I Drink in the Morning

Okay, so several months ago I ran out of coffee creamer. I can't drink it black and all I had was Bailey's. So I used that and was giggling to myself that I was drinking alcohol in the morning. So I started to write a poem about it and the poem was supposed to be funny. However, sometimes my muse has a mind of her own and instead what came out was a very depressing poem. I'm still proud of it but it is vastly different than my original vision. Oh well.

I only drink in the morning
when the windows are barely alight
I care little if it's wrong
the liquor's warmth feels too right

I only drink in the morning
a splash one, two, three
blurs the lines of night and day
and pushes my mind free

Of the constant stream
of worries and fears
that numb my body
and stain my cheek with tears

I only drink in the morning
but worry for me not
I won't be here much longer
to drink more gut rot

I'll head for the west
and leave it all behind
I'll let the wind take me
and lead me about blind

To my last destination
To my resting place
I'll break into pieces
And leave no trace


See what I mean! Where the hell did that come from? I sound like a drunk, depressed old man. Maybe I'm turning into one...lately I have been referring to all my interns as young'uns and whipper-snappers. I've also been grumpier than usual and I'm craving prunes and re-runs of Matlock.

Oh God.

Domesticity

I don't know why I've entered this weird world of old-fashioned domesticity. I've started a quilt...nowhere near finished but I started it. I'm canning up a storm and making soups to freeze from our garden. And now... I'm making pie. Not just any pie, apple pie completely from scratch from my very own apple tree that we planted 5 years ago. Why am I doing this? Sam even asked me why we've all of sudden jumped into this world. I think I've figured it out, at least for me. My grandmother, Mama Joe, was an amazing woman. She, to me, was the epitome of a feminist whether she realized it or not. She worked, she gardened, she raised her family, she cooked from scratched, she canned, she played baseball, she hunted, she cradled her dying husband, she crocheted baby booties, she hugged you hard, she disciplined, she loved. She was everything. And she was unexpectedly taken from me before I turned 17 and my world crumbled.

And now as I get older, I'm losing my memories of her. I've always struggled to retain memories. I don't know if it was because I fractured my skull at a young age or because my brain doesn't have the capacity...I don't know. But I reach for fragments of her and come up with barely a wisp. I can barely remember the sound of her voice or feel of her arms or the sight of her nimble fingers creating something beautiful. So in a way, I'm trying to find her in these tasks. I talk to her in my head sometimes while I blanch tomatoes for canning. I imagine what she might think of her oldest granddaughter mixing ingredients for her first pie crust, praying she gets it right. I bet she would get a good chuckle at my frustration at the sewing machine. By throwing myself at these old fashioned, some would say out-dated activities, I'm reconnecting with her. I can feel her again. I know that she is proud of me even though I cuss up a storm while doing all of these things.

I'm finding my way back to her, one jar, one quilt square, one pie at a time.