- I sat on the floor in my friend's condo so his kitty had easier access to me. The kitty is too polite or skittish to join me on the sofa. He misses his human.
- I'm reading and rereading Galway Kinnell's "Farewell" from When One Has Lived a Long Time Alone. Earlier, I listened to the Haydn piece he wrote the poem after, "Symphony in F-sharp Minor, "Farewell."
"Now all the players have gone but two violinists,/who sit half facing each other, friends who have figured out what/they have figured out by sounding it upon the other,/and scathe the final phases."
He dedicated the poem to his friend, Paul Zweig. I want to write this poem. I want to dedicate it to Karen or Kevin. Or maybe Bill or Cat or Laura or Siva or Carol. The first two are gone from me. The others? I have time to write different poems to them.
I have time.
- My street is quiet. Normally, cars, cars, cars, roaring. And at this time of year, power tools. All I hear is the hum of electricity, my fingers on the keyboard.
- The top of my left hand itches. I am allergic to something in my friend's house, and it's taken root in my skin and lungs.
- Today, I'm changing myself back into what I never was.
- To do: pay that bill and that one, work on book list, fold clothes, vacuum (I won't), listen to daughter when she speaks.
- Confession: I am timid. And cowardly. And bitchy.
- Confession: I am brave. And kind. And open.
- Sudden surging of mother missing. Ah. Yes. Mother's Day approaches.
- Yesterday evening when I returned at twilight to my house from watching kitty and other errands, I saw a burgundy sedan parked where my daughter parks her blue Avalon when she is home. Engine was running. Two young women sat inside. The driver glared at me as I turned toward my garage. I wanted to go up to them and ask them if they were waiting for someone, but their anger shook the car, so I went into my house, locked my deadbolt and scooped up my own kitty, who has been lonely for me.
- There is nothing to see here.