I Miss My Brain
Today I tried to open the office door with my car unlock button. I know there is a more efficient name for the car unlock button fob thing, but I don't have it right now. I had trouble driving without unnecessary impact. I showed up with my daughter for ballet at the wrong time. And the wrong day.
I used the suddenly vacant space of time to take the dog and the never-to-be-professional ballet dancing daughter to the sub-freezing dusk "no dogs allowed" park, instead. We ran from one end of the frozen tundra golf course and back, with a 4 month old puppy running circles around us. The air was biting, the light was low. It was hard to see the white puppy in the white snow. It felt wonderful. My daughter and I looked at each other from across a space of field, knowing that we had done the dog good. There was a big stone, the size of a resting cow, that I had never seen up close before. The inscription on the side said something about in memory for all the solders of the war of 1812 who died in hospital, or camp, or something like that, "and are buried here." I think I am going back tomorrow with the dog and reading it again. I saw the placard and year, but thought Teddy Roosevelt and wondered why folks from the Spanish American War infirmaries would be brought up this far north and put in the middle of the golf course. I decided that there must be a reason, and then ran after the dog.
See, I miss my brain.
I am giving up all my cookbooks except for an old Martha Stewart comfort food soft bound. I keep it on display, near a picture of me in a vase full of deep pink pebbles, no water, no plant. The stones keep my small, incredibly photoshopped smiling face pushed up against the vase wall. It's the only picture of me in the house, and it sets beside Martha because I think it is funny to have us together. She is pre-indictment. I am in a vase full of stones. It's perfect.
The cookbooks are unnecessary. I will never understand food like Nigella, or be a vegetarian as all kind folks. The Four-Ingredient Cookbook gift is too sad to open. I have a cookbook from Marlboro, something about chili and carne. It's called Evening Lights, which is even sadder commentary than the Four-Ingredient number.
I used the suddenly vacant space of time to take the dog and the never-to-be-professional ballet dancing daughter to the sub-freezing dusk "no dogs allowed" park, instead. We ran from one end of the frozen tundra golf course and back, with a 4 month old puppy running circles around us. The air was biting, the light was low. It was hard to see the white puppy in the white snow. It felt wonderful. My daughter and I looked at each other from across a space of field, knowing that we had done the dog good. There was a big stone, the size of a resting cow, that I had never seen up close before. The inscription on the side said something about in memory for all the solders of the war of 1812 who died in hospital, or camp, or something like that, "and are buried here." I think I am going back tomorrow with the dog and reading it again. I saw the placard and year, but thought Teddy Roosevelt and wondered why folks from the Spanish American War infirmaries would be brought up this far north and put in the middle of the golf course. I decided that there must be a reason, and then ran after the dog.
See, I miss my brain.
I am giving up all my cookbooks except for an old Martha Stewart comfort food soft bound. I keep it on display, near a picture of me in a vase full of deep pink pebbles, no water, no plant. The stones keep my small, incredibly photoshopped smiling face pushed up against the vase wall. It's the only picture of me in the house, and it sets beside Martha because I think it is funny to have us together. She is pre-indictment. I am in a vase full of stones. It's perfect.
The cookbooks are unnecessary. I will never understand food like Nigella, or be a vegetarian as all kind folks. The Four-Ingredient Cookbook gift is too sad to open. I have a cookbook from Marlboro, something about chili and carne. It's called Evening Lights, which is even sadder commentary than the Four-Ingredient number.
posted by Cate at 11:40 em
0 Comments:
Skicka en kommentar
<< Home