This Week

Your father lost his job. Or rather, lost the opportunity to do his job next year.
We lost the opportunity to point out the grope and point of icicles.
We did not call the realtor. We did not make the bid on the house with the new blue counter tops and the built in book shelves with glass doors.

The bartender had to remind me that "dirty" meant with olives.
I watched Keats walk through a door, saggy with rain. I watched his love, Fanny, fall into a puddle of her own skirts out of grief.
I watched you roll from your back to your tummy.
I watched you put your hands on either side of daddy's whiskered face, watched you run your fingers lightly along his jaw.
I stared at sun on snow and branches while my students wrote.
I read, over and over again, "I think this photo was taken during the depression."
"The photographer wants to evoke sympathy for the girls."
"All of the family's belongings are tied to the back of the car. There are buckets and a frying pan and two mason jars. One is dark and one is light."

I ordered artichoke dip. I ordered szechuan chicken. I ordered a medium pizza.
You grabbed and tried to hold between your fingers the skin of my neck, the skin of my cheeks, your father's nose, your father's earlobe.
I dressed you in your "peace" onesie. I dressed myself in gray pants and black boots.
I said, "here are my office hours. here is the tentative schedule. here is the list of questions to ask yourself while you analyze the photograph."

I tied heart shaped balloons to the Baby Bjorn. I draped a blinking heart necklace around your throat. I swirled red icing onto chocolate devil's food cupcakes.

It is Valentine's Day. Requests and dedications all day on Minnesota Public Radio. Jonathan in Chanhassen is dedicating Clair de Lune to Emily and Emily is somewhere listening.

I called home from the restaurant last night. I left a message on our answering machine so that when we arrived home today, sober, we'd remember what we said when we were drunk with hope and possibility the night before.