Wednesday, May 6

Wednesday morning.  I am not sure what day of this we are on, but it feels normal now, this slow waking, slow moving, slow starting each day.  It is the second or third sunny day in a row. A child is playing the trumpet upstairs. The cat is in the window.  Today I am trying to resist putting my houseplants out. It is too early. The front steps need painting. There is room for growth.

Friday, January 24

Going back.

I am getting used to the days.  Walking the halls I feel like some sort of spectator, like I am there to collect information on what exactly it means.  I feel my difference. The students don't look at me, don't look up, but the professors nod their heads, make eye contact, say hello.

I am finding places to exist.  The end of the hall only computer science students go down, with its bench in front of the heater, the sunlight shining through the dirty window.  Yesterday I sat there and ate my lunch.  I could see out the window three cops trying to help a driver get his car out of an icy parking spot.  I watched them push the car, kick the snow and ice, try to ease it out of its spot. They took turns directing traffic around their double-parked cars, lights flashing.  I would have yelled my advice if the window opened.  I just watched.  After ten minutes one of the cops found a piece of cardboard and slipped it beneath the tire. The car lurched free, then one cop stopped traffic to let the driver out.  They stayed there for a couple minutes, arms crossed, kicking the icy spot.

Wednesday, January 2

When the visiting nurse calls I tell her I am no longer part of the patient's care.  She is on her way, she says, to draw blood, and the other number goes to a message.  This is not her house, I say, even though it is on file as a number.  I will make sure they change it, she says. Wait, I say.  Please. Please don't change it.  It is the only way I know she is alive, these calls that a nurse is going to draw blood.  She calls me honey, you poor thing. Says she won't touch it.  I am going there now, she says.  Hug her for me, I ask.  She says she will.

Tuesday, January 2

This morning the harbor was full of sea smoke rising into thin air.  The house was warm when I got home, warm enough.  I did the things I meant to do: washed a sink full of dishes, swept a room, wrote a poem.  I was thinking of that last cup of coffee in the pot.  When I finally stopped to get it I found the pot empty, the coffee maker off.  I am nearly certain somebody snuck in and took it.

Free-hand embroidery inspired by Haeckel. 

Monday, January 1

This year I am thinking about embroidery floss and walnut ink.  I am trying to slide into the right notes.  I am making new habits to break.

Saturday, April 1

Last night in my dream my mother had become small, the size of a large baby.  Her limbs were curled in and her body hunched so it resembled a beetle.  She was being kept in a little shack on a stone pier.  My sister and I took turns holding her, comforting her. The young women taking care of her and the inventory in the shack tried to get me to initial things in metallic markers:  a crate of antique toys in gold, a bag of yarn in copper.  I refused.

My sister looked at me and said "I don't want to be here."  I said the same to her.  Then our car, parked on the stone pier, decided it didn't want to be there either, and it rolled into the water.

I spent the rest of my dream battling with water, trying to release a cardboard box of snakes and small mammals which had been buried on a crowded beach.

I woke up exhausted.

Tuesday, March 7

 This morning walking to get the car there is grey everywhere: the streets, the sky, everywhere.   A woman walked toward me.  As she got closer I could see my name tattooed across her chest. 

I know my mother is alive because this morning the nurse called my house accidentally but once or twice a week I dream she has died and I wake with some phantom pain.