My sweet Aunt Mary would absolutely say that it is not a waste of time to spend all day trying to count the leaves on a single tree. What greater way to spend one’s time than analyzing each forked twig and bough, penciling on paper the exact tally for limb 27.4? All my powers of focus, balance, strength, and intellect are at play, and Amelia (that’s the name of the tree in question) absolutely adores the attention. It’s been years since we spent an entire day together and we’ve missed one another immensely. I may or may not complete the task, but that is not important. The act of singular wonder amidst nature’s display of resilience is the thing.
My dear friend Mary would also understand my anger at certain words when they will not appear in my mind’s screen, how my brain screams words like resentment and frustration and hate at the missing word, but what I really mean is, please come back, I miss you, I need you, don’t leave me.
Mary and I know we’re not invited, but still sort of wish we could experience being a whirling dervish because there’s something in the spinning magic of their dance that speaks to our souls.
Once, when I was a bird, I flew over Mary as she took her morning walk along the tree line. I waited to see if she would notice me, but she seemed lost in thought, or maybe prayerful. She chuckled to herself, as though laughing at her own joke, then stopped to study something in the dirt.
When I grow up, I want to be Mary’s dog Percy. Oh, to be loved with such devotion and cared for in my old age, as Percy was. To be accepted, encouraged, admired, and appreciated just for being me—stinky, silly, lazy, and a devoted friend. To sit all day and listen to Mary chat and read, napping with my head in her lap as she scratches my ears, saved from rough beginnings by the kindness of that gracious lady. And when I died, I would not argue about whether or not God made me. I would know.
@Home Studio – 361st poem of the year (After reading Mary Oliver’s book of poems A Thousand Mornings.)
Oliver, Mary. A Thousand Mornings, Penguin Books, 2012.
Runner ups for the Mary Oliver photos to accompany my poem:
Photo taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.
Christmas morning was all the fun and family it should be this year, with 3 little ones to enjoy the excitement of gifts and games.
The grown-ups sat around drinking coffee and feasted on homemade cinnamon rolls, egg tater tot casserole, mountains of bacon, biscuits and gravy, eggnog bread pudding with eggnog whipped cream.
There was just the right amount of silliness and chaos and squeals, and plenty of laughter, as we all reconnected.
We continued the tradition Mema liked to share from her childhood— orange, apple, pecans, walnuts, and peppermints in everyone’s stockings.
Mema would be pleased that Grandad was right in the middle of it all, and was as thrilled as a kid to open the biggest, brightest flashlight known to man as a gift from one of his grandsons.
Last night, neither Grandad nor I could sleep. His legs were hurting and restless, my cough was keeping me up, so we were wandering the house like ghosts at 2am. Come look, he said, after swinging open the back door, standing in the doorway in his pajamas. Feel how heavy it is, he said as he handed his new toy flashlight to me. Well, turn it on, he said. I pushed the button and nearly gasped as the entire yard all the way to the barn was bathed in daylight. It felt magical, such power in the palm of my hand.
Mema would have swatted both our behinds, and loved that we are all taking care of each other.
@Home Studio – 360th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Christmas Breakfast photos to accompany my poem:
Photos taken 12/25/24 by my sister-in-law Brittany Hefner.
Strawberry Shortcake was such a lovely girl who lived in Strawberryland and rode a pink bicycle.
Her kitty cat Custard and friends Lemon Meringue Blueberry Muffin Angel Cake Apple Dumplin’ Butter Cookie Mint Tulip Lime Chiffon Raspberry Tart Café Ole Plum Puddin’ Tea Blossom and Huckleberry Pie always had her back.
And that smell, oh, that delectable Strawberry Shortcake delicious scent, the aroma of childhood for a sliver of children born in the 70s early 80s.
Texans and Canadians joined for one last meal at Jardín Corona finding a common bond over Mexican food, a bit ironic that the Canadians present are the only of us who have ever lived in Mexico and spoken Spanish as a way of life before, but we tried our best to order authentically— shared chips and salsa, chile con queso, guacamole, then our favorites— carne asada, flautas, mole poblano, enchiladas with verde sauce, quesadillas, beef tacos, pollo tequila pechuga encebollada pollo endiablado, steak, carne guisada, with sides of rice, charro beans, and of course, tortillas. Our families are now tied together by marriage, so it’s a good thing we can at least all agree on good food.
There’s a little Japanese village where lanterns light up paths that wind between neighbors’ dwellings, and rain falls at just the right time of day, when everyone’s ready for naps.
There’s miso soup on the stove and soba noodles in the fridge, tonkatsu or grilled fish for dinner, and okayu porridge for anyone feeling a little under the weather.
@Home Studio – 335th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Japanese Village photos to accompany my poem:
Mema and Baby (One of her neice Sarah’s grandbabies.)
Washing my hands in your sink Sitting in your chair Writing on your notepad Answering your phone Cooking breakfast for Grandad exactly the way you showed me how Peeling a tangerine Putting away your dinner plates that stack so easily from the dishwasher Making a cup of tea Reminding Grandad to use his cane Hearing certain doors open in the house Something cute happens with the kids I’m sad I have a big decision to make I have a success I want to celebrate I get stressful news
Death is a part of life. Altars of favorite foods photos of the deceased marigolds, candles, incense family picnics at the graves opportunities to connect to ancestors and remember their part in our story and that they are still with us and alive in our hearts.
@Home Studio on 11/2/24 @ 10:20pm – 307th poem of the year
Runner ups for the Día de los Muertos photos to accompany my poem:
