In a way it’s easier to imagine this is Fall in a big, grey city. Except, our clothes are more crumpled now, the chill a yawning (desperate?) tug where Summer is never far from our minds.
For some reason I remember lemons. Maybe these are remnants of being born to a metaconscious generation (my Nana’s scrubbed linoleum mingling inseparably with commercials of “lemony fresh”), but I seem to remember a bowl of lemons on her bright table in a kitchen forever buzzing with, oh, all of us. There would have been some variety of anise-scented cookie originating from the same presence that scolded grown daughters and entreated a husband three rooms away.
Countless grandchildren underfoot.
And all of us eager planets (or awe-filled, nonetheless), hovering in and around this arena of butcher block and dusted kitsch., of loving industry, of practical affection. Maybe the only reason I’m here. Hanging onto mementos such as, “Never marry a man who doesn’t see you to the door” and vague references to the old Pennsylvania neighborhood. The sense that she has always known these things, even as they are fading under me.
This awesome awesome story was written and given to me by one of my sparkliest friends from portland (PDX!)...Clare Sabatini...she makes me smile all the time because she *gets* the entire process of creating and how exciting and fulfilling it can be. I think she's an awesome writer. but she's an awesome artist, too. You've seen her work on here...here's one of her pieces with my writing. and also here . thx clare! xxx so so so so much, lovely!
the lovely lemon drawing that i love love is by another friend i love love, Rafael Rozendaal. thx!!