This is called "This Morning."
This morning, I woke to the screech of the recycling
truck on the next street.
It was only after 7:00, and they were already tearing
through the neighborhood.
Brakes and motor keeping rhythm with shattering glass, clinking
cans, and thuds of cardboard, and barking dogs.
I panicked, then remembered the bin was out.
The dogs shot out of the room, their little bodies quivering
with excitement and pent-up barking.
Before this moment, I had been dreaming of my mother.
In my dream, she slept under a calico quilt
of tiny purple and yellow flowers.
She made our clothes from such fabric.
I covered her carefully and patted her sleeping shoulder.
Her breathing was soft and labored.
I could only smooth her hair and caress her forehead.
I sat at the foot of the bed and listened to her sleep.
Her breathing and the dream filament settled around us.
Maybe she revisited the old Fort Wingate Boarding School days.
Or maybe she and my father converse
as in all those years past.
Her dreams and waking thoughts in the final weeks of her life
were of that which I could not fathom.
Of events I had not known.
Or maybe she relived all kinds of everyday family events.
In this dream, that morning, my mother and I
were joined by our quiet breathing and lingering
gestures.
In this dream, my mother and I were alone and silent.
In a few moments, the flurry of the recycling truck
faded, and the usual morning calm was restored.
The sleek little dogs came back to bed,
panting from a job well done.
They licked my upflung arm in unison.
"Biighaah," I said.
"Nizhoon."
They fell asleep instantly, sinking into deep borderline
snoring.
Outside the bedroom window, the morning
was bright and still, save for the cooing and calling
of birds.
Their innate rituals encircled the quiet houses
and solitary cacti.
Down the street, garage doors slid shut.
And neighbors maneuvered out of the curven driveways
to begin the day.
At that moment, I longed to return to this first dream
of my mother.
I longed for the serene space she created.
Now I knew she did so, even in dreams.
Still, I longed to prepare coffee for her,
to cook her breakfast.
Boiled eggs, no yolk, and hash browns.
At times, my sisters and I fed her spoonful by spoonful.
All the time, laughing and listening.
Talking and listening.
Talking and sometimes laughing over some childhood incident.
Suddenly, I realized the sun was up.
The morning light had already swept through the house.
I bolted in my own way out of bed, put on coffee,
went outside to stretch and pray.
The Holy People were probably in Sonora by now.
[LAUGHTER]
Oh, dear.
No wonder my mom visited me.
She always worried that I slept too much.
[LAUGHTER]