Spoke with Evan on Skype tonight. He sneezed and his mommy and I both blessed him, which made him strangely-happy. He likes when things he does get response. He claps, I clap, I sing the little Greek song about clapping and braided Greek cookies in paper (koulourakia) brought home by the daddy. My own Daddy taught Evan the song, just as he taught Evy's mommy and her sisters which is yours truly, for one.
Yours truly is watching life steamroll in at the speed of well, something. Things she can't say here and things she can't say yet but there are life revolutions afoot, everywhere.
For now there are words and I have had some rattling around and some falling inkily-thud to the page. There will be more. There will be more. But the blog, is the blog a thing I use to keep things like wildflowers trapped between panes of glass? Is it a place I spoke to/from when loneliest? I am some things more than others but the loneliness tree does not grow tall in me. I can point to where it's planted, it will always stand but... I have lost the urge to say what I can't or shouldn't yet say.
But not to share beauty. My favorite phonecalls are the ones where Kat, Liz or Veace; The Bear, the Spoon, or even the old friend SF used to call in a poem to me. We would find something so urgently-beautiful that we rushed to share it, so pressing was the need to carry it to someone else.
How to Say I Love You
On evenings when my dogs and I circle the block,
if I am guilty of anything,
it's being distracted by the streetlamp.
I am visible in it.
If I look directly at the lamp, I can't see the stars.
I don't need the stars anymore?
I used to think
I'd cavern you, and grotto you, waterfall you,
and immense-rock you, solitude you
until rain Bristled the evening, lit
our roof to singing—
And of thinking too hard about what to say
when we're home from our walk:
my wife: welcome home high-wires
and habitual nightmares, lonely woes
and wooden shoes!
Copyright © 2010 Gary L. McDowell All rights reserved