Christmas cards are mounted and signed. This afternoon I will address them all. They are not my best effort but the need to make 24 every year continues to matter to me. I use a very old address book just so I can be reminded of all those who have passed on. Christmas is a reminder of many things, but especially of what is no longer here.
The new Asian restaurant in town was a lovely experience the other night. It is the same place where Elizabeth would have a Manhattan ready at four in the afternoon on a Tuesday when I arrived at my table with writing pad in hand. In fact two local bartenders came by my table to say hello. The place opens at four and by four thirty was filled up. I ordered a drink designed for the restaurant with bourbon and a crane sitting on the rim.
And then a couple of appetizers including lettuce wraps (delicious)!
And I did a final bit of fussing out front with the pots. I think sticks are so much better than fake greens. I will need to find a new home for those “life-like” green Christmas tree and boughs. Th1s nest for my old bird is perfect for the winter
Last evening a neighbor messaged me to check the sky. The cloud front coming in from the southeast was spectacular.
This afternoon I will fix myself an Australian herbal tea, send condolences to those suffering horrific bushfires down under, and address cards to those I miss.
I love this little tea strainer I made many years ago. Everyone who came for Christmas dinner had one used as a place card that sat atop their wine glass. Mine straddles Lee’s old coffee mug and waits for me to remember earlier times.
Here is a poem written last week. It is not a sad poem but a reminder that we can always find a reason to smile at the memories.
The Ones We Miss
I don’t miss who I used to be
just some of those who knew me then.
The ones who were there to be missed later
when their memory is needed to return,
to sit by my side, reach for my hand.
I pull theirs close to hold against my cheek,
and let them wipe away the tears of loss.
They stay with me and wait until I smile
at the stories they tell of how we were.
After we both grow silent,
they pull away, touch my face,
and say, “See you next time.”
S. Webster
I keep thinking that I should just stop writing poems and get a new book published. But another one I wrote just two days ago makes me want to wait until I hit a dry spell. Maybe getting stuck into a good short story will get me ready to stop poetry long enough to put them in some kind of order with an illustration or two. Maybe.
Anyway, I will carry on with my plans for today and try not to plan too far ahead. Except maybe a return trip to the Asian restaurant with pad in hand as I find the most removed table I can sit at…back turned toward the door, and my hand gripping a pen that is anxious to get something down.
Til later…..