By Natasha Trethewey
We mourn the broken things, chair legs
wrenched from their seats, chipped plates,
the threadbare clothes. We work the magic
of glue, drive the nails, mend the holes.
We save what we can, melt small pieces
of soap, gather fallen pecans, keep neck bones
for soup. Beating rugs against the house,
we watch dust, lit like stars, spreading
across the yard. Late afternoon, we draw
the blinds to cool the rooms, drive the bugs
out. My mother irons, singing, lost in reverie.
I mark the pages of a mail-order catalog,
listen for passing cars. All day we watch
for the mail, some news from a distant place.
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Wednesday was pretty uneventful -- we had some rain, then the temperature dropped a lot, so we had cats fighting over Cinnamon's heated throw and I was glad we got out to walk before the second wave of rain came through. We saw a couple of deer, several bunnies, and a lot of irises, and I'd rather it be a long cool spring than a long hot summer. My computer is still downloading my articles from Google Drive but I did some scanning.
Evening TV of course was The Masked Singer, and I'm getting pissed that everyone thinks the obviously pretty white boy band member Turtle should win instead of the Night Angel (I wasn't so sorry the Kitty got unmasked when I saw who it was). Afterward, we watched What We Do in the Shadows, a hilarious Colin-focused episode that made me realize Donald Trump is an energy vampire. Here are some scans from December 1999:
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