The last day of April

and it's my Dad's 83rd birthday. Last night I was making a chocolate sour cream cake 

for this occasion and he was watching "The Unforgiven", and he looked up at me and said, 

"we've had a lot of birthdays together". I'm wondering if this endurance in time, this 

persistent scramble to understand, is the real hallmark of love?

As far as I can tell

this is a solitary time for her, although her days seem crowded with activity and change.

Just opening the door,

Enmeshed :

These days I can't help thinking about how we are all rolled up in one another's lives-- 

it's unwieldy and intimate-- sometimes claustrophobic, sometimes all the comfort I need.

Every Friday afternoon,

there is an hour when I sit across the room from my daughter and watch as she puzzles out the details 

of Satie with her piano teacher. Her concentration shows in her straight spine and I am undone 

by the strand of hair spilling down her back.

Rain seems to carry us

through the flowering trees and into another time. 

 

After the party,

a few flowers and a tip of the hat to Morandi.

Seeing the girls at this distance

I can almost imagine them traveling the world on their own, and I feel a crack and
a shudder like the instant an iceberg breaks in two--a seam of cold water outlining 

the long white scar.