I am swaying back and forth over the steam . . . praying to the God of salt in boiling water who keeps the eggshell from cracking.
Today I woke in a country of unconscionable choice. My friends and I text a roll call to see who is standing and how. My dog Nessie wants walking but I’m not sure anything’s got legs anymore, certainly not the popular vote.
Mail just dropped through the slot in the box just like any old day. Maybe somehow it won’t be as bad as we fear. There are still so many good things.
I make of list of happinesses:
Elise got engaged. Brianna’s little Oliver is a week old now. Andrew called from Ireland to remind me of my daughter’s heart. Cybelle got that job at Western. The feeling of my son’s earlobes and the center of his forehead. Gregorian Chants. Bagpipes. To be on the last part of the last chapter and know I’ll make my deadline. The expensive lotion from Taylor. The mermaid stone from Jane. The bird candle from Suzanne . . . the birds in Jill’s office . . . the birds in the airport. Yesterday’s lunch to celebrate my daughter’s first vote in a presidential election that included a woman’s name on the ticket.
Here’s to those huevos, and here’s to celebrating before they were broken. And if I bake bread or write thank you notes or make soup, then oxygen will start to flow through this bag of bones again.
Outside my kitchen window, there is a geesyness of sky and November’s leaf music. The sun still rose over a world that has seen far worse, I tell myself.
I place the three eggs in the pan. I add more salt to the water, less to the wound.
© L. Seaver 11/9/16