16 February 2017
Odds are I’m waking. Borborygmi and crows started it. My
subconscious flashes a crossword answer. Snow-melt drips off the
eaves. Cheryl’s voice drifts from the other room; the phone eats
her actual words. Memory slithers into my bed and ejects me:
sinuous tendrils of coffee volatiles snaking out of grinders in
the second New Public Market, while Grammy does her week’s
shopping. I grind beans, and coffee will be mine.
04 August 2016
Urged by novelty, I dispatch my Caesar salad anchovies. Oatmeal
bread carbonizing in the toaster synergizes with Italian-roast
coffee. Cheryl avers that my salivary glands clench when she
utters “calzone and chardonnay” to me: how promiscuous
are appetite’s triggers. My cardiologist assures me that a
navel to shoulder to elbow bruise is normal—I devour
watermelon, native tomato, and curried shrimp with obscene gusto.
18 May 2016
What a glorious time to be above ground. My great-granddaughter is
a month old. Political spectacle to die for. Morning coffee.
Spider in my cup, but smallish. Dead, and I saw him before I
poured. Yesterday afternoon, because I’m the center of
creation, I heard a mockingbird’s stylized rendition of a
wood thrush, and that evening I heard the magical prototype. Today
he mimicked a killdeer. I know what happens next.
27 February 2016
Another year of the ordinary and inevitable: changes, endings,
beginnings. Incompetence, corruption, poor decisions. Pain,
suffering, and death. Yet I celebrate, because I must, the small
miracles, one-offs and recurring. Kindness from a happy man
working for City Hall. Warmth from February sun; year’s
first red-winged blackbird. A waitress with unfathomable dexterity
tying her apron strings in a bow behind her back.
05 December 2015
Santa-hatted young couple walks to their car. He says,
“I’m so bored with everything in life,” all faux
world-weariness edged with drama. I’m judgmental: he’s
self-absorbed, bereft of soul and wit, bankrupt. As my irritation
and impatience subside, I settle on misdemeanor callowness. She
says, “Everything-everything? Forever and ever?”
She’s not liking how this might go. I don’t think
he’s going to get lucky tonight.
Nor Custom Stale
19 October 2015
One joy of grandfatherhood is teaching your grandchildren about
your favorite things, thereby making the old new again, and
sometimes making aficionados in a new generation: riding a
bicycle, melting pennies with a propane torch, Thai yellow curry.
This, of course, gets harder as the kids gain experience along
with age. I suspect the grandson in Marine boot camp will soon
outgrow my finite capacity to supply novelty.