August 12, 2004

• As if sensing my sudden departure-spawned lapses into the very
  lachrymosity I spent the whole summer spurning, my grandparents seemed
  damnendearing caricatures of themselves late this morning, scurrying
  about mounting blue wicker-and-lace wreaths that recall the word homespun
  and soothing, simplifying, one heavy leadglass goblet of too-sweet tea
  at a time. Burgundy brocade fell in thick folds above the turquoise
  sewing stool, and next to cream-colored kidd gloves and cranberry boot
  buttons lie the daily devotional she read aloud from, drawling and
  daring, “The Lord has given—Sarah, I’m going to say you instead of
  thee!” There’s something so blithe, buttery about the first syllable;
  Say-ruh, sipping Ceylon, slipping between crisp, sedum-studded sheets,
  shellacking maple-footed settees and the heathens perched upon them
  with a double coat of gra-cious-nuss. She flipped assuredly to
  the right worn pages, rested perpetually cool fingers on my warm,
  ink-stained own, and wondered aloud and utterly in earnest how those
  fetching Ted Hughes Types I’m eternally taken with will manage to make
  any money.

  Oh, how I’ll miss these midweek escapes!—relishing
  wordly-feeling words from beneath two woven throws, naughtily slicing
  off scraps of justkneaded biscuit dough, and a valiant tenor telling me
  “You are important and very special; remember that every day and every
  night.”

  • 1:23 am
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