Dear everyone,
Hello! I had intended to write you this weekend, but then I got sick and spent all of my free time clutching my shoulders, trying to make the room stop spinning. It's stopped now, so now is the time to get down to brass tacks. Or, you know, whichever other kinds of tacks.
But I hope that your April went well, and that you got some of what you had planned accomplished. You've been so quiet lately, and I've been worrying about you in all the usual ways and also some brand new ones. I worry that you're spending too much time looking over your shoulder, that you're going to turn around and run smack into what you never saw coming. I worry that you keep losing sight of the million little things that you're so good at in the glare of the few big ones you can't just get right. I worry. And this is not the time for that. It's spring! Our toes should feel like they're each tied with helium balloons. There seem to be too many days where that's just not the case.
I've been doing a pretty good job at things recently, at standing up straight against the thousand pound weights of my collarbones. I have been seeing people and behaving irresponsibly and writing a million notes inside my head. I have only panicked a little.
I called my mother this morning to tell her that I saw her gout and raised her a strep throat. We went back and forth for a while about whether my strep throat against her gout could be considered a see and a raise. The doctor, diagnosing me, informed me in the usual way that I should get a houseboy to fetch ice cream and apple juice. I asked her to write me a prescription for one, one that did magic tricks. And also, where would I fill that? She just laughed and patted me on the shoulder.
Had I told you that I've been having strep throat? It feels like I've been eating gravel.
My favorite dog west of the Mississippi has been having health troubles lately. I'm sure good wishes would be appreciated. Haida is a sweet dog, a lovely dinner guest, and a fantastic chaser of geese. I hope everything goes ok.
I stopped by my favorite sandwich place on my way into the office from the doctor's office today. It's been a while since I've been down there, and every time I go in I remember why I love it so. A man named George handed me a mother's day poem he wrote for his mother when she was 87. The boy with a hoodie making my sandwich sang songs and danced the whole time, and the fellow who often gives me cookies smiled and waved with his hands full of bread. This city always makes me feel like it's glad I'm here.
I can't wait to see you all again. I've been cooped up for days and my hands are itching to organize picnics and hugs and funny jokes. I want you to teach me how to make origami cranes, how to make wounded fish swim. I want to be a whole bouquet of flowers sitting on your side table.
Love,
me
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