It feels like some years are harder than others, and I know this year will be one of those for me. I remember mid-2008/early 2009, seeing death looking out at me from under all the rocks, and trying to run from it. My dad gets in a mood and insists to me that I have his family's gift for clairvoyance, but it's never so dramatic or important as all that. This old feeling is common loss creeping around the borderlines: the blown-out boxwood scratching the house when the wind blows. I'm not trying to be morose, I'm just setting my expectations, I'm just calling it now.
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I have a great mother. I think she genuinely believes I'm strong and mean and tough and don't give a shit, and sometimes, when I talk to her, I believe it. I think sometimes she needs me so much to be that person and to be strong. But I'm not as big as she thinks. It's hard for me to be vulnerable, and all girls need to be vulnerable sometimes. A girl wants to be little.
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I went to the library to renew that stupid Andrew Jackson biography I hate reading and got a few more books full of that dumb poetry stuff I like so much. I don't have time to really read, but it was a charming idea.
From Charles Wright's most recent work:
Grace II
It's true, the aspirations of youth burn down to char strips with
the years.
Tonight, only memories are my company and my grace.
How nice if they could outlive us.
But they can't. Or won't.
No Indian summer for us. It's rough and it's growing dark,
The sunset pulling the full moon up by its long fingernails.
It's better this way.
The unforgiven are pure, as are the unremembered.
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