Ordinary Life

my hands fall clumsily onto the keyboard i am amazed there are no misspellings waiting for my coffee to cool a sip more and the floating pat of butter to melt i am waiting on  a paradox a pair of dice i type and sit sip and type i am waiting on words to come out paradeux monkeys with typewriters we've done this experiment before the pilot in the breakfast nook asks for boiled eggs the man in the burger shirt would like to check out late.  he's been places we all can see from his shirt with the Burgers that are  first In then Out we don't have those down here and we don't have hard-boiled eggs either not this morning. they were ordered from the warehouse but never came she tells him she is sixty five perhaps and only another half hour from bed she greets we stragglers who have slept soundly under her night desk watch. i wonder who it is that isn't there to greet her at the door, the same nobody she works night shifts  in this ai...

His parents were away for the weekend. We had the beach house to ourselves. They'd invited us down, insisted we house-sit as an anniversary gift.  Celebrating our first married year and now, our news last week, that baby made three. A smidge of extra icing for That old and preferable, still more socially acceptable order; First the love, then the marriage, fallen tree, baby's carriage. This time.  We would leave our footprints in the sand, take a photo on the pier. The three days of their absence, we would celebrate as one. We would watch the sea's shenanigans and flirtations of the sun from just across the street. There'd be lots of staying in. The plan was simple: steak dinner (with baked potatoes, because that's fancy when you've been married one whole year.) He cooked the steaks, I set the table. We lit the candles on the table, of course. Moonlit stroll, we happened across a grand celebration: the lighthouse on this tiny island was being re-lit. It had...

Living with someone you've wronged Someone who often wrongs you... Dying with someone who wrongs you Denying you often wrong, too.

Sometimes they're on land, too.

One day, you might drive past a busted bag of flour on a busy street downtown. You're just gonna have to press on knowing the backstory will never belong to you. It is almost enough to have seen it with your own eyes. Almost. Tell yourself you can build a new story upon its head...someday.  And get on with your life.

Some stuff he won't be needing anymore... things that remind us he was here... and that he was our very own.

The old fishing pier  at Clam Creek on Jekyll Island is one of the tacks in my personal map. You know, one of those places on the planet where a soul can just exhale. An album exists: www.flickr.com/gp126152547@NO2/782f61

...to be given flowers...

I know that poetry month is over but poetry can be habit forming. Today,  I'm watching Chandler at a Hurricane Jr. golf event in Knoxville. It's the first of his tournaments I've been able to follow him from start to finish. I didn't go looking for a random poem to share, rather I found myself thinking along these lines as I watched my boy  take to the tees and hold his own amongst competitors of all kinds. ..and some who are not kind at all.  He's playing well enough- might not take home the biggest trophy today- but he's right on par in his pursuit of  becoming a man, a real-life gentleman...and that's who this game belongs to, no? I'm his mom, I'm supposed to be proud I guess - but this reaches beyond pride into hopefulness and joy.  If he never plays golf well again another day of his life, but holds to integrity and fosters the growth of good character in every facet of his life for the rest of those same days, a green jacket will pale in the sp...

And so, I end this month-long tip of the hat to Poetry Month with another poem-prophetic. I am reminded too, of so many porches filled now with emptiness; barren swings and rocking chairs where stories used to sit. I see loved ones lingering in the twilight, soon to take sweet rest. Of all the seats in the house, yours with mine is best. Thinking back over the porches we've shared,sitting in hammocks or worn-out lawn chairs- beautiful landscapes or time passing through, the view is improved for watching with you.   They Sit Together on the Porch Wendell Berry They sit together on the porch, the dark Almost fallen, the house behind them dark. Their supper done with, they have washed and dried The dishes–only two plates now, two glasses, Two knives, two forks, two spoons–small work for two. She sits with her hands folded in her lap, At rest. He smokes his pipe. They do not speak, And when they speak at last it is to say What each one knows the other knows. They have One mind between ...