Sunday~November 22, 2009 _____ A favorite song comes on and we can’t help it. Our stocking feet slip across the kitchen floor, dancing to the music blasting through the speakers. whoosh whoosh blur blur flurry flurryfumble trip spin and laughdip feet firmly plantedthenfeet flying through the airblurry Like life. It’s the way we turn ourselves, trying to find our way to the right moves. I hold a tiny and chubby hand and we twist-and-shout and move our hips and then I twirl that small boy out and pull him back in. My hand on the small of a small back and dip, and a little tummy drops with the fast-moving close-to-the-floor-but-still-caught feeling of it. Like life. Turning ourselves and feeling it. Dip. We fumble through our uncoordinated bonking and slipping and we hold on tight to each other. My little dance partners, they like the dip part best, until that grows old and […]
A hastily stolen photoin the park of her this lovely little lady I don’t know I watched her secretly hoping that when the years make me herI’ll read booksin the park I want to walk the pathscarrying the storiesof my lifein my heartjust as I carrythe bound pagesunder my arm All those brokenlovely storiesmixed with fictionof poetryhistoryand humor I hope I take that uneasy walkthenafter the years have passed and nowwhile I’m navigating this paththe uneasy roadof the unknown leaps of faith scraping stepsstooped backhands holding tightlyto stay up Broken working my wayto the benchthat’s too lowand not softbut somehow just right I hope that when life calls outin the flowers and the breeze I’ll answerthen and now to keep livingthe brokenand the lovely Life. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This week’s You Capture assignment was to photograph somethingyou’ve never photographed before.The above photo is my contribution to the task. VisitBeth at I Should Be Folding Laundry.(She […]
Sunday~ June 21st, 2009 I look down and my hand is doing that thing.It’s resting on my lap in a curve.Resting. Dad, your hand was just this same way. I saw it.I’ve seen it a lot. It was sitting there looking exactly like this. Just like Grandpa. Your Dad. The same. Curved.The lanky fingers that grow thicker with time.They curve on the lap and rest. It’s like the unconscious way I run my finger across my lip like Glenn when I’m nervous. Or how I grab the bottom of my shirt and rub my thumb across the fabric, like Helen. It’s the way I care like Elsie and understand like Colleen. It’s the way I laugh like Sandi and cry like Kay. Today I’m thankful that I carry you, all of you. My family. Today, mostly I’m thankful for you.The man with the curved and rested hand and skin like leatherturned brown from […]
He stands at the counter next to my table, he’s ordering and telling the people around him that he hasn’t been here since it was Richardsons. No one seems to know what he means. Including me. Time marches on. So do I. But he takes a call amidst the backdrop of coffeehouse noise, shouts to the caller the funeral arrangements, thanking for condolences. There will be a private burial, he chokes. And my heart hurts. The plates are clanking, the aromas strong. He’s thinking of another time and another place, a person he lost from back when this was Richardsons. A young couple with a fuss about where to sit, a sneer, a silent scold. Then they sit and they eat with no words, just resistance. They weren’t here when this was Richardsons. The mail carrier stops for his short break checks email, sips hot cocoa and chats with regulars. He keeps […]
