Day Off in a Rainy CinCity

A day off after two days dealing with the sequelae of bad brains. We have a few young-uns as patients right now; perhaps harder on the younger nurses and docs since it hits so close to their own ages. Bumps up against that shield of invincibility they carry. For those of us with more years under our belts and wrapped around our waistlines it's easy to see these young victims of fate as our own kids. Their parents are even generally younger than me--I was a late mom, or as the medical terminology states, a "geriatric pregnancy"(...and I heard Hollywood was tough)--and the desire to care for and work towards a child's,albeit 18 or 19 years old, survival is deeply imprinted. At some point as I got older it became easier to commune with families caught in the limbo environment of the ICU quite simply because I can easily imagine how it feels. There but for the grace of God, go I.


But, they're in someone else's hands today while I attempt to do something maternal for my own offspring--help HoneyHaired girl study for Spanish I, send $$$ to CollegeGirl and dutifully write down her suggestions for Christmas gifts. There must not be media input from the outside world at her university since it doesn't appear that she has heard of the "cratering" economy. Still need to clean out the attic closets, but much prefer to procrastinate on that. I have a week off coming up soon. That seems soon enough.


Hubby and I have dance lessons this afternoon. Ballroom dance. We met dancing at Moonlight Gardens at Old Coney though in the years between then and now have lost some of our fleet footwork.
perhaps more like...

I also joined a creative writing class at our newly opened community arts center and am working at revising my work up to now. The other members of the class are working on short stories and novels.I love reading and hearing them read their work, but am totally flabbergasted and envious they they have so many thoughts and words intheir heads. I must have had the method of writing used in charting so thoroughly ingrained into me that I try to distill all my thoughts into small concise pieces--like poetry.

Below is a revision of an earlier work from April 23,2008. See if it works any better for you. The instructor wanted the voice of the bombing victim to be clearer. One student thought the condolences seemed too pat. Those words were from an actual letter that I received, one that gave me great comfort because I knew the writer really knew my brother, so at this point I don't know how willing I am to change his words. We'll see. I can't go to class till next weekend since I work this Sat. and Sun. so there's plenty of time to revise, revise, revise.

Requiem for Two Voices

Zig-zagging with crowds that inhabit my mornings,
I am sorry to learn of Tom's death.
headlong in our daily commutes, grabbing
He and my father, an English teacher at Oak Hills, were
coffees and conversations to go
great friends. I remember his wit, vibrancy,
pell-mell, in and out of doorways, leaving trails of words in our wake.
and passion like it was yesterday.
Buses bellow, stop, and move on. Backpacks and bags push and crush,
I'm sorry for the loss
the sky splits open, an almighty bang, and silence.
of your fossil-collecting uncle, brother, and son.
Sidewalks bubble with breath as smoke and bodies fill my eyes.
My deepest condolences.