Dear Dad

I can't believe you're sixty-three today. I suppose it makes sense, since none of us are spring chickens these days. But still, it does seem strange, that my best friend should be approaching his mid sixties. That said, I think you often feel younger than me in spirit. Younger than most people, actually. And I'm so thankful for that. I'm thankful for your energy and your spirit. For your celebratory mindset and your profound ability to not sweat the small stuff. It may be that you're just plain oblivious to it in the first place, but that's one of those Whitmire traits that mom would exclaim is both a blessing and a curse. 

I think about when I was too sick to get off the couch. About those days I was sleeping through almost all the daylight hours and waking up after 16, 17 hours,

In a painful haze. 

I think about going to the state fair during the height of my illness, because you said we could do it. And while it was wholly a miserable experience, and I felt rotten for the entirety of the time we were there, I was so happy. 

That you know me. That you know I hate missing out on anything. And that you weren't going to let me. 

That you fight for me. To be who you know I'm capable of being. That you support me. 

And that you love without reserve. 

Thank you for being you. I'm glad you were born, and gladder still that I was. 

I love you. Happy birthday. 

Black Friday

I have to be honest with you, I've never understood Black Friday. 

I like a good deal as much as the next person. And a new pair of shoes or a new outfit probably a little bit more. 

So that's not it.

I guess you could say I have the desire, but not the energy. 

We've just spent Thursday. Baking. Cooking. Listening to music. Watching football. Playing outside. Taking our dogs to the river. Gathering around a table with family and friends, giving thanks. Celebrating, all the plenty and abundance in our lives. The family. The food. The rich, rich abundance. Our livelihood. Our love. Our happiness.

And it doesn't follow, that the next morning I would race to the store, to buy more things than I had on the day before. When I was abundantly filled and content. 

The one day a year we really celebrate thankfulness. 

For all that we have. That it is enough. That it is too much.

That we don't deserve it.

That we need more on Friday? 

I don't know. 

Thanksgiving

The sun sears my skin as if I walked beneath a microscope's lens. Merciless.

The gravel shifts sandy-like beneath my sandals that pull at my feet. Dust and exhaust fill the air. My eyes dry up and my eyelids flutter. my throat is chalky and gasping. And my thighs. They burn. The mountain roads steep and relentless.

I press my palms against each thigh, rythymic and clomping. I push down and negotiate myself forward.

Stop in the market for a beer. Creole. Horns and shouts. Dehydration. Smile and squint. An achy face and burnt out throat. The throb and pulse of music. Screaming. Goats wailing and children crying. Children laughing. Children arguing. 

The market. Motorcycles and women pushing produce. Wheelbarrows. Sweat stained burlap and creased brows.

Then the corner. Hellos and bonswas. Raging. Tap taps lean around the bends. Grab an elbow to keep from falling.

Little hellos and nods of recognition.

A gravel pathway. The smell of steep ravines and greenery. 

Smiling faces, bound to chairs, peering through wrought iron balconies. 

Bouncing up and down. 

Taking my bag and pulling me by the elbow.

 

Ear splitting grins and detailed descriptions of the day's ongoings.

I am home. 

I am safe.

I am loved.

I am grateful. 

I am thankful. 

And I hope. And I pray, 

That I never forget. 

Seasoning

Tonight I made dinner, just to go through the motions. That feeling just after six, when the last light disappears behind the mountain, but the hum and rumble of the generator is not to be expected until a little past seven. Hungry? Probably. But more than that, something to pass the time in the darkness. In the quiet. 

I made spaghetti with all the vegetables I had bought in the market this week. Mushrooms, onions, garlic, sweet peppers, zucchini, tomatoes, and a little lemon. Casually splattering the sauce with salt, basil, and oregano, I figured, it would all come together. Spaghetti.

And it did. Tangy and salty. If not satisfying, filling, and nutritious. 

But having finished, I felt no different than before I ate.

Hungry. Full. 

Empty. 

There is a difference.

Loneliness is emptying.

And when we are not filling ourselves with distractions, we find it.

The question then comes,

Well. What does it mean.

More than likely, that I have a moderate dose of that seasonal light disorder.

That I am not meant to operate alone. 

And that I am not a chef. 

Filling up the kettle with water, lighting a match and bringing it to the burner, boiling some water for tea. 

I sat down in the darkness, put my hands to my face. 

They smell like garlic. They smell like Steve's hands.

My sweet, garlic handed, handicapped, orphaned Haitian friend. Family. 

I smell my hands and smile. 

There are a lot worse things than cooking dinner for one. 

Morning prayer

God,

Thank you for stillness in the morning. A blue skied and sunny 7 am, after 18 consecutive hours of rain. Thank you for my family, and all the gifts you have given me. Thank you that I am only tasting, what is somebody else's entire existence. Thank you for loving me best, so that I can try to love better. 

Amen. 

Goodnight

I chew on my fingernails and rub my temples. Laying flat on my back, and contemplating the passing of time. How it can be anything, and nothing at all. How it never stops.

About my being here. And how I could be anywhere. About Chris, and about comfort. 

About callings.

I think about Steve in his bed in the other house. The television blaring, his blanket damp. The boys' music jarring and repetitive. 

I think about all of the babies at Mother Theresa's home. Crying. Lonely. Putting themselves to sleep. 

And I have to remember,

My time is a gift. Not a burden 

Morning pray

'Steve, pray for us, please.'

'God, I give you thanks for elizabet. And amen.'

God, I give you thanks for Steve. 

And amen. 

Alone, again.

From the end of the earth I will cry to you. When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I. 

Psalm 61:2