Monday, July 4, 2016

We are sailing


Today is my mother’s birthday, and her grandmother’s as well. Mom was born in 1922, Amanda in 1859. Amanda’s old Seth Thomas clock, the one Mom knew from her childhood, is still ticking away on our wall. I wind it every two or three days. And for the smoke, and the roar, and the clatter that will keep me awake tonight, I don’t care a fig. We are sailing through space, among the stars. How embarrassing the need for borders and flags, holsters and guns. One uncle in a military graveyard in Italy. Another who did not speak for six months after his lucky return home. Happy Birthday, Mom. Your love to everyone.



4 comments:

erin said...

these years i begin to hear you, william michaelian, which is another way of saying i begin to understand the stars.

"How embarrassing the need for borders and flags, holsters and guns."

William Michaelian said...

There is much erin the breeze
this evening brings you near,
makes the bright stars
cold apples on fence posts,
ripe for the right time . . . here.

erin said...

oh! cold apples))) this gift of yours brings me to cry.

(i wonder if each time we cry it is not that we are breaking apart, but rather trying to find the conveyance so that we might return to...)

William Michaelian said...

Yes, and, as well, it might be both the making and the cleansing of the wound — and the wound is our salvation — and our salvation is our birth — and our birth is our departure — and our departure is our arrival.... (clumsy words, how I love them, and am forgiven by them)....