It's been a good weekend, Thisbe, but a long weekend. The weather has been cooperating, which is lovely. Minneapolis wrapped herself up in big blue skies and then sprinkled red and orange leaves on the ground around her for good measure. Everyone and their brother's roommate's mother has been outside. Yesterday, walking around the lake took some real maneuvering saavy. Especially around those who like to walk on one side of the path while their spaniel walks on the other with the leash spread like a jump rope between them. I hate those people.
On Saturday your daddy flew off to Montreal, a city in Canada. Canada always feels to me like a hulking overweight sister who hovers just above us. Canada is north which is not the same as above, Thisbe, but I always imagine the country above, sulking somewhere between Duluth and heaven. Anyway, daddy has been in Canada all weekend at a conference and I have been in Minneapolis and boy am I ready for daddy to come home tonight! I think you are too. You woke up from your nap today screaming and you wouldn't quiet on the ball and you wouldn't quiet when Ricki walked you up and down the stairs. Only the boob quieted you. While Ricki drove Anjuli to the airport I packed you up in the Bjorn and walked us both up to Dunn Bros and we sat on a leather armchair in the sun and read "Catching Fire." Then the barrista with the John Deere hat, David, gave me "Tha Anthologist" so I read that for awhile. On the cover was a picture of a strange fruit, a sort of eggplant violet color, and on the back of the book the same fruit, cut open to reveal an almost semetrical ring of seeds and burnt yellow flesh. The purple and yellow reminded me of Iowa in late fall. Storm clouds rising above the dry stalks, two bands of color, one dry and the other wet, if colors could be that way.
I find myself wanting to type and type, Thiz, wanting to keep saying and saying. None of it important, none of it mattering, certainly not in the future and not even really now, but I want to get it down, because somehow then the day won't seem so lost and blurry.
Anjuli and I walked around the lake. I talked about moving to Valpo and she talked about Carlo's work schedule. When is it too early to ask someone to compromise a career choice? she asked. Would it be better if Peder got a job this year, before we had grown entirely into the cement here? I asked. Not the cement part. I'm adding that now. It doesn't even make sense.
The sun is setting and the sky is bright white, tinged with leftover blue. Bob Dylan is playing. The barristas are slouched against the back counter. The tables are full but the customers are quiet, not like the mornings when everyone chirrups and cackles. There is a 4 o'clock lull over everyone and sparrows are flitting off the edges of buildings and swooping around the electrical wires. Minivans are turning on their lights. The woman leaving the co-op with a pomegranate balanced on top of a carton of spinach pauses and from here I can see her draw in her breath and brush a piece of hair off her forehead and then continue forward into the night.
And I want to keep writing so the day will not be lost. Your father waiting to board his plane somewhere or clutching his boarding pass between his teeth as he unlaces his shoes before going through security. Ricki leaning over a recipe or washing a red pepper, you snuggled to her chest. The urge to make something out of this is so strong and though almost nothing of "note" happens I can never manage to put everything in. What have I forgotten to give you today? I will ask that again: what have I forgotten to give you today?
The forgotten things needle and curdle and finally soften and curl up their edges and disappear. I am wearing a magenta turtleneck. This will not be a day I remember for the rest of my life but why should it be lost? I feel sad for the day. I am on my way home to you now.
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