30 Knots True

You want me to meditate

Dream a tender dream

Talk of next year or the next

You want me to envision book signings and art galleries

Your hand in mine

 But I am barely here.

Broken.

Bird wing down.

You want me to climb into your bed

burrowing near your belly

Sheltering  in sheets and folds and storm

Curling toward the night

Your hand in mine

But I am barely here.

Broken.

Bird wing down. 

You want me waking at sunrise

Drinking black coffee

Walking  betwixt the rocks and river

Viewing the horizon

Your hand in mine

But I am barely here.

Broken.

Bird wing down. 

You say you know.

That you do not stall.

That you will lead me

to where we will go.

You are rising

Stronger now

Bird in flight

You say rest my love

and let the living follow.

You  whisper 

As if telling injury

brings back nerve and motion.

 You are rising

Stronger now

Bird in flight

You talk to my heart.

Cajoling blood and beat.

You say you will take lead 

 break the wind's well

front my draft. 

 You are rising.

Stronger now.

Bird in flight. 

You ask me to be free

to flee a blinding past

to glimpse a new horizon

to soar yet again.

You are rising.

I am broken.

Bird in flight. 

 =============================================

And of course,  now a little holiday therapy

1.   And how are you feeling this Thanksgiving?

I am feeling at peace.  A little tired.  I sat up hugging the dark until early morning.  Reading OS.  Writing posts to manage later.

2.  And can you talk about your father?

I suppose, but I generally do not feeeeeeel the need.  He was always so proud on a holiday.  I came to know it was something about the cumulative effect of having family gather, well served.  I haven't heard him in my head in a long time now.

3.  And can you talk about your mother? 

Yes.  I was laughing yesterday at the  laissez faire at work between the girls  in preparation of serving 30 guests.  Two sisters and a new daughter-in-law at work in the kitchen.  They forgot to put the turkey in and it was a last minute rush.  And in between the toasting, the laughing.  The children roaming, nibbling brownies.  Who cares in this nest if dessert comes first?  And the turkey, it was wonderful, moist and tender.  Several of us agreed it was the best we'd ever tasted. Which takes me back to mother.  She slaved every holiday for days.  Each year she battled the bird, which was never moist enough.  But oh how she loved this holiday, this gathering, her girls near her in the kitchen, her wee ones waiting eagerly nearby for dessert.

4.  And did you invest yourself into this day, did you participate?

Um, I steamed the pumpkin, but did not use it. I bought a medley of last minute pies at the bakery as a save.  I forgot to make the cheese ball. I did not buy the spiral sliced ham, as the shelf in the store was empty.  I did not get rum, so Sangria became assorted chilled wines.   And of course, when I was being questioned, "where's the rum, where's the ham?" --the middle one blurted, "moooooooooooom, you so just left him didn't you?"  And my son, put his arm around his sister's shoulder's and said, "Jealous?  Mom's a grown woman.  And look at all these pies she brought." The middle one resolved, "Well, at least it's not as bad as the save she attempted the year of canned ham in a crockpot." 

Which felt so good to hear.  I am no longer battling birds in memory of my mother.  

(Damn, lots of bird motif around here today. And why do they always want ham too?)

5.  And your brother, did he come?

Yes, he was loud and wasted, and I observed people leaving him mid-sentence in a rant against the usual, the government and police.  "Those dirty bastards, I'm not going to let them control my life."  Strange.  I no longer care.  I observed his changes since the Thanksgiving when I saw him last.  He is no longer my formidable opponent.  I'd crush his approach with one glance.  There is no fear here now. My brother is old.  My brother is gone.

6.  And your sister, did she also participate?

Um, no.  Her husband, daughter, SIL, and grandchild came.  "She's at home in the bed, " daughter said.  When I asked if she was sick, the daughter replied, "She thinks she is."  Both of my sister's wings are broken.  I think she will never mend.  I think she will never fly.  Her husband's cancer has returned.  But I think she will be devoured long before he leaves us.  I still want to save her.  That never leaves.  I will think about that tomorrow.  Always her protector.

7.  And your niece, did you think about her?  

Always.  But recently, just recently, without the tears that always come.  Just recently I remembered her smile without crying, her questioning, her eager eyes.  Just recently it was all ok. 

 8.  And EX. #1, did he show?

Um, no.  The children prepared for him.  Put in a few touches just for daddy.  " Moooooom, you're drinking daddy's Guinness." About an hour after the expected arrival, the youngest said, "I told you he isn't coming.  I think he is in Tennessee."  The middle said, "Shall I call him to see if he is running late?"  The eldest answered, "Nahhhh, don't call him.  Let it go.  Let's watch the game."  I drank a second Stout.

9.  And Ex. #2, did he show?

No.  He was unable to secure a flight.  We chatted back and forth.  His humor catching.

10.  And the farmer?

Yes.  The children hugged his neck.  He was communicative, merry, fun. He sat beside me on the sofa, and one time stroked my hair.  He re-filled my drink. I was caught off guard, his forgotten touch, long past a year."Where'd you put my coat?" he asked upon leaving.

11.  And the artist?

No.  I asked him and recanted.  Too confusing.  (ya think???)  Ahh, but just thinking about him, and I am back on a 16th floor where he rubbed a mushy foot so well.

12.  And guests?  Your friends, your "son" in China?

Yes, they came with their beautiful boys who love my beautiful girls.  And the "son" is well hosted by them, and I was happy for their presence. Said son asked for "key lime pie."  Glad I didn't know he wanted, or I would have forgotten.

I'm done thinking about this now.  May we continue next year?