Community

I stand in line at the post office inside the food market waiting to ship a parcel of chocolate and embroidery to my Mom, hospital bound after a routine knee surgery turned into an ICU visit in a town not necessarily known for its medical care. A tiny blood clot decided to camp out in her body, sending her speech into a drunken slur and her left side tingly and numbed as if by mountain ice. She’s fine now, another flirty but successful dance with the devil, but I wish nothing more than to see her strong forearms cradling her new grandson, making endearingly critical comments about Eli's baby acne and incipient temper.

It’s my turn in line, and I’m pleased to see that Matt, a fellow Yankee fan, will be assisting me with the chocolate parcel en route to Arizona. The guy is 10 years my junior, but we talk Yankee talk, no matter how long the line, whether the black dog patiently waits in the car or not.

Anything in here dangerous, fragile, hazardous? he asks, clutching the box with its Sharpee-markered directions.

Does chocolate count? I plagiarize myself, having used the same joke every time.

I jingle my keychain, revealing the long Yankees’ lanyard, a reminder of what we share in common. He smiles. Spring training is upon us! Matt cheers.

Yep. Though I may be out for the season. Se-ri-ously.

You say that every year, he replies dryly.

I got attached to Damon and Matsui, and now they’re both gone. Who’s next?

Yeah, I still don’t know where Damon is going, but the Yanks didn’t sign him. We’ve still got Rivera, but he’s 40 now. Matt’s eyes are wide, as if 40 was the end of the line. I don’t know what they’ll do when Rivera is gone.

I nod my head in agreement. I’ll miss Rivera’s smile more than anything else, I reply, perhaps a tad too dreamily. Neither of us mentions the unmentionable: A-Rod.

I take my change, and head into the grocery store where I’m intercepted by the small, curly-haired bagger, who wears a hemp choker, a round name badge, and a broad smile. He asks for a high five and I oblige him.

How did this happen, this community to which I now belong? The Engineer and I, hungry for the small, cloistered towns of Vermont – Castleton, Bomoseen, Fair Haven – have somehow been nourished by a frosty suburb with tedious architecture and no maple syrup. Oh, how the beautiful people of this town, friends and acquaintances, have sweetened the experience.

Later, as Eli ramps up for one of his late night raves, I swaddle and carry him into the kitchen, prop him on his Boppy, sandwiched between the knives and the microwave, and begin to lay out the ingredients for the Norwegian apple cake we’ll soon bake. It’ll be his first cooking lesson. And as I chop pecans and dice apples, measure pastry flour and shatter the shells of four fragile eggs, the boy seems mesmerized, far more serious than his 5-weeks’ experience on Earth should allow. Will he be a Chef, I wonder? Eli gazes at me from his perch, so strangely and knowingly. I then I realize all along I’ve been softly singing Hallelujah, as naturally as breathing. And I wonder if it's the song or the sounds of the kitchen that calm his tiny heart.

Above: Random photo of Kiwi using the Boppy as a chewing post.