Rambling Day

It should be one long song of praise, the pen moving in time to the lemon balm rising from the mulch, the tulip petals dropping, the eggs in the nest, the plipping rain that is this spring day.

The storm darkened sky, which is really a brightening. The third helping of milky sweet tea in my cup, not the one he gave me and I loved until it broke, but a good one full up, or was not long ago, anyways.

The girl who wants and wants has written to Santa every morning this week (which I admit is only two days), every morning with a new want and asking me, why can’t I have it all? I want love, and so write my own letters each morning asking for it–long run-ons like this one asking, asking. She comes after a while back into my arms, though her own are empty, and before long we take up our pens again.

Last night I sat under the rain dropped roof reading a book until late, only then remembering the roasting pan with it’s half eaten chicken, the husband asleep on the children’s floor, that I had meant to sit quietly relaxing the muscle of my mind, which I do by first softening my tongue, which always seems in need of softening, no matter how many times I remember.

There is thunder, and when the rain stops I call up to the clouds reminding them to soften and spill. They roll on. The claret cup cactus is still in bloom and this morning I saw the yucca’s glorious stalks erupting from their center, the bell blossoms opening. I ate the petals as I walked.

My father came over and listened to my notes from the speech I heard last week by the famous journalist who explained almost everything I have wondered about the world today (she did not comment on Santa). When I was done with my my notes, Papa said, this world is a symphony–magnificent, holy. All you need to do, he told me, the only thing you need to do, is play your own single, small, pure note.

We sat together and our eyes filled with tears, there on the flagstone patio, under the fruit trees dropping tiny frost shriveled apricots around us, next to the bucket of bindweed pulled over the weekend, next to the iris patch with so many dark purple crowns, each one as open as it could be, some still coming, some long since spent.