, and musty cologne. Dylan’s letters reach out to me from far away Swansea as I run my stiff finger along the edge of the shelf to collect the dust.
The structure of studs and collection of drywall awakes with the smell of the coffee and begins a morning stretch of creaks and claps. I reach in the cabinet for my Michigan mug – a souvenir of my previous life as a wife. That was our last trip together – frigid Michigan in early October, already decorated with Thanksgiving colors. I can still see the steam rising from the manholes like murky lost souls.
I fill my mug a quarter away from the top; I add fresh milk and sugar to taste. Dylan under my arm and Michigan in my palm – I walk along the cool ceramic tile as if I were walking on a bed of shattered glass. I take my seat next to the window. I begin to read by the daylight beam that splashes on the table like in a painting I once saw at the Museum of Modern Art. I fell in love with that exhibit. Those dreary paintings with endearing shadows and blinding light beams sparked my obsession with Milton and balance – the dependency of white on black and black on white. That was the day I first met Kathleen.
Her neglected eyes gleamed out from beneath her Eagles cap and looked down again as our eyes met. She held open the glass door as I brushed by and smelled her for the first time: Tide, Dial, Pantene, and Skintimate. Her browned hands were soft and inviting; her nails were glossy, smooth, and short. Her childlike, wide-open smile released a deep voice that boomed out, “How are ya?” Her “Joy-Zee” ascent seeped out of her rough, witty words.
I lay Dylan on the sunbeam and get up to take a more precise look at the flaming spark hopping on the ground. Mr. Cardinal and his dull gray wife stand side by side pecking at the earth. Mr. Cardinal is quite a family man; he never seems to go about town as a single fellow. He is fiery bright and piercing; she is plump, soft, and sparsely rose. Standing erectly, I am hypnotized at the window; watching as they peck and share their piece of the morning together. I breathe carefully; exhaling gently from one open corner of my mouth.
I can taste the smoky pub where he spent his last days as I mouth his words and his dingy phrases. Dylan’s letters never fail to sacrifice his flesh. Yes, my mother’s letters were lovely; filled with doctor visits and school meetings. Yet, I longed for those trivial things that brought me back home – Scooter’s purr under my fingertips and the sound of holiday light bulbs cracking in Papa’s shed. Dylan would have, I’m sure, captured my last childhood summer spent amid the swarming fireflies in the blinding-black Iowa cornfields.
I take a break from Dylan to peek in on Kathleen. Her sounds are slight and sweet. She doesn’t wear herself out, as I do, as she sleeps. Her breath is slow and indulgent. I stand over her sprawling body entwined in our must-have-800-thread-count sheets. Black strands fan out on the pillow like napping Medusa snakes. I stand patiently and wait for a movement to lure me back to bed. Her knee bends and I lay holding her breast in my hand and my face in her neck. Hot liquid coats my throat and stomach as I inhale her soapy smell once more. I mold close and cup her with my legs until she rolls and stumbles across my panties with her hand.
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picturethescene reviewed Version 1 -
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Justin_Strout reviewed Version 1 -
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Terrific prose and sensual, vivid imagery. I wasn’t sure about this one at first. As a former English lit major, I’ve seen a lifetime’s worth of essays that begin with the “woke up, got out of bed” Beatles narrative. But this one takes an interesting turn and only gets better. Well done.
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thesnobnextdoor reviewed Version 1 -
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This is a nice slice of life. Some good, clear, playful diction in this piece. But also some awkward ones—i.e.”I can hear the ruffles of birds,” “Hot liquid coats my throat.” A little more physical descripion on Charlie, Dylan, and Kathleen. Just one or two more details to snap them into focus. I think any reader would like to be able to picture these characters a little better.
urbpan reviewed Version 1 -
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Terrific. This manages to place the reader squarely in the body of the writer. All the sights and experiences come across clearly. There are passages that verge on having too many details, but it never goes overboard.
Good balance between describing the setting and conveying the inner life and emotions that are being felt.
November 10, 2005
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I thought that this piece was outstanding. The imagery was amazingly wonderful. But, I would like to know more about Dylan. You kind of lose me there. Everything else is great! I especially liked how you described the books in the third paragraph.
Brandon_K reviewed Version 1 -
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“Swansea” is a delicious little vignette, a sort of still-life, in which the narrator--and, by extension, the reader--can see almost all of herself in her books and in her birds. Strange how every moment can seem to inhabit every other moment. The Writing Dyke has distilled a little piece of eternity here, and I thank her. – BKT
HelloMyNameIs reviewed Version 1 -
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This has such an easy gait to it, very enjoyable reading. Your imagery is almost palpable! I felt as though I were there with you, witnessing, feeling. It is a beautiful little chronicle, a window into your mind. I think I’m going to keep my eye on you!
Love Always,
*Katie K.
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