SOME OF WHAT CAN BE SAID
ON YOUR JANUARY BIRTHDAY,
KAREN,
We're still in bed when Tim
calls
New Year's morning. It's
early
before his work on the
mountain.
We're in our pajamas
talking about last night,
having
our first talk of the year.
Tim
says he'll call you tomorrow
on
your birthday. Your 75th.
We
watch quilters tell stories
with
fabric and color
on
American Quilters.
Tomorrow,
on your birthday,
we'll
drive to Seattle, see
Warren,
93, your brother-in-law; and
Aunt Phyllis,
101, a day
with
living ancestors. I watch
today
as I'll witness tomorrow,
you,
Karen, family matriarch,
wife
of 51 years. As I write
you
carry dishes to the kitchen,
Ahh, your
cry, and I know
you've
stepped on the ice cube
I
didn't pick up. Last night
we
fed our daughters, sons-in-law,
and
grand children pulled pork
and
cracked crab. We have
this
day to ourselves, one day
from
last year to your birthday.
We
practice this catch-up
like
we know what it is.
Watching
politicians on television
we're
drawn to their hair,
talking
about comb-overs,
disagreeing
even with the same definition.
This
is a new year, the Rose Bowl,
and
again we're in it.
I've
marinated Mexican shrimp
and
at half-time I'll put them in a pan
with
diced Serrano chiles, we'll sit at table
and
swath them in melted butter.
Tonight
we'll watch a movie.
I
love you to the barber's and back.
Jim
1
January 2020
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