"The Long and Winding Road"

 

I know I'm a sentimental fool, but I'm always taken by surprise when the beginning of "The Long and Winding Road" makes me swell with emotion. I mean, "crying for the day" sounds just like me. LOL. There's no real reason I can fathom, and it doesn't remind me of any one person or place--just some general sense of beauty and nostalgia and malaise. 

Today: L and I discovered a new (to us!) walking path in the Eyde Woods just as the snow began...

Tomorrow: There may be some resolution on (one branch of) my long and winding road...

Time Sheets

It's 5:30 am. Nu just woke up to practice the bass clarinet and catch up with missed school work. At was up late since it was the last day to help people file for compensation from CalTrans, and there's a time lag, and also I think I saw a tweet from him in the last hour. Big A has been doing patient charts post shift after napping in the early pm. I napped from 9-11 pm last night and then I've been up scrolling, working on a poem and other stuff. (I'm going to try to get a nap in before breakfast at 7.) 

I saw everyone at breakfast and dinner, but otherwise, at least one of us has been on right round the clock... 

Scout and Huck who snooze all day seem to be the only ones with adequate sleep and solid sleep hygiene around here.

Through my Head

My children's love passes right through me

(like an arrow, like a bullet)

My parents' love steeps all through me

(like a tantrum, like a blush).

I fear death; there are deaths I fear more:

My deaf father sleeps deep

through knocking, my mother and sister 

talking--unmoving.

My tired children sleep past the blare 

of smoke alarms, heavy

I wonder if I can shake them awake

like a pair of dead batteries.

But the world does its singing, then

my body curls like smoke

plummets, coaxes with folded hands

draws doors in heartache.

So let me tell you how I scan the dates 

of people's lives, guessing--from 

the headlines of their last year--if death 

might have felt like a blessing.

_

Tiny Notes

The tiny tree went up this weekend--powered 95% by At and Nu. 

😍

While I was writing that poem about Chelli's moving day yesterday, I was trying to make the verses look like the many roofs we've been under, but it actually looks like a tree too!

Also, as she said after she read that poem, I completed it "so fast!" High praise indeed! 

😛

Moving Day 8000 Miles Away

8000 miles away

my sister is moving  

her furniture is being taken apart now

it will be put back together again, very soon.

She remembers how I arrived at her 

house in Delhi the week before she did,

how I cut my hand open unpacking boxes, how 

I made that a joke about my rakta dan--"blood sacrifice." 

I don't remember this story. But 

she giggles and so then I giggle and then 

we tell each other how much we love each other. 

When will we see each other again? (There aren't even plans.)

And I want to say: Take a break! 

Need to ask: Are you tired? Is that heavy?

But I look at the telephone; I just... miss you. 

There's more air than we can breathe between us.

Exile now feels like breaking--

like an earthquake--inside out, fragile 

as though an eggshell holding hatchlings,

a coming to--on the other side of worldliness.

There are stones in my throat all day

so I stumble. I speak slowly as though in 

a foreign language (all language feels foreign,

cannot say what I feel, clots like moonlight in my brain).

I just parrot from poems I read:

"Art thou weary? Art thou weary?" I dream you 

give the movers the address, but Bangalore traffic sounds

harmonize it into my name, send it--back in a whisper to you.

-

Out with At

I thought At would be embarrassed by my mask vigilantism while we were out on the riverwalk, but actually, he approved. He kept joking that I might have sounded more authoritative if he'd dressed better--he had to raid the hall closet for hat and gloves and has on a Doctor Who hat and flip-top mittens from Nu's elementary school days. Not quite intimidating enough despite the hammy pose in this picture.

We saw a license plate that said "DRKING," which the new 21-year-old misread as "drinking" and then wondered if the missing letter was because it mimicked how a tipsy person might slur their words. I pointed out that it was probably "Dr. King"--and we laughed about his misreading and over-reading.  

And then At: Well, either way, that license plate is probably going to get them pulled over. Regular cops/ Racist cops. [makes weighing/shrug/balancing gesture.]

Gulp. 
 

On the Road

Early morning run. Frost. Today. I will 

love. Everyone. Like I'm long lost

family, prodigal,

like you're special. I'll stitch love to 

even your lack of care, neglect,

share a request--like

tossing a small wish, easy as pennies

into some mall fountain--please,

can you wear a mask?

It lingers in our air--your answer is

irritable, the road rifts, rebels

at your insolent stride

I follow that script, know that road

I sift regret from the open

arils of the day 

I still. The road calms, a dove coos

I know now it is "mourning"

not just--"morning"