61 of #100day challenge
Oh, it is late again. I must needs hit the hay soon and set my alarm again as tomorrow is a yoga teaching day. Janet generally won't get up until I do because she doesn't like to make her own coffee.
It is so hard sometimes to realize that the mother I knew is never coming back. No more long conversations. No more shopping. Not much laughing. No more trying to feed me things or even to please me at all. Inasmuch as I have/had plenty of resentments, I miss her. Maybe if I were a different person, a more patient person, a more focussed person, I could still get some of those things out of her, but I generally don't. Just the caregiving and the day-to-day take all the "extra" out of me. I could sit with her in the living room and watch The Big Bang Theory, Everyone Loves Raymond, The Golden Girls, Family Feud, and Shark Tank but I am not, regrettably, that person.
Fox is insisting on being in my face. My face needs to be in the pillows.
BETWEEN TWO WORLDS
The stripped almond of the plane is gone,
veering against an anchored moon.
Cloud waste spews out over the red
tiles of Belgium. You beat a tympanum
of cloud; I drum deserted cobblestones.
Now into your moving star I toss
my calendar, the shadow of a house,
and normal days. We meet as two gulls
might, in a cinema of sky, the green sea
under, the green eye of the sea scanning
the alternate shores of night.
The starry field is ours to trace.
Between the hour and the zero hour,
tideless as in an aquarium,
the virginal water clocks unwind,
the luminous frescoes smile and sway,
and in that lambent medium
tomorrows bite off yesterday.
— Rosemary Thomas, The New Yorker, October 29, 1954 issue
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