of the dog days of summer.
summer days when the air feels like velvet.
the lovely hot-sauce days when you sit very still,
trying to catch any and all bits of breeze.
popsicles and icy beverages cool the inside of your head.
your hair curls with sweat
from the humidity as it plasters to your cheeks.
fry-an-egg-on-the-sidewalk warm.
run-through-the-sprinkler-all-day kind of hot.
snow-cones-for-breakfast-lunch-and-dinner...
sigh.
when i graduated from high school, i received a
beautiful hand-sewn quilt from my ma-maw in texas.
my cousin told me to wrap it up and put it away.
"don't use it because you don't want anything to happen to it."
after ma-maw died, i would lie in bed and think about
the thick, colorful gift, carefully folded on the shelf in my closet.
it seemed crazy not to use the quilt.
i am cold. my grandmother made it to warm me.
years later, i unfolded it and spread it across my bed.
i loved the heaviness of it, pressing down on me as i slept.
her arms are around me. i can feel her warmth.
it was like getting a daily hug from my grandmother.
and i knew that she would want that.
i thought of this memory when the poem, below, was read to me last weekend.
i thought of how often we save things, or events, until the time is right.
we save the good stuff for special occasions.
the good china.
the linen napkins.
the bottles of wine in the basement.
pampering ourselves.
this past summer,
after receiving a very somber diagnosis,
i was faced with the reality of how-much-time-will-i-have
and what-about-my-family and
this-is-bullshit-because-i-want-to-see-my-boy-grow-up.
and, since then, i have tried to accept each day as a blessing.
and when i start to lose ground, and get scared,
i remind myself that my feet are on this earth.
i am here now.
so do what you love, with the people you love, NOW.
that is my focus on the coming year.
that, and to stay here.
breathing.
alive.
and cracking open that rare vintage
while eating grilled cheese, with my sweet boys,
on my parent's fine china.
happy new year.
peace, love, and health to you and yours.
Putting the Good Things Away,
by Marge Piercy
In the drawer were folded fine
batiste slips embroidered with scrolls
and posies, edged with handmade
lace too good for her to wear.
Daily she put on schmatehs
fit only to wash the car
or the windows, rags
that had never been pretty
even when new: somewhere
such dresses are sold only
to women without money to waste
on themselves, on pleasure,
to women who hate their bodies,
to women whose lives close on them.
Such dresses come bleached by tears,
packed in salt like herring.
Yet she put the good things away
for the good day that must surely
come, when promises would open
like tulips their satin cups...
read the rest of the poem here.
