day 8: echoes slumber

I’ve deflated. My gut started sinking two minutes in and hit rock bottom when the scoreboard read 35-0.  I’ve met the feeling before, watching Romney lose (though the margin was somehow less embarrassing.)  And so, I enter an era of my life where events I cannot control press into my life, shaping my mood and writing my memories into the greater context of the world history.

I feel unbalanced, small. What if legislation lowers doctors’ salaries and Aby will never be a CrossFit coach full-time and we’ll never be able to pay off the debt and Boomer never has a yard? What if the liberals and the conservatives come to civil war or worse, our world is ravaged by the disease of entitlement? What if all the bees die? What if the Irish never again reach glory?

These, along with my personal worries, I offer to God.  He blesses me with solace laterally and in the reach to Heaven.  Here at my side, my family.

Photo on 2013-01-07 at 21.55

And that reach to heaven: it is in everything I am able to do, every passion I am able to pursue, and every friend I am blessed to love.

History of Hurricanes

by Teresa Cader
Because we cannot know—

we plant crops, make love in the light of our not-knowing

A Minuteman prods cows from the Green with his musket,
his waxed paper windows snapping in the wind,
stiletto stalks in the herb garden upright—Now

blown sideways—Now weighted down in genuflection,

not toward,

And a frail man holding an Imari teacup paces at daybreak
	    in his courtyard in Kyoto

a cherry tree petaling the stones pink and slippery 
	    in the weeks he lay feverish

waiting for word from the doctor, checking for signs—Now

in the season of earthenware sturdiness and dependency
	    it must begin, the season of his recovery

No whirling dervish on the radar, no radar, no brackets
no voices warning—no Voice—fugue of trees, lightning

Because we cannot know, we imagine

What will happen to me without you?

I know some things I remember—

the Delaware River two stories high inside the brick houses
cars floating past Trenton like a regiment on display
brown water climbing our basement stairs two at a time

Like months of remission—
		        the eye shifts

the waxed paper windows
		       burst behind the flapping shutters—

and how could he save his child after that calm,
a man who'd never seen a roof sheared off?

Across town the ninth graders in their cutoffs:
Science sucks, they grouse. Stupid History of hurricanes.

No one can remember one;

velocity, storm surge—
the earth churns as Isabel rips through Buzzard's Bay

A hurricane, as one meaning has it:
a large crowded assembly of fashionable people at a private house

The river cannot remember its flooding—

           I worry you will forget to check
			the watermarks in time

An echo of feet on stone is all the neighbors
	           knew of their neighbor,
			a lover of cherry trees

and of his wife who prayed for him at the shrine,
her hair swept up in his favorite onyx comb

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