Monday, September 21, 2009

Wait for an Autumn day.

I want to write about so much tonight, but the words don't much want to come. They're wrapped up in this outside air, this brisk night that makes me want to open the window wider than I have in weeks (and I do). I want to lean on a poet's words and find in them how I feel instead, though Adam Zagajewski's single appropriate poem tonight, the one entitled "Wait for an Autumn Day," it doesn't quite connect like I want it to. The parallel I look for just isn't there. I want to speak of this change in seasons, the closing of a chapter, this end that we all knew would come soon enough, this end that precedes a ritualistic beginning. The words are inside. They're all trapped inside. I can only think them, as they won't come out the right way otherwise. Read these few words, then ... read into them for meaning.

Tonight I think more about how my step-grandma (the same one who'd rather punch me in the arm than give me a hug) and how she fell and broke her other hip over the weekend. The fact she'd broken the first was news to me. As she fast approaches her 98th birthday, I just sort of assumed she was indestructible. I guess not, right? Now, as these seasons change and she finds herself prisoner to the healing process, she, too, must change. One way or another, all will be made new again.

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