28: Miracles

Bits, phrases and whatnot, collected from a long ago reading of Special Topics in Calamity Physics: "a mashed potato way of looking at you ◦ the year my childhood unstitched like a snagged sweater ◦ smoke squirmed around the rearview mirror ◦ the screen door spank[ed] the door frame ◦ wobbly mind"

I found these phrases on a scrap of paper beneath my bed as I was cleaning. When I read Tim Robbins' Jitterbug Perfume, I kept record of all the words he used I didn't know. I loved the way they lined up, their multisyllabic selves curling along the slip of paper.


I have remained home for the time being, my eyelids lowering in the heat of our house, Kelly's home full with her parents and her husband, helping her, so I have decided to remain here at home, wedged up against my husband, waiting until it's time for me to return. In between the pounding on her roof (hail damage), breastfeeding, and other chaotic moments, she is beginning a blog for her son Christian, and I've begun a photoset, so you can also see photographs of him as he grows up, becomes a boy, forms a sense of self.


While I've felt those 48 hours in the hospital were surreal, were a dream, it has also made me realize just how much every moment is a miracle.

My hands wet from spinach at the CSA. Ryan comes home, late, his hands behind his back: a book, he hoped I didn't have just yet, an incredibly sweet gift. Thunderstorms rolling through, just as our grass begins to pathetically yellow. The intricate pattern of queen anne's lace. The curl of a baby's hand around your finger. The fading scent of peonies. The way Penelope leans against me at my feet. The way Libby curls against me when I read a book in bed. Baking a cake with my husband, flour on the tips of our fingers, smudged on our pants. Every moment, the way it too curls against your heart, unfurling at just the right moment.