(August 2013, 2 Pages from Notebook)
My grandfather told me he married my father and his girlfriend. In the living room he took both their hands and said "only God can separate you now." Now they're married, he announces. When was this, I asked bemused. "Before," he says, not having enough English to express time other than before and after. My grandfather sat smiling.
The desire to be useful. Helpful. Often I feel useless because I can't drive my parents or grandparents to appointments, can't cook them gourmet meals or give them free haircuts. My skills seem pointless, especially to those I love most.
My close friend's father got me free tickets to a concert. To be nice and not make me feel indebted he told me to "repay him with a poem." I burned with such a terrible shame.
The skinny waist, the wild pubic hair, the thickness, the scent of pine cologne, small markings I can draw water from like a well. That pot of tea I boiled. That summer he would have brought me to Lisbon. I could have had a much different path. This was a fork.
To archive my notes and writing notebooks; entires excerpted in random order. Purpose unknown, save for preservation, discovery, and perhaps a pliable (re)engagement with soft ideas.