a large white PVC pipe.
Immediately I saw it flashing with colors: colors I had painted it.
I hied over to Lowe's. Outside the store by the BBQs, I asked a guy in a red shirt, "Sir, dyou work at Home Depot?"
"Yeah, Lowe's," he said. "What would you like? This is my first day."
"Wow," I said, "congratulations."
Believe me, I know how hard it is to get a job in these hard economic times.
He referred me to Trudy, who was right there.
I asked where the PVP pipes were. Aisle 17 on the right when you go inside.
On I went with my very large red cart and selected this fine specimen:
I'm gonna paint it and put it in my garden. About 6 years ago I took a class on metal sculpture - I used a welding arc - and wanted to make a sculpture for my garden, but never did. This will certainly be a fine replacement.
Then I went over to the paint department and met Walter Sharon, 76, of Elkins Park. He's only been there a month but took me to the latex paints. Very poor selection, in the small cans, but I bot a few and Scott will give me some other colors.
Hey, just remembered I was at the Women's Art Museum in DC so maybe that's why I'm so gung-ho and envision a bright-colored abstract.
Walt and I got to talking. I told him about my transplant and he said his wife Linda has had kidney trouble for the past 10 years. They don't know why. She has a top doc at Penn and is doing well. She's on the special diet I was on. They do not eat meat (high in phosphorus).
I suggested the miracle of t plantation, suggesting one of their two sons might donate. Both kids and their children are living in China!
Of course I told him Sarah will be going to China in May to cover the Olympic Finals. She was recently hired by NBC who will fly her to London so she can be an assistant to the announcer, giving him facts on women's boxing, my little darling.
Sarah and one of her boxer friends she covered for Huffington Post.
Late in the afternoon, around naptime, Scott ran into my house.
"Come quick!" he said.
I ran outside after him to the side of the house. He pointed upward to the flower box outside Sarah's room.
Formerly sparrows lived inside.
To my shock, tiny brown heads peeped above the flowers box. They were not birds.
What are they? I asked. MICE?
They're baby squirrels, he said.
A squirrel family now lives in the windowbox. When Rich Claire painted the bedroom a month ago, he told me squirrels would often scamper to the window to look in on him.
We both wondered how they got up there.
Knife-sharp front claws.
While blogging, I watched the show Jews and Baseball: An American Love Story. I'd forgotten about slugger Al Rosen, a Cleveland Indian I adored. Still alive and good-lookin at 88!
The legendary Koufax is only 76. Born in - where else? - Brooklyn, cradle of the Jews.
Shhh! The squirrels are asleep.
she has stopped making seder.
mother dines alone, breaking the
matzoh in pieces.
the table is bare.
house silent but for the
often ferocious winds of
april that sound like
the children, and the white dog.
Her potato flour sponge-cake
gobbled by all, even the
white dog named Triscuit,
and that black-haired husband
of hers who died, quite bald
from radiation, at fifty nine.
let’s bring them back.
back to this house, huge,
lawn fertilized by juan
and his men, the kids in the
backyard playing duck duck goose
laughter spilling over to the
austins in the back who grew their
own tomatoes and whose cornstalks
reminded mom of the trip she took
to amish country as a girl.
with a whistle lynn brings us together
as we crowd around the long table
viewing ourselves in the mirror
daddy’s nose always looked crooked
my long black hair parted on the wrong side
grape juice for the minors
manichewitz for the majors
aunt ethel arrives, her death will bring us
a fortune, my house, donna’s condo,
i sat in the largesse of her lap
and fondled her tiny red nailed fingers
her amber bracelet
her thin hair
like mine in latter days.
little brother david reclines in his
chair, silent by age seven,
speaks with his polaroid,
the only way he can
view us while alive
my two mommies as i once called them
serve the feast after prayers and handwashing
and hiding of the afikomen
by now we are tired, the brisket and onions
only make me sleepier
i go up to my room for a little nap
and hear the sounds of my family downstairs
unforgettable sounds amid the clatter of
dishes and putting into the dishwasher
the parade of the sparkling clean water
from the one-faucet sink
i hear them all, all the sounds,
the laugher, even now, even now
alone in another room,
forty five years away
as i wait for sleep to come.