Saturday Morning

I am still swimming in that pool of darkness this morning. Haven't been up long enough to scatter the shroud and shards of whatever it is that always descends upon me in the night time.
I apologize for writing from that place. It's no good for you and it's no good for me but maybe, as I write, things will brighten.

Mr. Moon and Jason went hunting again this morning and were getting back just as I was getting up and they told me the tale of their hunt which ended in a perfect chance at a perfect shot and then...a misfire of the old muzzle loader (it's muzzle loader season- no- I don't understand either) while I stood there with a coffee cup and my brain fogged up. Then Mr. Moon proceeded to go over today's plan which involves a relative coming in, a trip across town to see HoneyLuna play music at what we call the Jr. Museum, me going with Lily, him going to sight a gun.....
And I said, "Whoa. You're full of adrenalin and I'm not even awake. That's enough information for right now."
And I went and fed the cats who were very much up and very much ready for their bowl of friskees.

Feed the cats, feed the dogs. Send Jessie home with a plate of last night's supper: stuffed grape leaves, pita bread, tabuli, hummus. All of it made by me, none of it quite right. I am not Greek and just because I can squeeze lemons and chop parsley, drizzle olive oil and peel garlic does not make me so. I have no muscle memory of wrapping grape leaves, no Ya-Ya in my brain, instructing me on how thinly to roll the pita before baking.

Check on the chickens. Miss Betty is still hiding on the nest. Every chance he gets, Sam jumps on her and rakes her back with his talons, pecks her head with a cruel beak. I think she is not so much hurt as traumatized. She hasn't left the hen house in days. What to do? What to do? I leave her water and feed her grapes as she sits on the nest. Why does Sam do this? Miss Betty was his first true love. Is it because she's so little? I don't know. I hate cruelty but this is the way of the chicken flock and I can't change that with my prissy little all-you-need-is-love attitude.

Saturday morning, Saturday morning. The camera is fucked again, putting in lines and making a weird yellow light upon the pictures. Again- what to do? Do we know how long Lazarus lived after Jesus commanded him to rise from his cooling board, to take his shroud and walk again? What did Lazarus think, to find himself suddenly back among the living and what did his wife say? His children? Did he eat again, like the living, did he worry about how to pay the bills, and then, did he suddenly die again, this time for real, while bending to a jug of sweet living water?
My camera. Oh well.

Jessie is gone back to town to rehearse. Mr. Moon and Jason have gone back to town to go somewhere else to sight the guns. I don't understand this process. Hunting for me is like blah, blah, blah....
Yes. I can wash the camo clothes, yes, I can cook the venison. Yes. I can even listen to the stories. The rest, I don't need to know. Forgive me but in my mind, that is man-stuff.

Saturday morning. I need to eat, get dressed, drive to town. I will go to the Jr. with Lily and Owen and meet up with all the others. This is the plan. There will be calls- where are you? How do we find you? It's molasses-making day at the museum. Oh boy. I used to love to take the children there to see the old farm, the goats, the cows, the old houses, the cracker garden. Now I live in a house older than those they have at the museum, I have my own chickens, my own garden. But Jessie is playing music there and I love to see that girl standing on a stage, her mandolin in her hand, her fingers flying, that smile she wears when she plays.

We will have Owen with us and that makes it all wonderful. Owen. I haven't seen him in two days. I want to get my hands on him. I want to hold him to my chest. I want to cradle his head. I want to smell of him- he already smells like no one on earth but himself.
Maybe we will stop by and see Waylon. I haven't seen him for two days either. They are home now, I think. I have been leaving Billy and Shayla alone with their baby and their other visitors. But I want to see them again.

Saturday morning. The sun is shining so brightly. It's the perfect time of year here. Except. There's a tropical storm dancing around down near Nicaragua. It could come here. It could slide by Cozumel, shredding palm trees, disturbing the perfect blue/green/indigo violet water.

I don't know. They don't know.

Is that why I feel this way today? As if I was a tightrope walker, holding on to the wire with my toes, a wind springing up to send me tumbling, tumbling, tumbling across the chasm?

A possible storm, Mr. Moon leaving for a week to go so very far away. Saturday morning and I need to go hold my grandchild. I need to feel his little hands grasping my finger. I need to look into his dark wise eyes and see my story there.

My story. This is it.

Today.