i think i want to name our first child phinneus. (given it's a boy, of course).
i re-read a separate peace last spring and now the notion is not to be dislodged.
think of it: we'll call him finny when he's little, finn as he grows older and self-conscious of youth.
and the name'll serve as a compass of sorts. a benchmark, a weight tying him to fealty and courage and the pursuit of joy.
i don't know why it's been on my mind as of late. but now it's written down so i can stop worrying about trying to remember or the encroaching curtain of forgetfulness.
take this for what you will.
love, love,
yours. ever yours.
a letter to the man who'll make me an honest woman
dear husband-to-be,
you know what i want?
to hear bare-feet on the old-wood-floor.
to hear the creak and strain and clomp.
and know that they're yours. your feet.
that's all.
love, love,
the girl listening from the bed
to my one-day coffee cohort:
sometimes i go to call out to you. sitting in my plump reading chair with my coffee on the desk and a large bowl of oatmeal before me--flax seeds, blueberries, almonds and all. and i read something. sitting there i come across some words that draw all the breath from my body and i stretch my arms to the sky, and my toes to the wall and there is this impulse:
babe. i want to call out. i want to turn my head to you, babe, listen to this. these words...have you ever heard anything so remarkable?
and then i remember that you're not there. and i could be sad. but i'm not. because you will be. soon enough, you will be.
love, love,
me
disclaimer: part iii
i spilled coffee on my laptop last week--on the keys. and in an attempt to dry it up before it reached the...well, whatever it is that it reaches before the computer stops working, i pulled out my hairdryer.
i melted the shift key. the ctrl key now sticks.
i'm a disaster.
{most days, i'm a disaster}.
i'm the girl who spills coffee on her laptop. i wish i wasn't but i am. (and i can say that now because it's not the first time it's happened). i'm terribly judgmental and i complain. all the time, i complain. and i second guess and doubt--i'm a veritable whirling dervish of insecurities.
but i am funny. every once in a while, when you least expect it, i make a good joke--a mouthful of a joke that'll make your cheeks hurt and your eyes burn.
i want to grow vegetables in the backyard. i want to go to the farmer's market every saturday. i want our children to grow up in the kitchen--surrounded by whole grains and colorful fruit and ice cream we make in the cuisinardt. that's not too much to ask is it?
you do know i'm going to be that crazy mom who doesn't allow refined sugar in the house (or at least holds off for as long as possible). i'll be the mom making vegan cookies for the bake sale and packing brown sack lunches with zucchini fries and raw-goat-cheese pizza.
i don't have a mind for dates or numbers. i'll forget all that stuff. or confuse it. or wake one morning and realize the trip i've been planning for several months was off by two days. and so there will be a mad shuffle as flights are rearranged and work is rearranged and the whole thing will be so ridiculous all we'll be able to do is laugh. because it's small fries. that stuff is small fries. i'll remember the good stuff: where we went on our first date and what we ate and your shoes, too. i'll remember your shoes.
it's gonna be a hard life. because life is hard. but it'll be really worth-it. i promise you that--i promise the worth.
and i promise you the attempt. the attempt to be good. and the attempt to be kind. to not worry so much. to not care what others think. to not complain at every turn. the attempt at humor--always, the attempt at a joke.
i promise you the space between perfection and utter chaos. the marrow of life--that'll be my gift to you.
me
a love letter to our future life (the vespa dream).
we're gonna have a black vespa, you and i.
for the two of us, it'll have to be black.
we'll tackle manhattan with that vespa.
find the perfect basket to fit our groceries,
abandon it on nights when we've drunk
too much at our favorite west village haunt.
returning the next morning for a restorative mocha
before we push in the key and speed back home. home,
where we'll collapse in bed with groans and giggles
and pass out till late afternoon. i'll wake to find you looking
right at me: lets do it again, you'll say. a slow smile will fill
me as i burry my head in that special, sloping valley
of your neck and you'll know i am
lost. i am yours. and i will go. of course
i will go.