You are not mine–it was a dream
and each time I imagined us
I saw you–solid–under me
I would be (not) yours;
What is to be done? I do not know
you were a dream, and we together
felt bigger than [the sum of] us apart–
I would have given anything
I do not know what to do;
And what of this logjam?
Each tree we cut down
(logs from every bridge we burned)
charred and slamming together–
kind of hard to see the charm
in this river now;
So will you go? I cannot
offer you what she does
my hands are not small
they are strong
they have worked hard–
I hear her words are gold, but
my words are like cymbals
wind chimes on a headache
ineffectual at the least–
I am not a social success;
Once I hugged a tree.
I put it on my resume, and
they were not amused
each road I took that felt right
had a block, and an impasse;
So here you are:
scribbler, to be accurate;
I held babies
until they slept. I sang
Silent Night, Holy Night
let go of my hand;
The call came at 7 a.m. on a Sunday morning. It was time. She was gone. So I was not going to the hospital to see her. I was going there to see her body. She was already gone, some time earlier. Not long. She was 56 years old.
Knowing myself, though I was different then than I am now, and I was no braver with death, I am surprised that I went alone. The hospital was 30 minutes away. My daughter was six years old and I was six months pregnant. After 2 miscarriages, or perhaps more, we were ecstatic to have made it to six months.
My daughter was still asleep and my husband would stay home with her. He lost his mother almost exactly a year previously.
Continue reading “The end”
- I am cleaning out my refrigerator and making soup. I find it cathartic to get a shiny clean fridge at the end and a pot of fresh, comforting soup
- First I braise a chicken. My mother taught me how to use all of the chicken, no waste. Herbs, salt, pepper, garlic cloves, a carrot and a stalk of celery, plus water to not quite cover.
- Once it’s in the oven I can get back to the fridge and gather up the aging, flaccid vegetables that won’t get eaten otherwise, but will look and taste brilliant in the soup
- I wash and trim them, and it’s kind of how I feel about my life the last few weeks. I’ve been lost in thought and meditation, trying to take thoughts of death in the spring, and clean them up into something more healthy and fresh, that still has life in it.
Continue reading “Monday random: refrigerator soup”
- No blog posts about menstrual periods. Yes it is part of real life. No I do not want to talk about it. Call it old age. Call it gross. Call it private. Just no.
- Haiku is more than just 17 random syllables. Look it up. It is a discipline, not one I can lay claim to. I’ve dabbled a bit. But I’m no master. I’m not even good enough to be a novice.
- My random thoughts are a bit grumpy. It’s not you, it’s me.
Continue reading “Monday random-grumpy edition”