Thursday, November 22, 2012

"You are here with me.  You have been here."

This bright kitchen on the evening of Thanksgiving fills with root smells:  turnip.  And the voluptuous butternut squash.  The onion slices quickly tossed in and spread across the glass baking dish.  Olive oil, sea salt.  Mix with bare hands and rub the oil in after you run water across, the skin glossy.  Waterproof.  Nora sleeps safe and happy after cousin play.

Would you believe me if I told you everything is beautiful?  You would?  I knew you would.

Tom is in a studio in Georgia putting songs on tape late in the night.  I put on an REM song that starts with the sound of the cicadas and the trees and the crickets, and even though it's the wrong season, I imagine where he is.  The trees reach high above his head.  He walks between the studio and his safe, white house, and I hear the gravel under his feet as he talks.

These moments happen all the time.  I hold my hands open.  Thank you.

"I think about this world...And I cry a lot.  But I'm in this kitchen.  Everything is beautiful."


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