The Ever So Brief Space of the Present

The pregnant belly looks like a turtle shell at the end.
One night I take photos and wonder if my son will want to see such photos someday.
I have my doubts.
The weather interests me only when it shifts, which is all the time in Vermont.
Cheez-its and cranberry cocktail = barf.

Self portrait of son.

I sleep as long as I can and then I sleep longer. My hips bruise from the pressure of my weight, I roll from side to side. I don't want to speak with anyone. If only I spoke with someone then I'd quit thinking about myself and feel better. I am so grumpy I am starting to form a resentment against my child and he is only due tomorrow.

Light Sources



Duck at the farm

 We walked to the lake that day. Wylie says its a four mile trek, but it doesn't feel that way. We found this duck on a stool along the path. Josh photographed it. I stood in the frame to be bossy and overbearing and generally obnoxious, though he didn't really mind. I picked a white stone from the shore and kept it for my own, though you're not supposed to take the rocks. I take them because I'm not supposed to (also I follow other rules so it evens out) and because I like to have things to mark points in time as though these things are strung with invisible wire that reaches back into time to that moment. I know that I will someday soon remember all this waiting with sweet sorrow, my son a grown man, asking questions of his own life.





The lake in early February

 I took a picture of the lake in February. No ice covers its slim surface. The water ripples like pudding, like skin, like water. I miss the ice. I miss skating on the lake in Minnesota. My life is composed of missing and remembering that colors the way I see everything in the ever so brief space of the present. I love to remember. It is not a burden. Even the ugliest things can be made into stories or songs or poems or movies that make you feel alive, in awe.





Papa Bear reading The Hunger Games in bed

Papa bear is my favorite bear. When he is a good bear he spends his nights reading himself to sleep. Right now he has a beard and haircut that remind me of a Russian poet, though he is not Russian. I think he is Welsh and Italian, maybe Irish too. Papa Bear is a ninth generation Vermonter so Mosey Bear will be a tenth generation Vermonter. I will never be a Vermonter...instead I will be Mama Minnesota Bear and anyone who wants to live in Minnesota or used to live in Minnesota or drove through there one time can call themselves a Minnesotan.

Last night we had dinner with our dear friends. They told us of a quote they'd recently found about having children. It went something like this:

Having children is deciding to let your heart live outside your body for the rest of your life.