Monday,
I could wait till Tuesday
If I make up my mind
Wednesday would be fine,
Thursday's on my mind
Friday'd give me time,
Saturday could wait
But Sunday'd be too late

Thursday 6/5
Erranding back & forth, emptying bank account (oh L the settling-up we will do when you return), do-I-have-everything? Quick swing round for girly shoes to go with the dress - I promise photographic evidence of same - discovery of shoe-related luggage-carrying impairment - dinner at airport with
Dad and a quick three-hour flight sharing earphones and finishing cards. Arrive at Bradley Int'l to find it has shrunk. Must be the rain and cold. Carried off by Mom's red van toward Home! and up for hours greeted with tallperson hugs and "Rachie!", with pizza and red wine. Too loud too much too soon; escape to Gram's for quiet catching-up and cat-petting. Write small letter, read Murakami, fall into sleep with the window open.

Friday 6/6
Up with the sun and thank goodness for it - graduation is outside, nice light for pictures, good weather for visitors. Dress-bustle-shuffle-lending of earrings. When did my sister get so gorgeous? Cousins arrive, coffee is made and more coffee, off to Cathedral. Commencement ceremony is lovely. Purple and white hats flying over green field - cheers and alternate words to Pomp & Circumstance courtesy of my brother - photos every which way. I am introduced to every single school friend as well as Peter's cooking teacher and Laura's Latin tutor. Tovah has been introducing herself as PT's "ex-girlfriend." These two are not allowed to sound so grown-up... Lunch out, visits in, and then all is cleaning and running around for the party tomorrow. Long talks with Mom about school and Toronto and future plans. I subsequently beg a headache and escape to talk more with Gram who always knows everything. Friday night hanging out with the former Short People who had been much missed. What's my name again? It's so loud in that house. Unexpected conversations: Peter on past and future War, Laura on literature, Mom on relationships, Dad on a set of near-perfect speakers. All right, maybe Dad's was expected. They are good speakers, handmade by Seth the Engineer in 19-seventy-whatnow? Moment saved in skin: standing outside in the front yard, barefoot with glass of tea in real live grass; two cars go by; crickets and late afternoon.

Love from one being to another can only be that two solitudes come nearer, recognize and protect and comfort each other.

(Han Suyin)

I want a new copy of Momo.

"You see, Momo... it's like this. Sometimes, when you've a very long street ahead of you, you think how terribly long it is and feel sure you'll never get it swept... And then you hurry. You work faster and faster, and everytime you look up there seems to be just as much to sweep as before, and you try even harder…, and you panic, and in the end you're out of breath and have to stop-and still the street stretches away in from of you."
~
"One day, you don't feel like doing anything. Nothing interests you, everything bores you. Feel more and more empty inside, more and more dissatisfied with yourself and the world in general. Then even that feeling wears off, and you don't feel anything anymore. You become completely indifferent to what goes on around you... You forget how to laugh and cry - you're cold inside and incapable of loving anything or anyone... There's no going back... The disease has a name. It's called deadly tedium."

Hyla Brook

By June our brook’s run out of song and speed.
Sought for much after that, it will be found
Either to have gone groping underground
(And taken with it all the Hyla breed
That shouted in the mist a month ago,
Like ghost of sleigh-bells in a ghost of snow)—
Or flourished and come up in jewel-weed,
Weak foliage that is blown upon and bent
Even against the way its waters went.
Its bed is left a faded paper sheet
Of dead leaves stuck together by the heat—
A brook to none but who remember long.
This as it will be seen is other far
Than with brooks taken otherwhere in song.
We love the things we love for what they are.

-- Robert Frost

next time we commit
love, we ought to
choose in advance what to kill.

(margaret atwood, power politics)

Almost home - oh the catching up which pends - would anyone miss me if I moved to the Cape forever? xo