Can we agree to at least try to have no secrets?
Earlier this week the moon was a faint sliver behind rain clouds. Sophia and Fionnghuala were talking about racism in YA fantasy and I was happy listening even though I was often confused. This was near the bend in Route Nine where the river deepens and people sometimes park to fish.
My favorite time of day is about 6:30 because that is when Chrisoula and I sit with our tea and talk. Actually we stand (and one of us drinks coffee) but our souls sit. Our souls sit side by side at an ancient stone table and all the red birds and turtles we've ever known gather round to bless us. The kitchen is warm and full and we are both very happy.
Robert encourages me to try something new with the twenty sentences (sort of like Jasper asking what happens if you make it twenty-one). He suggests less emphasis on form and more on narrative. He says "tell a different story" a lot. Something is being elided but elision is not a crisis. I said that, not Robert.
When I asked Chrisoula about the Man-without-Shoes she said "who?" In that moment it was clear that the cross was optional, a self-imposed crucifixion fooling nobody, so I gave up and climbed down. How lucky to find the one who does not wish us crucified but how much luckier to find the one who doesn't even know there is a cross!
Related: when I was little and had to wash dishes, the water was scalding so I asked which spigot made it cold. My grandmother refused to show me, saying "Reagans know how to handle pain." In my family that is a story about love so I washed dishes that way for fifty years until this morning when Chrisoula said impatiently "your grandmother was a mean drunk" and turned the cold water on.
Can I tell you a story about love
you just did
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