IN SOLITUDE
I am always in a panic but there is not time enough to get things in the right order, there is not time enough to stop and say something beautiful. I am packing my bags for Paris and kissing my daughter goodbye. I am practicing how to be a good American. I have very finicky ways of saying please and thank you. I have very finicky ways of eating something described as delicious. I always forget to say grace when I sit down, perhaps that is what's wrong with my cooking. Perhaps God would make sure my oatmeal was cooked better if I said a couple of “This Thy Services” before I grabbed a spoon. Maybe if I knelt down in front of a young handsome boy and told him stories of my wretched childhood. Maybe he would bravely pour on a lot of sugar and a large dollop of milk into my bowl. Everything is easier with sugar and milk. Desperation requires desperate measures. Everything is easier once you say sorry. Everything is easier once you say beautiful and mean it, once you give away to a general desire to cry. But we have plenty of time. There is time enough for you to paint red streaks down the side of my face. There is time enough for you to finish Hemmingway. In the morning you can wake me up with a lazy slap on the jaw. You can read from a book propped on your chest. You can sing it to me in Spanish, Despierte a mi querido y lea con mí.