Tuesday, June 29

Coffee with my mother, sister and some of the boys, sunny table at The Market and everything seemed good. Kenny H. had a good joke about my grandfather's cliff driving- "they didn't have air brakes?" Just heard on the radio that an accordian festival will hit Boston next month.

Saturday night I should have been drunk given the occasion of afternoon football at the Kinvara, but baby says no. Kicks so much it must be a striker. Dino looking good for not smoking. I miss the lads. By the time the Celtic season starts I should have a wee one at my breast.

To the 108 with treats for Lucy, Thai food from across the street and a dress that didn't do too well containing me. The music was nice but I would have preferred no horn- too close to the voice sometimes. I wish Joe was there. I have words for him that don't make it into email. I wish I saw John more.

Baby keeps me from sitting still too long, chair then floor and stretch this way and that. I wish I could have softened some of the sounds for my womb, thinking of Lucy and Anders and Caleb all overwhelmed by noise.

If Mike County were a plant he would be lamb's ear, planted in the shade of a rosemary bush in the front garden of a row house in the southern outskirts of Cork.

Jim Dunn read about the beach in Magnolia. I spent the summers of 14 and 15 drinking at bonfires there while my stepmother played oblivious 100 yards away. Cheap beer with fraternal twins twice my age. One I wanted to kiss. The other declared one night sitting on the stone wall next to the local garage that if the world were to end tomorrow he would take me up in his arms and not let go. Saw him years later at Pavilion beach watching the greasy pole, still drunk. His brother was the one who told me my horn was going off at Friendly's a couple years ago.

Breakfast at the Dory yesterday. The guy who walked the pole dressed as a jester at the table in back, telling the story of Andy who fell off the wagon and hasn't been seen since. Didn't even swim in with the rest of the walkers. Swam to the boats instead, leaving his girlfriend waiting on the beach. Heard he's alive but he still hasn't made it home. Then the boy who won on Friday and Saturday comes in. The waitress was hoping he'd win all three days. He's no Jake Wood. No Peter "Black" Frontiero.

Henry Ferrini in with big news about his film and his son holding a stuffed animal and a spatula. Out the door after a moment or two. Turn around in the lot looking into the harbor. Remains of Fiesta still in St. Peter's Square, carni truck and tinsel angels. Scaffolding bones of the altar. I'd challenge that guy who said the Fort was gentrified to carry Peter through the streets and watch the women throw confetti from the windows. There have always been a few outsiders living there but let's make it clear: Olson wasn't a fisherman either.

The sailors weren't as good looking this year. Might be because I wasn't drunk. More so I think it's the war. Walking the streets with James, talking to former students, now enlisted men, trying to keep themselves out of Iraq and Afghanistan. Little boys still, not more than babies, looking for ways to stay safe. And Dan home on leave, a few more weeks left in which he can be sent away, all our fingers crossed and we pray even if we don't believe.

I should pack more now. I've killed the difficult plants and won't have to move them. I should never be trusted with jasmine or gardenia. The hibiscus by my bed hasn't got the weight to handle the sea breeze and I haven't the heart to close the window. Yesterday its three blossoms were overshadowed by the lillies from Greg, standing tall in their milk-bottle vase. Perfect backdrop for my reading Women Poets of China. Fragrant flowers near the cool sheets of my bed.

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