My dear friend S, one of America's finest novelists, is attending to his mother's funeral this week. We sent him away with the faintest of blessings, that small thing, the human breath wishing the best and whispering prayers. And, suddenly, ironically perhaps, in this same week, we are told that Cinderella's mom, my mother in law, has suffered an aortic rupture of some sort, and her heart is having trouble working anymore. You don't know, from day to day, I am telling you, you don't know. Prepare yourself for the bad news--for one day it will be about you. I do it by living here in my house with my family. The dogs and tha cat who can't contain her love and butts into my finger on the computer mouse over and over, wrecking what I'm trying to write. I do it Grayson style, Basho style, with plants and birdseed--the cardinals came today in the cold rain, and a burning sparking bright hot goldfinch, as yellow as the mad daffodils beneath the bird feeder. I do it with books and music and food (well, you know--on that perpetual diet, shaving off inches from the Gut of Doom...only about 987 pounds to go--so maybe the food part aint happenin' right now). And, I write.

But a lot of time, I'm just quiet. Quiet enough to feel the minutes stretch and start to go more slowly. Quiet enough, with Eric drumming in the basement and Megan listening to the Killers in her bedroom and Chayo rocking the Spongebob on the 1000 sq. inch satellite TV, to just be. Here. Alive. Awake. Now.

Cid Corman said:

There are things to be said. No doubt.
And in one way or another
they will be said. But to whom tell

the silences? With whom share them
now? For a moment the sky is
empty and then there was a bird.

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