It is so cold and here I am in my new/old cashmere sweater, cozy in the house, drinking coffee and I want to just stay here today but I need to go to town to go to the library and Lily needs to go too so we shall do that, Owen with us, and of course I will enjoy that.
My throat is sore and there is yucky drainage from my sinuses and it IS so cold out and I'd have to wear a bra. A bra. Why? Why can't we just let our breasts be where they want to be and not have to enclose them in unnatural positions to pretend that they are perky and new when in fact, they may not be and so what? I am fifty-six years old and nursed four babies for eons and in MY perfect world, part of your beauty would be judged on how well used your titties had been but I do not live in my perfect world.
Not once I leave the driveway, anyway.
The bananas are frozen and brown and bedraggled and tattered and so are the rooster-tail lilies, the pine cone lilies, the butterfly lilies. I need to cut them back and haul off the old, done brown stalks and I need to clean out the nests in the hen house and so forth.
And write a Christmas letter and start doing Christmas cards and make the white bean venison chili for Mr. Moon's hunting camp pot-luck tomorrow night. Chili is always better on the second day.
And a bra is not required for any of those tasks.
BUT, the library is a must and that is that.
Jessie is driving to Pensacola where she will get a plane and fly to Boulder and so there will be a part of my heart which is in my throat all day long until I hear that she is there safely. That girl. I know she could survive a nuclear holocaust and take care of many children at the same time and somehow manage to make music and make merry and invent fire but when she is driving or flying, she is at the mercy of others and their problems, their lack of attention and I worry.
Well, that is a mother's fate. To spend her life worrying.
I often feel as if every one of my children and my husband and now my grandson are the worry beads I carry around in the pocket of my heart, fingering each one, saying unconscious prayers to the universe to keep them all safe.
We all do this. I know we do.
Well, it's a beautiful day and when I went out to take the picture of the banana I found this
and oh what a small and pure glory- the snow drop. I think. Correct me, please, if I am wrong. It blooms right beside the dead-for-the-winter banana. There you go- death and resurrection five feet from my kitchen.
So there is that and there is this:
My lovely hens with their new feathers and Elvis with his recently refluffed butt, scratching for the corn I've thrown them.
There is the light. There is almost always the light except on the bleakest days and this is not by any means, one of those.
My trees. Well, not my trees. Trees that I am so honored to be able to live with for this time in my life and in theirs.
And after almost seven years, just the sight of my house brings me a sort of joy which I never knew I would find. I think of those years I lived in a very small trailer and dreamed of finding hidden rooms and here I am, in Lloyd in this fine old bones-still-very-strong house and there are rooms to spare and here is one of my favorite
the old original kitchen, another part of the place I live which is joyful lagniappe and yes, dream come true, made real, and no wonder I don't ever want to leave the property, all talk of bras aside.
But Owen and the library call and so it goes and I will leave but I will come back.
I hope you will too.
P.S. I got this poem in my e-mail this morning from The Writer's Almanac and I love it to pieces and so I'll share it with you because I love you too.
Emily Dickinson's To-Do List
Figure out what to wear—white dress?
Put hair in bun
Bake gingerbread for Sue
Peer out window at passersby
White dress? Off-white dress?
Chat with Lavinia
Work in garden
Letter to T.W.H.
White dress or what?
Eavesdrop on visitors from behind door
Try on new white dress
Gardening—watch out for narrow fellows in grass!
Gingerbread, cakes, treats
Poems: Write and hide them
Embroider sash for white dress
Water flowers on windowsill