Very Hard To Do, But Worth It...

Placing the juiciest, plumpest, biggest, most purple and perfect blackberry into my mom's mouth instead of my own. This afternoon, Issac, my mom, and I went on a walk and found the very first blackberries of Summer (Spring? Is there even a difference between these two seasons in Florida? Does Summer begin, not in late June, but the first week that the temperature hits 90?)

I have to say, it was amusing to watch a two-year-old pick blackberries. This child of mine has a strong will-power and an unordinary fondness for fruit. We explained to him that blackberry bushes have thorns, and he has to be careful, and he did well at first as he picked the berries off the perimeter of the bush. But as Issac reached into the thorny, tangled interior, he looked like a lab rat in a bad experiment. He would stick his hand into the bush, get poked, jerk his hand back, and say "Ouch!" Then he would do it again. And again. And again. And again...


Other fun things we have been doing: swimming in wading pools, washtubs, buckets, laundry baskets, and, yes, municipal pools too.

Summer has arrived in Florida!

The Silent Ones

I remember the dust on your truck.
I remember picking corn, and looking at your knee.
I remember grinding the cane, and pouring the juice in the vat.
You stirred it with a long stick.

Do you remember the skinny girl of eight, with tangled hair and no front teeth?
You'd always stick your hand on my bony knee
and say, "This here mule's hungry for some corn."

I ran away from you, laughing, for twenty years.

When I came back, I was hopelessly big,
and you were far too small.

I was afraid of your silence,
hoping the blinds would be open so I could look out the window.

Did you know that Grandma was always telling me to "TALK LOUDER!"?

Who is this man, who sits
at the head of the Thanksgiving table
in his white hat?
Who is he, talking about the slaughter of hogs?

I'm just a daughter's daughter's daughter.
You would have recognized me three years ago.

Before you died, I sat in your room.
You sang hymns, and I felt ashamed for not knowing the words.


Romance at Thirty-four

By day, your arms hang thick with bracelets;
turquoise and silver, malachite. "Teacher
jewlery," your son jokes; but you don't care.
You pin amber and agate in your hair.

You fall asleep by eight o'clock each night.
Is this what you thought you'd make of your life?

Throwing a pizza oven-ward
still happens most nights near five o'clock,
but these days your son brings friends.
They cram bread in their mouths and play videogames.
You let them eat off of tv trays.

Didn't you think, by now, that you'd be a wife?

You hate the swollen, glowing, bedroom moon.
It illuminates the absence.

Remember when your son was two, and you
ate ramen noodles and craved anything new?

You have your teaching job by now; the brats
drip from you like diamonds. You wear your suits
and skirts and rings. Your hair goes up: a twist
wrapped around a pen. Piano lessons, violin,

you have the things you could not have back then,
but you are every bit as lonely.

I'm Going To Talk About My Boobs...

After all, they are such a large part (figuratively speaking, of course) of who I am. Superficial as this sounds, it's true. My boobs, small as they may be, are my crowning glory. Frankly, I like them. A lot. And would not ever want to see them go. In my breasts lies my woman-ness, my femininity, my softness and sensuality. My breasts are almost more important to me than my hands or my eyes.

It is with this in mind that I think of my aunt--very much like a mother to me--who was diagnosed with breast cancer last week. In fact, one out of every eight women is diagnosed with breast cancer.

I know a lot more than eight women.

The woman I work for was diagnosed with breast cancer last June, and two weeks later she underwent a double mastectomy. All year she has been going to chemotherapy and radiation treatments. Another close friend of the family has ovarian cancer and must decide if she will die in 4-6 months, or undergo treatments and die within 2-3 years.

Watching her continue to be a loving being, full of life and love, is absolutely heroic. How do we come to terms with our own mortality without becoming bitter, angry, and resentful? We all know that we are supposed to die one day, but we feel robbed if that day comes before we think it should.

When I had a panic attack last Friday, after hearing the news (or lack of news, rather, when I asked my aunt the results of her biopsy and she "didn't want to talk about it"), I realized that I have not yet come to terms with the idea of my own mortality, or even the mortality of those who I love.

Because I am an eternal optimist, I don't give much thought to death, or to losing people whom I love. But maybe, just maybe, it would be better for me to hold a place inside that realizes that life is precious, beautiful, and sacred, and is never to be taken for granted. It sounds like the practical, sound advice you hear all the time, but it's so different when you are actually faced with the very real idea of someone's death. Life is not a guaranteed right, it is a gift. Anyone who I love could be gone tomorrow. I should prepare myself so that I won't feel so cheated if that day comes, in my judgement, too soon.

I have no idea how to deal with this. My aunt has caught the cancer in the very earliest stage, and chances of success are high. Odds are good that she will be a breast cancer survivor. But cancer is scary and mean. And we are all left to do some serious reckoning about the meaning of life and death. And about the meaning of our breasts, and how much of them we would be willing to cut off if we had breast cancer. And how much we would miss them.