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!

Instead of writing about today’s events, I’d rather tell you how the trees have forgotten that it’s almost the middle of November and the only way we get golden trees in Phoenix is by looking at stunning artwork like this.

Painted by Vietnemese artist, Dao Hai Phong, this is one of my favorites.  You can see more of his colorful pieces here.  Dan likes this particular piece because it’s sold to someone other than his credit card-brandishing wife.

These are the feet of Bryson Evan.

When they get large enough,

They’ll wriggle out from the wrappings of their blanket and learn

About the coolness of tile and the tickliness of grass.

They’ll stand and hold the weight of a boy.

They’ll work their way around the edges of a wooden coffee table

All the while marking their path with toothmarks and boo boos.

They’ll walk.  Heel, toe.  Heel, toe.  They’ll run.

In the evening they’ll get scrubbed clean in the bath before padding down the hallway

In slippers and jammies for stories and just another glass of water,

And please, please just one more story and I’m still thirsty.

When they’re large enough, they’ll step up into a yellow bus

And ride to the school two miles from home.

They’ll outrun the bully and shuffle through math and history.

They’ll learn to dance.

One day they’ll find how the gas pedal in a car makes distance

Between what is mom and dad … and what is out there.

And they’ll go to college and they’ll get married and they’ll

Walk behind a mower, flinging the pungency of grass

Across the yard of their newly-mortgaged home.

And then one day, not really very far from now,

They’ll hurry down a hospital corridor so they don’t miss

The moment when another baby boy

Feels the first cool draft of air on his

Pink and trembling feet.