Poems by S. Katie Hill Illustrations by Kaitlin Dumouchel
Poems by S. Katie Hill Illustrations by Kaitlin Dumouchel
Thanksgiving, 1974 I shuffled through a tattered shoebox of old postcards To uncover the only photograph of you Held captive between Disneyland and the Aegean Sea. In their bold, worldly midst, you seemed so ordinary, That November afternoon lost to yellowing sepia, Surrounded by broken reveries and forgotten words. I held you in my palm, cupping the white rimmed photo, Blowing the paper dust particles from your face and hair. You sat there still, half smiling, with your hands supporting your chin, And your bare feet on crumbling porch steps, Brown grass and remnants of the first snow surround you. Thanksgiving, 1974, backwards, had seeped through the photo.
I was lost for a moment, as your dress bloomed into a deep rose, Only shades darker than your blushing cheeks, As you, being coy, laughed and curled your pink toes under, And rubbed the goose-pimples appearing on your shivering arms. Before the flash of the camera robbed the color from your cheeks, And left you, once again, silent and still sitting in my palm.
January 27, 2007 in Manzanita B Three years ago today, we sat on your bedroom floor with a melting carton of rocky road ice-cream and two sticky spoons. While outside, the sky mimicked vanilla and dripped until the whole ground appeared as if it’d been spilled upon. You painted us in shades of blue and green and I wrote us into 1972. Both of us throwing crumpled rejections to the floor to be banished and forgotten, between pauses for math equations, crazy photographs, and uncoordinated dance moves. At two a.m. we rubbed the bump in your emerald carpet for good luck, before I put on my eskimo coat and furry boots to traipse through the chocolate mud back to my room, with you on the phone to protect me as I walked all alone until my key clicked my door open. We hurried to finish our conversation before saying, Goodnight.
And fell asleep knowing it’d be the same tomorrow.
Disneyland, 1990 with Aunt Merlene All I remember is that our submarine leaked. It dripped steadily into your lap For the entire ride around the lagoon But you didn’t complain. You sat right beside me With your hand on my knee as bubbles Filled the portholes before us and we went deeper and deeper underwater. In darkness. You pointed out painted mermaids, With their shell combs and pearl necklaces. Bobbing fish and electric eels, Then clams bigger than I was. When the bubbles blocked our view again, We resurfaced and exited the yellow submarine Into the bright California sun.
Where you pushed me, in a stroller, Through crowds of people To show me that magic was as real As your love.
Sunday Morning Payson, Utah 1968 While cleaning up the breakfast dishes, You watched me from the kitchen window As I walked slowly across the street To the mint julep church, The same church where I was blessed, Baptized, and prayed every Sunday For fourteen years, In new white pumps and my Easter dress with Your ivory cardigan draped across my arm, The same arm that clutched a book of God’s words, Words I’d told you I wasn’t sure I believed anymore, Right before you’d kissed me on the forehead And sent me out the door Fifteen paces behind my brother, in a starched white shirt and his daddy’s tie. Repeating do as I say, not as I do, When I asked you why you weren’t going this time.
And when I looked back, from the middle of the street, Just to catch you watching me, You had to avert your eyes to the scalding, soapy water And pretend not to see me keep walking down the sidewalk. Past the church.
Imperfectly Blue I dip my pen into the inkwell that was once my heart to write, with the blue ink, the words I dared not to speak when we said good-bye for the forty-third time since I moved away to pretend to be a grown-up. My tears stained the paper and I forgot what it was I had set out to say before the words were merely indigo water spots adorning the college-ruled page. The same words I had composed while driving, and singing, Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves. Out loud. Unembarrassed. Before I realized that I’m only homesick when I’m home; I only miss you when we’re sitting in the same room, talking and laughing; I only hate my dreams when I tell you that they don’t involve me staying in the same small town where I grew up.
I tightly fasten the cap, so no more ink will spill, crumple the paper and throw it to a corner where I’ll find it, days from now, unchanged. And I’ll stare aimlessly at the imperfect blue that once said something I didn’t think I could say.
Springville Museum of Art, 1993 I’m five years old and I hold on To your index finger as you peruse Oil painted landscapes, Statues green with age, Photographs of someone else’s children In a building made of old parchment paper Slowly being chipped away, page by page. I wish I had my tap shoes on: The reddish tile floor begs me to dance. The vaulted ceilings and open rooms ask, Quite politely, to echo each step. I release my grip from your finger, Put my own in my mouth, Look up into your face, And take one step back. You didn’t even notice.
I look from your face to the painting. It’s a garden. Like Grandma’s, I think. Blue flowers. Sun flowers. Her shovel and trowel. White fence. One tree. Endless sky. Robins. You put your hand on my back to guide me along, Wait, I say, I’m not finished looking yet.
For Great-Grandma Garbett After our daily walk around the block To see neighbors’ hollyhocks, snapdragons, and petunias Still holding on in the July sun, the same way I held On to your hand and led you, slowly, We arrive back at your corner home, And I pull free from your aged, worn fingers Running toward the pussy willow tree Petting both the fuzzy, grey blooms, And Kittia — who used to be called Bootsie — Weaving between your legs, then mine Again and again. Over and over, Catching her tail on my flower-print dress.
In black and white, we seem so sad. Too big for your lap, yet holding me still With my long, skinny legs dangling at your side Tired, because I am four; because you are ninety-five.
Patience For Alex When life is overcast, I remember sunshine, and then I miss you. Born in summer, born of summer: Reflected in your face, your laugh, and your scraped-up knees. Last summer, our last summer, I ran with you in squirt gun combat. Slipping on wet grass and hiding behind the apple tree. I don’t remember what our laughter sounded like. With grass stuck to our wet toes, we sat on the red bench of the picnic table wrapped in old towels, trickling popsicle juice Tie-dying the concrete below us: drip by drip, Forgetting the fourteen years between us
Until autumn comes and separates us further. I scribble words on paper, etching them to memory, and read books with more pages than you can count, the same way you scribble Crayola dreams and collage pennies for 100 days of school. Life is sunnier when you call. Like when you ask, how do you spell patience? Not the hospital kind, but the kind dad needs more of? I spell it slowly; you repeat each letter, Before your usual closing, I love you and goodbye. I love you and goodbye, too.
Utah Lake, 1965 When your dad said let’s go, You piled into the old, black and white station wagon To drive to the lake Without a picnic basket or swim trunks, No need for sunscreen, But rather your warmest furry coat and snow boots To see the ice blown onto the shore in pieces, (Some as big as cars) Stacked one atop the other on a snow covered beach. You climbed, with your brother, kings for the day, To stand on the slippery castle, While your dad adjusted his glasses to take pictures of you
frozen.
Labor Day Payson, Utah, 2009 Symbolically, the final day of summer. We were driving through my home town in your dusty, red Oldsmobile, Oldsmobubble. Talking about “us” and how we’ll marry, for tax benefits, until one of us meets the man of her (or his) dreams. And adopt babies from China. Twins, even. Maybe, then, TLC would give us a show, Cam and Kate, you joke. I laugh picturing us living this proposed life, (as absurd as it seems). Then, silence.
I fidget with your velveteen seats; play with your broken window. You clear your throat, point out the passenger window and ask, Is that a Catholic church?
About the writer S. Katie Hill was born and raised in Payson, Utah. She discovered her passion for writing in the first grade and has been creating stories and characters ever since. Katie mainly writes historical fiction pieces drawing from family stories, photographs, and from historical events. Faking Nostalgia is Katie’s first poetry collection, though she hopes to incorporate her still-developing poetry skills into her fiction pieces. Currently studying at Southern Utah University, Katie will graduate in 2011 with her B.A. in Creative Writing.
About the illustrator Kaitlin Dumouchel was born March 11, 1988 in Quebec, Canada. At the age of seven, she moved with her family to Utah. At eight years old, she was eligible to take oil painting classes at Linda’s Art and Frame. When she was old enough for middle school, she discontinued her painting classes and began doing art in school. By the time she reached high school, Kaitlin was doing artwork on a college level. In 2006, she graduated, and in the Fall she joined many other artisans at Dixie State College to study under the direction of Del Parson, the renowned LDS painter. After earning her associates degree, she transferred to Southern Utah university where she received her BFA.
About the designer Danelle Cheney was born in Provo, Utah in January 1988. Through her grade school years she continually showed a strong interest and talent for many artistic disciplines. She dedicated much of her time to sketching, drawing, painting and various other projects. Danelle graduated from Payson Senior High School in 2006 and moved to Cedar City, Utah to attend Southern Utah University. She will recieve her BFA in Graphic Design with a minor in Photography in December 2010. Danelle is interested in art in all forms, especially typography and photography. More of her work can be seen at www.danellecheney.com.
This book was created as a collaborative project in the spring of 2010 between three classes at Southern Utah University: Advanced Poetry, Conceptual Illustration, and Typography II. The project took approximately nine weeks from conception to printing to complete. All illustrations, including cover, ©2010 by Katilin Dumouchel. All text ©2010 by S. Katie Hill. Layout ©2010 by Danelle Cheney. Text is set in Mrs Eaves Roman 10 pt. Book title and all poem titles are set in Mrs Eaves Italic 12 pt. and custom embellished by Danelle Cheney. Book was printed and bound by Blurb, Inc.