i stand outside in twilight mist. the grass is beginning to green and the earth is softening underfoot, save for a patch of ice in a slice of shade. buds are starting to plump. shoots are pushing up through the mulch.
inside, michael is making dinner and dessert for our guests. i can see him through the window in amber light, the baby monitor slung around his head. i can almost hear the stereo playing cibo matto's alternative japanese funk. soon, i'll feel the bass beat in my chest like an artificial heart.
upstairs, calvin is in bed having suffered four complex partial seizures today. he's not asleep. i'm standing under white pines and oaks; my son is likely not out of the woods.
when i come inside i smell the lemon blueberry almond-flour cake cooling on a wire rack. i drink a sip of french wine. it soothes my throat. i feel an itch to write. i have time. our guests are running late.
tonight, we'll light the candles. i'll head upstairs umpteen times to check on our kid. i won't catch up on last night's lost sleep. still, i'll go to bed grateful for my handsome husband, food on the table, music in my ears, a feast of good conversation with wicked smart and loving people, a warm house, a good dog and the sweetest boy in the world.
inside, michael is making dinner and dessert for our guests. i can see him through the window in amber light, the baby monitor slung around his head. i can almost hear the stereo playing cibo matto's alternative japanese funk. soon, i'll feel the bass beat in my chest like an artificial heart.
upstairs, calvin is in bed having suffered four complex partial seizures today. he's not asleep. i'm standing under white pines and oaks; my son is likely not out of the woods.
when i come inside i smell the lemon blueberry almond-flour cake cooling on a wire rack. i drink a sip of french wine. it soothes my throat. i feel an itch to write. i have time. our guests are running late.
tonight, we'll light the candles. i'll head upstairs umpteen times to check on our kid. i won't catch up on last night's lost sleep. still, i'll go to bed grateful for my handsome husband, food on the table, music in my ears, a feast of good conversation with wicked smart and loving people, a warm house, a good dog and the sweetest boy in the world.
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| Photo by Michael Kolster (from a few years ago) |
Your words are so beautiful -- and you -- WOW.
ReplyDeletesister, that was three years ago. more haggard-looking these days! xoxo
ReplyDelete