March 22, 2012 § 10 Comments
Along with eat, run, scratch and stretch,”afternoon nap” would be on her to-do list.
If dogs made lists.
They go with the flow.
Open the refrigerator door and Moo will be instantly awake, motivated by the two things that will get any dog up from a nap. Need: hey, I’m hungry! And opportunity: whoa, the refrigerator’s open!
Dogs have no future. They live comfortably in the present.
Lists are for those who inhabit the present carelessly and sporadically.
March 17, 2012 § 17 Comments
This list is subjective, and clearly mine, some of the “best sounds” tied to specific moments and memories, but if you grew up in America and have been around a while some of these sounds may make your list too.
The slap of a screen door. This vanishing sound of summer comes from behind, and I, the kid who pushed the door open am barefoot and escaping into another endless unmetered summer day.
The tap-tap of a shoe beating time: I listen for the first note, a stupid grin on my face, and lean toward the moment when I get to sing.
The chat of birds waking just before the sun rises. The window by our bed is always open so we wake in the dark and listen. Some trill. Some creak. Some complain. In response one of us will get up and make coffee. And another day begins.
March 9, 2012 § 12 Comments
You’re a friend, in the way only the familiar inanimate can be.
Frayed cuffs. Pin-holed at the seams.
But in truth, you’ve been headed toward disrepute since the day I met you.
You were a gift from my friend Sami, who has a connection for slightly damaged cashmere sweaters (I’ve never been, but I imagine the store as a no-kill shelter for unwanted knitwear).
Sami mends the bargains she sends me, but some holes get by. And I’ve added a few. I don’t mind the holes. They give a good old sweater like you character.
March 2, 2012 § 5 Comments
My sister liked Paul, but he was too easy-cute for me. George was quiet and broody like me.
Quiet and broody and misunderstood.
And we both had eyebrows that wanted to shake hands across the bridges of our noses.
A poster of his face hung on the wall by my bed. Feeling both passionate and foolish I’d kiss him goodnight.
Even alone in my room with the door shut, I knew it was dumb to kiss the wall. Real kissing couldn’t possibly be that flat or unyielding.
I knew I shouldn’t feel my own teeth pressed against the inside of my lips.
But we were separated by insurmountable obstacles. He was in England and I was in junior high.
I hoped he’d wait for me.