It’s Friday morning and my daughter has asked for a pajama day, which is fine with me because it’s been a long week and currently the temperature outside is 16 degrees. I have a prescription to pick up and a library book on hold, but I could easily stay home in my sweatpants all day. I make myself an extra cup of coffee and we make a plan to meet up at 10 o’clock to read side by side. Between now and then, I want to sit at the computer to write. I’m thinking about things like soul care and …
lyric essay
November 23
Let the day begin before sunrise. Let it begin in utter darkness, totality, a question about whether it rained as the pavement shimmers under the streetlight or its your early eyes playing tricks on you. Let the morning uncurl its fingers while you start the coffee then place your forehead on the yoga mat to stretch your hips, back then right then left. Back arched, heels to the floor—this is how to start the day. A bit of movement, a sling of momentum. Hold the coffee in your right …
November 19
In a rare moment when I’m in my office, I hear a knock, then see a head peeking around the opening door. “Do you have a minute?” my daughter asks. I’m sitting at the computer tapping out words that I can feel are all wrong. “Yes,” I say. “What’s up?” She puts out her arms as she walks to me, then we’re embracing, my head on her chest because she’s tall enough now that when I’m seated, I fit snuggly below her chin. Her heart is beating loudly in my ear, which has become one of my favorite …
October 29
On further investigation of myself, I’ve found that perhaps I’m not all that interesting. I keep looking to the past—the past as if it has the answers, the past as if it’s a map of where to go next. I’ve circled and circled, twisted and spied. There’s so much there in the past but also nothing. Nothing of consequence, anyway. Let’s just move on. I revisit the poet. Something compelled me to write about Anne Sexton, the first poet who ever blew through my heart. I wrote about being an …
October 16
I made the cider donuts, all that sugary goodness, but not before I burned my wrist because I wasn’t wearing an oven mitt. Because the kids were bickering in the other room. Because I grabbed what I could get my hands on. Because I wasn’t paying attention. It wasn’t the first time. A year and a half ago, on my daughter’s tenth birthday, I burned the same wrist pulling cupcakes out of the oven. Now I have two marks—one healed, the other fresh—as evidence of my neglect. This new one doesn’t …