That Lovely Unfolding

One writes one is tired and so one is. At last a walk in the moonlight, at last the silvery pines. Near hay bales brushed with snow he remembered the storm that was coming - word of the storm I mean - and an old student who had not enjoyed his class. Let us watch a movie, a helpful one.

Scallops and green beans and later a local whiskey. "The team that wins is my favorite." Memory moves us in a way that photographs cannot but still we insist on cameras and why. The bows of the Pequots should not have been forsaken.

Over chess we discussed Henry VIII's marriage difficulties and then - as always - how one is supposed to integrate Gandhi into anything. Bullets fly, in a way. She calls herself a deadly Scrabble player. While later still you fell to your knees and in the light of that space - that lovely unfolding - I grew attentive indeed and after nearly wept.

Nearly is not helpful, not at all. Robert Frost recalled out where the pond was just visible and just as quickly discarded. While on the stretch of road we walk - the only risk of traffic we face at that hour - I owned that I was Emily's equal in language but not insight - especially psychological though spiritual too - and then laughed out loud, a real belly laugh to the stars. Christmas always results in a stomach ache of sorts.

One writes instead of sleeping and soon enough comes to regret. To woe? I remember the goats I slaughtered and how unsatisfying that was, that meat that way, and how hard I cried after the kids were in bed and how you held me so. And is this - was that - what you wanted, my dear?