Tuesday, October 28

Monday night home from the bar and I'm awake and I'm tired. Dance music tonight but the floor was too full too crowded and I didn't want to fight my way up didn't want to dance in back. Girls with plucked eyebrows and tattooed backs and I can't shake the feeling I'm not being the person I mean to be.

Do you remember that time you came out to my bar? I just remembered it, just now.

Tonight a cab ride home never done that before and I'm not even drunk, not even tired. I wasn't dancing for anyone tonight even when the kids came. I could eat something now if there was something to eat, or call someone if I liked the phone. I am home and I don't even know if the Phillies won the Word Series.

Tuesday, October 14

Today she has lost her glasses. Athena from down the street is there with a flashlight looking for them. Athena who doesn't get it. Athena who keeps asking her to retrace her steps. We leave without her glasses. Athena stays to make herself a cup of coffee.

Sunday, October 12

Quiet morning naked in bed tired-eyed knitting and listening and still. Cat on the covers lists of things to do lists and lists and things to do. Up into yesterday's jeans. Out into the old truck. Coffee in the sunshine morning. Yardsaling. Finding friends. Old glass buoys and clock cabinets.

I have wasted the day. Wonderful wasted day.

Monday, July 21

We are starting over.

Every day we wake up to a new light, a new chance, a new hope.

Every day is dashed to the ground like the days before it.

Saturday, April 26

It is spring. There are plants in the garden. I am cooking dinner. The kids are upstairs playing. The air is cool.

I am trying to start a new story. But the story stays the same.

Tuesday, February 26

Afternoon and I am waiting for snow. I am full after eating the way you eat to get someone else to eat. As if it were charity.

I am trying to decide what in my life I have control over. What is a choice. Instead of sitting here letting it all wash over me.

Tuesday, January 29

What I read as a hangover this morning turns out to be something else. Getting sick. A cough, a headache. A tightness in my lungs. I can feel it like a train coming.

Angry this morning at how sloppy people are. A sign on the door-- "Thanks from all of us." Sloppy sign. Sloppy with words. And I got angry, with my hangover head. Careless. Careless people. Careless and closed-off. Like it doesn't matter.

Words and pictures. We put them everywhere. When I say I love you, you think I am selling you soap.

Thursday, January 24

At the cafe a woman sits with her back to me talking to the photographer. He tells her the story of each picture and as he is talking I can imagine what each one is. The bow cutting across the water. The gravestones. The buildings.

My mother is late. I drink more coffee than I should waiting for her. Sam eats cream cheese off of a bagel. He reads a book.

When she gets there she is all aflutter. Bags of canvases and paints. I get her a cup of coffee. I get her rye toast. We work on her homework: lists of things, categories. Lists of how to do things. We go to her house. As she learns how to find her words Sam crawls under the table, around the chairs. By the time we are done he is covered in dog hair.

We drive downtown doing this week's homework. How a fence is different from a wall. How they are the same.

When I pick Abigail up she is holding an invisible baby bird in her hands. She asks us to be quiet so the baby bird can sleep. By the time we get home the baby bird is awake. She lifts her hands out the car door and lets it fly away.

Tuesday, January 15


Originally uploaded by Mandy K
How we spend our days.

Sunday, January 13

He's gone away for a week. She is upset about it, about being alone without him. So we make sure she is not alone. We write our names on a calendar. We commit to time. Each day we will check on her, see her, make sure she is not alone.

Today I take her to get coffee. In her purse is a large container of organic yogurt. She puts it on the table at the cafe. She pulls out a white shirt with a black stain. She is going to fix it, she says. Then I can have it. It will be as good as new. She trips on her words. They come out sideways.

When Sam makes eyes at a little girl my mother tells a man it is love in place. Nobody cares that her words are wrong. Nobody is listening.

Wednesday, January 2

Oatmeal for breakfast. Kids are coughing, just a little, into the tub and out to play. Pull on torn jeans and slip on heels to mail a letter.

Cut tomatoes and fresh mozzarella, basil and olive oil into bread. Stale crackers onto the porch for the birds. Dance around the kitchen. Hang the upstairs rug to dry. Still finding beer bottles and glasses of bourbon and grappa and eggnog and wine. Bags of Waragi and plates of chocolates.

Kiss the kids as they run through and send them up to play. Reheat coffee. This year I will live the way I mean to. Make better use of my resources. Write more letters.

This year I will act out of love.