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This is Ireland, with the Atlantic Ocean to the west and the Irish Sea to the east.  I am much, much farther to the west and then somewhat south.   Ireland is really green from space.  Probably from all the rain and the potato plants and the terrible troubles, you know.

I have relatives from Ireland.  My grandfather on my father’s side came from Ireland and immigrated through Canada as an infant.  My maternal grandmother’s relatives have been traced back to the 1400s — something about some king or something.  Doesn’t everyone have a king in their background?

So why am I so interested in Ireland?  No reason, really.  Except this is one of the places on my bucket list I’d sure love to see in person.  I hear the Irish like their beer too.  I’m sure I could be persuaded.

Yes, Scarlett and Wilson here.  The Masters are … one on the couch and one in the bed.  The Woman Master, the one called Auburn, the one who usually does the writing, takes the couch.  Nnnngggh, Nnnngggh, she says with her nose now and then, white papery material waded up next to her face.  Nnnnngggh.  Disgusting!  We hope it’s not catching and wonder if antibacterial hand wash works on doggie paws.

The Man Master, Dan is his name, has taken the high spot in the bedroom.  He ignores us.  Even at the times of day when we are always fed, he ignores us.  We hate him for it.  He is evil for not bounding through the house like he always does.  His shoes are tucked in the closet where we can’t get to them to show our disapproval.  Evil.  Evil.

She, the Woman Master, pulls herself to her feet and manages to spoon food, Nnngghing with her nose into our bowls.  Yuck!  We’re not sure we should eat, but our hunger is beyond great.  We eat. We eat.  Looking for more, we roam through the house only to find our Woman Master returned to her perch on the couch, those white papery things in a box next to her.  We hate her for her opposable thumbs.  If we had them, we wouldn’t need her.  Hah!  We wouldn’t need anyone.

He, the Man Master, neglects our walks.  We’re keeping our eye on him.   His shoes remain in the closet.

We play bone wars in the living room and neither the She Master nor the He Master rise to tell us to hush, or to settle down, or to knock it off, or anything.  Maybe they’re dead.   Who then will distribute our cookies?

We’re saddened beyond consolation.

They must be dead … except for the times they get up to sit on the things that they refuse to leave open and available for our thirst.  Our thirst, our thirst.  Such evil masters we’ve never known.

So, we play the bone wars through the house and wait for one of them to rise from the dead.  We’re taking bets on which one is first–the man or the woman.  We’ve formed an offshore corporation for our online betting service.  We take Visa and Master Card.  Place your bets, pigeons, place your bets.

Just in case you’re still hungry.

Listen
with the night falling we are saying thank you
we are stopping on the bridges to bow from the railings
we are running out of the glass rooms
with our mouths full of food to look at the sky
and say thank you
we are standing by the water thanking it
smiling by the windows looking out
in our directions

back from a series of hospitals back from a mugging
after funerals we are saying thank you
after the news of the dead
whether or not we knew them we are saying thank you

over telephones we are saying thank you
in doorways and in the backs of cars and in elevators
remembering wars and the police at the door
and the beatings on stairs we are saying thank you
in the banks we are saying thank you
in the faces of the officials and the rich
and of all who will never change
we go on saying thank you thank you

with the animals dying around us
our lost feelings we are saying thank you
with the forests falling faster than the minutes
of our lives we are saying thank you
with the words going out like cells of a brain
with the cities growing over us
we are saying thank you faster and faster
with nobody listening we are saying thank you
we are saying thank you and waving
dark though it is

                                                         W.S. Merwin

I’ve been here all along –here in the dark of my room, crouching behind my eyes, hoping you won’t notice how swollen they are.  They and the back of my throat.  Oh, and my fingers.  My fingers are swollen from sleeping on them.  Don’t look at my hair.  It might be swollen too, which is probably why it stands straight up from its roots even though it’s unwashed and heavy with sleep.

Now and then, I’ve heard the phone ring and ring … until it clicks over to voice mail.  There’s a light on the phone now that blinks and blinks; it’s to nicely tell me I have messages, but the blinking light serves only to annoy my swollen eyes.  Even if I squeeze my lids tight to keep out the little pulsing light, I can still feel that light, blinking, blinking its way inside the pores of my skin and tapping its way into my bones. Blink.  Blink.

I can hear a turkey thawing in the refrigerator.  Drip.  Drip.  I hear it in the dark of my throat.  My swollen throat that throbs with each tiny watery drop.  On Thursday morning my swollen eyes and throat and fingers and bones will perhaps have shrunk enough for me to float from my bed in all my Martha Stewart aprony perfection.  I’ll wear a Donna Reed dress and high heels and drift into the kitchen where I’ll yank that drip dripping turkey from the refrigerator and throw it, butt first, into the oven at 325 degrees for three and a half hours.  While it’s cooking into a mass of something so dry it’ll never drip again, I’ll rest what’s left of my poor narrowed body on the kitchen’s cool tile floor.  I don’t think I’ll be noticed lying there, in my dress and heels and apron, my face composing itself on the floor in front of the oven while I wait for time to pass and a turkey to turn brown and dry, dry, dry.

If only it were summer.  I’d listen for the ice cream man.  My throat would like some ice cream.  Or a popsicle.  Or that lovely Italian Ice with strawberry glace drizzled over the top.  Yes, my throat would like that.

Wilson!  Caught by surveillance camera after donning his Sylvester Stallone disguise and attempting to sneak through the food line a second time.  When questioned by authorities, he defended his disgraceful behavior by pointing out that he was simply and magnanimously saving starving children from the shame of knowing that somewhere someone didn’t finish all the food on his plate.

Oh, the shame of it all.

I’ve missed you.  Things have happened.  Occurrences have occurred.  I’ve shrugged my shoulders but it hasn’t made the light change or the carpet heal itself or the yard grow vegetables or the heat go away.  Apparently, shoulder shrugging doesn’t influence the universe.

Also, I missed the birthday of my twins.  How that occurred is still a mystery we’re working on.

I guess I’m just a noodle to be forgiven, or reckoned with, or ignored as appropriate.

But in my defense, here’s what’s happened:  I’m apparently now a diabetic with a broken leg and cholesterol higher than the sky.  I’m now on a big diet thingy that takes away all my mashed potatoes and dark chocolate goodness only to replace them with bok choy and spinach and the only response is to throw one’s hands up in the air and eat the green stuff the dietetician says you now have to eat.  And cry.  And forget shit.

Secondly, my computer got offed by Norton Anti Virus.  Yes, I said killed by the Anti-Virus.  That’s against things that ruin your computer … right?  Anti Virus? Against Viruses?  Nevertheless, my computer died when we stupidly clicked on the Yes, we’d so much like to update our Norton AnitiVirus button.  How ridiculous of us.

Thirdly, my leg is a swollen mess of purple flesh just because I decided thirteen weeks on the couch was just enough, thank you very much, and I’ve been SHOPPING again.  For God’s sake, I have PLASTIC burning a hole in my wallet!  It’s not my fault.  For heaven’s sake, it’s only plastic.  What’s the harm in that, right?

Still, all the shopping in the world doesn’t explain how a mother could disremember the birth of her twins.  Her Beautiful Twins.  The two gorgeous girls who nearly tore her body apart during the aperture of their birth.  How could a mother forget that?  Even with the broken leg stuck in the air and the heat and the computer thingy and the being diabetic thingy and the dog that eats the house and the backyard and all that wine sitting in the box waiting to be consumed.

How could it be?  Oh, did I mention that I also have the sniffles … AND … a bladder infection?

Please take heed of this public service announcement, which I’ve kindly provided for educational purposes to those who live in states that now require hands-free cell phone operation while driving.

My mother was a Jell-o maker.  All mothers were back then.  My mother had a collection of copper Jell-o molds; rings of assorted sizes, rounds, square pans, a Christmas tree,  a bunny.  She wore an apron that she’d hold out and wrap around me like angel’s wings.  We’re going to make Jell-o, she’d say, her voice deep and tremulous, like Jell-o was the most profound thing a woman could make and she was showing the secret to me.  Then she’d hug me to her waist.  Her apron always carried the smell of orange Jell-o powder and pineapple, but if I buried my face deep into its folds, I could find the scent of little marshmallows caught up in the threads, which is why I thought that angels must taste like marshmallows and it made me afraid to eat Jell-o if it had those little marshmallows suspended inside.  I figured God could be angry that my mother captured pieces of angels to float into her copper mold and I wanted nothing to do with the wrath I was sure would come.

I was right about the wrath.  My mother died one day — suddenly, the surprise of it crumpling her face first and then her body as she fell to the floor, the wings of her apron wrapping around her like a shroud.  My Aunt said she’d gone to live with God and the angels.  I figured it was to keep her from making any more Jell-o bunnies.

I still don’t eat Jell-o.

To all the Grandmothers, Grandmas, Grammys, Nannys, MeeMaws, MeeMees, Nannas, YaYas TuTus, NeeNees, Omas, Bubbies, Satvas, MooMoos, Nonnys, Nanos, Omas, Grossmutters, Mormors, Babushkas,  Mummis, Mummos, Abuelas, Grandcrackers and anyone else I may have forgotten —

I feel your joy!

P.S.  Thanks to The Google for this really great picture!