On Shore

I wrote this poem many years ago, after a time among women whose lives were very, very broken. I felt inadequate even to speak an encouraging word. I don't know if the poem is any good, and perhaps it should go back in the drawer. You can tell me what you think, if you'd like.


From where I stand

I see the endless sea

Check out, check in.

I myself am empty, a shell really,

Can barely hold sand,

Can only echo, shaped as I am,

The sound of waves.

All this is ground bone,

Salt-sea washed and soft as flesh

Beneath a tattered hem, a woman's weeds.

Unlike me she was not formed

But flung

Abandoned and unsaved

From off the breast of sea.

So much debris

From where I stand.

Into Light

She sat across the courtyard in open sun, and he thought he had never seen light glint so distinctly from a girl's hair, or catch so vividly the individual strands that framed—no, haloed—her face. Her hair was pulled back, and it brought to mind a painting he had once seen in a book, of a peasant girl standing in a field. Song of the Lark, that was it. He could picture this girl singing. In fact, her chin was lifted, her lips parted, in that very pose. No matter that she sat on a cement ledge, leaning against a bland building with a closed door on the end. There was artistry in that pool of light.

The ledge must have displeased her, because she seemed uncertain about whether to sit or no. She kept shifting her slim form forward. He could move closer to her, out of the shade of the tree where he had spread his books. But it was her solitude, too, that was so beautiful and delicate. He stayed still and imagined the cool slimness of her fingers and that he could see a pink flush of light in the dip of her throat.

Suddenly she stood up. She began to pace. When she moved to the right, she seemed almost irritated, as if someone who was supposed to appear had failed her. He was at her right, but he knew he was not the expected one. And even though she faced him, she did not seem to see him; instead, her eyes went to the tree's leaves where, he believed, she saw light dancing.

When she moved left, she did something odd but charming: tilted her head as far as she could toward her shoulder, until it seemed impossible that she would not strain the slender muscles of her neck. She looked upward, like a child curious about clouds. No, not that; it was a posture of strained listening, an impatience to hear something, the mild agitation one feels when waiting for a better song to begin. Her friends likely said, “She always does that when she is....” Friends whose laughter sparkled around her like those white-gold strays of hair. This silence must be filled, it seemed: the girl made a quick little sound, a single high tone that came from the back of her throat.

Then she turned to sit again. First, she examined the ledge, determined to take exactly the same spot as before. It must be the angle of sunlight there, or a particular cleanness on the surface. Once seated, her little hand darted across her face, because of the stray hairs. She scowled, and a line came to him: Do I dare disturb the universe? He could not remember where he had read it, but it made him smile.

She was up again. She swayed, then paced, then paused, feeling, he felt sure, the very movement of the earth in her body. She was doing something with her mouth now that he could only describe as scrunching; that was not at all the right word, of course, though it could become a juxtaposition, this charming imperfection in her fair face. Yes, fair. It was a good choice for this girl who herself was an anachronism: peasant demeanor with queenly command, and himself sitting, insignificant for now, at the edge of her realm.

The door in the bland wall opened. A large woman stepped out. “Come in, Elena,” she said.

Elena did not turn.

“Come in. Come in, Elena.” The voice was low, perfunctory.

Elena ignored her, and the large woman moved forward, holding out her hand, palm down, as if offering its scent to a wild animal. There was something about this woman that could not be trusted. As if sending a signal, Elena gave out that high, clear tone again.

The woman kept moving forward.

Now he decided to come to Elena; he, at least, would not be an unfriendly intruder. He would give her a sympathetic look, appearing from the shadows into her bright light. 

When he was a few steps from the open door, he heard singing. The voices inside were very ragged: 

                                    The wheels on the bus go round and round

                                    Round and round, round and round

                                   The wheels on the bus go round and round

                                   All around the town.

“Come in, Elena. It's your favorite. Don't you want to sing your favorite?”

Elena jerked around and almost collided with him. Now he saw clearly the cruel distortion of her mouth, the humorless obscurity of her gaze. She swatted at the air between them, flapping her hands like a wounded bird and making her shrill sound.

He was already late for his class and, hurrying off, he knew that the poem he had begun, about the palpable invisibility of love, could not possibly bear up under the heat and glare of the rest of the day.

The Worker

           When we lived in Eritrea, there was one relationship that I was hesitant to mention in my letters home. I didn't know what to call her: 'maid' seemed aristocratic; 'domestic help' sounded almost canine. In the local language she was simply called 'the worker,' but that translation was hardly adequate. She was a cultural adjustment, but indispensable. She was order in household chaos, calm in family storms. Her name was Tsegeredah, which meant rose, and while she did have a sweet spirit, she was tough as nails. 
          Nearly every household in Asmara had a worker, or serahtenya. A young girl might live with a family to help with the baby. Or a cousin might come from a village to stay. Grown daughters shared the workload until they married and had their own home and serahtenya. Side by side, these women handwashed clothes in plastic basins, cleaned house with limited water supply, prepared dough for the bread that was cooked daily, chopped vegetables, and sorted grains and legumes by hand. 
          Tsegeredah washed our clothes, wiped floors, did dishes, all with a careful conservation of water since the city pipes frequently broke. She scrubbed market vegetables, straightened messes, found lost shoes. She negotiated the various personalities who appeared at our gate: the man who sold papaya, the woman who sold eggs, the man who sold potatoes. She advised me if the price was too high or the product too bad; she scolded the seller if he was too pushy. With a self-imposed determination to protect us, she dismissed realtors, favor-seekers, people who'd reached the wrong house, and the landlord himself if, in her view, he came at a bad time. 
          Tsegeredah wasn't an avid talker, so we only had a brief sketch of her life. She didn't know her birth date--our celebrations were a novelty to her--or even her age. “Ane?” she said; “Me? Maybe...thirty?” Three of her siblings had been killed in the war; Tsegeredah had fled to Ethiopia as a young girl. From a start of selling tea along the sidewalk, she eventually owned her own restaurant. One day fire broke out on her block, and all the businesses were destroyed. So Tsegeredah came back to Asmara to live with her mother in a one-room mud-walled home. Before she worked for us, she had no job. 
          Part of our challenge was linguistic: Amharic was her first language, Tigrinya a broken second, English a sparse third. I knew no Amharic, floundered in Tigrinya and, with three small children, sometimes spoke a discombobulated third.
          Our children loved Tsegeredah; the best translation for this was "to pester." They tugged her away from work for a ride around the yard on her back (a very broad, strong one). They threw sand in her wash basin, to test her temper--which she displayed with a growl and a laugh. Her hearty "kee-DOO!" put them in stitches: from Tsegeredah, it meant "go away, you goofy kids, until I have time to play."
          With Tsegeredah, there was less waste in our home. If she saw some leftover destined to be thrown out, she would take it home for her chickens. She could burn unwanted paper in her earthen stove. Empty cans were perfect for dipping water out of a barrel, and a jar made a fine drinking cup. Her own house had no electricity, so why use ours? Even if the daylight was waning through the tiny kitchen window, she would work in the dark. In three years, I never saw her flip a switch. 
          One day we insisted she go to a local celebration with us. “Leave your work,” we said; “we'll only be gone an hour.” When we came home, there was a stranger's coat and pair of shoes on the floor, and all our rooms were disheveled. A thief! Tsegeredah was riled in an instant. She rushed around the house and yard, looking in every corner--"Alo! Alo! He is still here!”  She paced around with angry tears, punching one fist into her palm. She blamed herself: she shouldn't have gone out, it was her job to stay and keep house, why did she ever go? The day was ruined; those festivities pointless. She was so upset that I couldn't be, and felt oddly light-hearted about the intrusion. 
          The next day a policeman and a teenage boy came to our gate. I knew it was our thief: he was wearing my husband's L.L. Bean jacket. He was barefoot; we had his shoes. I thought, “When Tsegeredah sees him, watch out.” But she only took one look, gave a quick growl, and went back into the house. Her part—the indignation, the mourning—was done. It was not for the boy to fall into her hands.
          I've said that having a maid was an adjustment. But surely we were a new culture to her. I tried to explain American things. “Ay-ya,” she said, looking very thoughtful, “Than-sgee-ving... Ay-ya, Vah-leen-tine Day.” Her tone was one of recollecting a far-off memory; I never knew if she had really heard of these things or was only pretending. “Ay-ya, To-pay-ware...." 
          Our evangelical faith was something new. She wasn't a church goer; no one had taught her the Bible. One day, side by side in the kitchen, I told her the story of the woman at the well. I found myself intensely excited. Tsegeredah's hands were in the dishwater, but she was listening closely. She kept trying to guess the outcome. When I told her that Jesus knew, without being told, that the woman had five men, her eyes grew wide and she sucked in her breath. When I told her, “Jesus said, 'I can give you living water,'” she shook her head at the extraordinary claim. She was seeing it all. It was real, a story of her neighbor, like yesterday's news. She knew what a well looked like; yes, yes, she could see the woman hauling water. Ah, yes, that is a tiring job. Yes, she would want that precious water, too. Oh, the shame of living with all those men. And oh, she could just picture the woman running into her village eager to report this extraordinary man.
           For three years, Tsegeredah saw five sinners up close: tempers lost, mischief made, insufficient gratitude, complaints of thirst. When we moved back to the States we lost touch with our worker. A new war scattered the people again. Now, in my neat home and empty nest, I have all the gadgets I need to work alone. But I would like, if only for a while, to sit with Tsegeredah—if I could make her sit. I would drink tea with her and thank her for a thousand things. And I might ask if she could not, after all, tell me something about when and where she was born.