These pajamas

red fleeced
patterned in snowflakes and penguins
that saw the light of dawn
on Christmas Day
have seen their worth
ever since
some weekends they are the first thing
to touch my skin
early morning
the last to come off
late at night

these pajamas have seen me
through housework
baking chocolate chip cookies
cooking dinners for five
they have driven kids to school
even home from ball practice
I'm sure
under coat and runners
stood shivering out in the garage
keeping company as
you worked on vehicles
or plowed the driveway

these pajamas have warmed by the fire
cooled in the doorway
petting dogs, holding cats
watching snow fall
they have comforted me reading
curled up in my chair
dreamed with me writing

and these pajamas
always with room for two
have felt love
with your hands sliding
beneath
and wet
with you so near




      yesterday's soup

      soup of the day
      a spiritless pot of
      boiling water

      floating vegetables
      skimming flavors
      is boring
      tasteless
      weak

      yesterdays soup is a
      hearty blend of life

      potatoes wed carrots

      celery softens
      feathered with noodles

      lima beans ignite corn
      caressed by saffron rice

      basil dancing with thyme

      cayenne pepper seductively
      pulling too close to the edge

      I'd rather be a taste of
      yesterday's soup
      rich
      layered
      savory
      simmered with age
      memories
      stories
      drenched in
      sumptuous
      spice



a wedding and two funerals

It's that time of year again
between birthdays
a month apart
mine and yours

mine, I still wait for that
phone call
no matter where you were
who you were with
you'd call to wish your daughter
happy birthday
and I the same for you

I remember our wedding
two dads
one putting me in the car
at home
you taking me out
walking me down the aisle

laughing as you told us about
knocking on doors that morning
for someone who could
tie your tie
it had been so long

we visited your mom that day
wedding party, pictures and all
descending upon extended care
four months later she died

as I sat there beside her
looking into her eyes
whispering in her ear
that she was going to be
a great grandma

a year later we buried you too
in that same suit
a wedding and two funerals
another stranger
tying your tie

I was home with a five month old baby
when Don came home from
work early, 10 am
chain reaction
she called your nephew
he called mom
she called Don

forty six years old
you died that night in your sleep
the same evening I had
called to say hello
but you were out
bingo calling for the seniors

twenty years old
I still took control
made the calls
planned the funeral
picked out your casket
granite headstone
fought with human resources to
help cover the costs

and fourteen years later
finally
I write about it
a wedding and two funerals



the box

dark walnut
weathered from time and nicks
memories and reminders within
many from
        before my time

a case lined in red velvet, antique
silverware
place setting for eight
gravy ladle, pie fork
and delicate butter knife
once belonging to my husband's
grandmother

passed on to his sister
        before my time
        before our marriage
        before her death

after the accident
he found the pawn
        ticket
among her things

she must have needed the money
more value
than the drawer of family memories

retrieved, the box
now in its reserved place
tucked in the right hand corner
atop our dinning room hutch
continues on as a
part of our own family
        gatherings
        memories

safe from the dim light of
pawn shops

at least for
this
generation




stillborn stories and miscarried dreams

we all taste them
through the lives
of others
catch scent of them

musings and hopes
reminiscing
admiring

falling into the
magnetic pool of
things being greener
on the other side

trick is to swim
break polarity
zestfully graze
our own pastures

in my children
I wonder what
it would me like
to be athletic
musical
a child encouraged

as a woman
marrying first love
so young
muse upon being
a lover

my solitude
reflect upon
being a sister
having two
had her stillborn
and miscarriage lived

a writer
to see through the
eyes of another
mine for those images
words of gold

yet in the end
I wonder what I
see over that fence
and conclude in
reality

I like best to
cultivate my own
soils

hard as
the clay can be
dirty as
my fingers
get


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