Grampa, this is one way I pray.

I have the table you built my mother. 

It is long, pine, and golden. 

It holds our food and our forearms. 

It gleams under lamplight while we gather at night 

and shines every sunny weekend morning, 

while we sit with breakfast and coffee. 

I have the breadbox you built me too. 

It is full of sourdough bread. 

It is often full of sourdough bread.

There are pictures of you here, 

but mostly I see you in these things 

and through the weepy eyes of memory. 

I see you steering the boat toward the island

the small sandy one with the scratchy grass. 

I see you beside cards and a cribbage board. 

I see you cutting open oyster shells 

for a pot on the stove. I see you, after dinner, 

with a toothpick between your fingers 

and your hand wrapped around 

a mug of hot coffee.    

I remember staying at your cabin 

in the mountains - you, Gram, Sam, Mom, 

and I. I remember you poured a bowl of cereal 

and when you went to fetch the milk 

there wasn't any. There was only cream. 

At that moment, you became like a little boy 

giddy for the excuse of a treat. Maybe because

it was like when you were a little boy, 

long before milk fat was measured, labeled, 

and scorned. I can see you sitting at the small table, 

tipping the short carton over your bowl, covering 

your cereal with sweet thick milk. 

Then spoonful upon spoonful into your mouth, 

then tipping the bowl to your lips.  

We named our son, Leo, after you, 

Grampa Lou.I remember when I told you. 

Leo was still silently inside of me. 

Do you remember? 

It was months before illness spread 

across the world, sending us all into 

separation and isolation. 

I remember what you said.  

It was just what I guessed you would say. 

"You know my name isn't Leo, right?" 

Then a side smile. Then gratitude. 

Leo turns one the day after tomorrow. 

Tonight you are alone in the hospital 

awaiting surgery. You are most certainly asleep 

as it is nearly midnight, but maybe the television is on, 

color and sound in the cold, bare room. 

You have your phone beside you, and perhaps too, a book. 

I don't think you'll see this until much later, 

but I want to think about you now. 

So wherever in time you are, join me 

and imagine that you are not in a hospital bed, 

         but on your boat. 

(It doesn't matter which one, just pick your favorite.) 

Now imagine you and Gram are on the top deck. 

Breathe in that warm salty air. 

And let's imagine that it's summer. 

Far ahead of you is the sun. 

She is dipping toward the horizon 

as if sinking into the sea. 

The sky is a watery blur of 

red, pink and orange. 

The only other boats you can see are sailboats 

far to the left and far to the right. 

That's where the rest of us are, beneath 

those flapping capes, keeping our eyes 

on you. 

Gram steers with ease. She has her hand 

on your shoulder or your browned knee. 

Jazz music plays.  You have a drink 

in your hand. Scotch. Below you, the Atlantic 

moves in its cold, dark, sparkling way. 

And look over there - whales! Whales are bursting 

from the water and crashing in the most wild 

and joyful dance. And look at the birds - so many seagulls! 

and those small sea birds, the black ones who flap and float 

and follow boats and catch fish and 

fly and fly and fly as if life were so simple  

because life is so simple. 

Isn't it? 

Isn't life a journey 

(with many interruptions of sorrow and noise and war)

a journey toward love and quiet and peace? 

I think it is. 

So Grampa, 

from my small sailboat to you 

I send you love and quiet and peace 

and also, 

       hope for a few more days at sea. 

Morning

This morning, my son 

has a conversation 

with the sun.

He - a round baby human 

behind cloth and cold window.

She - a golden flame

behind blue earth and snow.

He sings and coos,

while she in her brilliance, 

peek-a boos.

 

remember when the towers fell?

remember how the whole country shook 

its head in judgement,

"those extremists" 

 

we the meek

we the meek wear no weapons
many of us don't even eat much meat 
let alone want to capture and murder 
lawmakers 

the liberals

and so soft with sorrow, we sing 

"human! human!
every one of them 
human!"

And if Hitler had had Twitter?

Would not you have silenced his violence if given the chance? Or would you have told all the German Jews, “freedom of hate speech is more important than you.”

Perhaps you abhor the comparison between Trump and Hitler. 

“If you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.” 

And now look at you all. Believing. 

Stop the count! 

Recount! 

Discount 

      this election.

It is time for your awakening, for your reckoning, and yet, here you are doubling down on our divided country's double standards. Do you not remember this past summer? When Trump had peaceful protestors blasted with tear gas so that he could pose with your bible before your church? 

You want to say anything you want to say to anyone you want to say it to as if words are not how we make our plans. I assume then you have never been called the n-word or whore or fag by someone on the street who wanted to hurt you. Neither have I, but I hear the fear of human prey. And I know how humans hunt and harm. First with rhetoric and then with weapons. 

Well, here is my rhetoric. And here is my speech. It is indeed free. And you may have it. Though I promise mine is a plea for peace and empathy and, if I may say, sanity. 

In this house

We wash. We water. We spray. We scrub. We arrange and rearrange and re-rearrange all of our things. 

There are piles of papers for keeping, and a paper bag of paper for recycling. There is something sitting in the kitchen sink, while notes of coffee, eggshell, and citrus skin sing from the compost bin. This house hugs our clutter, holds it all within its walls: worn out/outgrown clothing, books, soaking oatmeal pots, notebooks, pencils, pillows, and plants. This house holds an old refrigerator, a handbuilt bread box, a long table, paintings, photographs, mirrors, latching doors, and steep stairs. Its walls of plaster and paint are scarred from hammers and nails, tacks, tape, and second-hand furniture. Oh, if these walls could talk, how they would laugh! Through the windows, winter sun washes in, mid-morning floods that pour slanted shadows across our breakfast crumbs. And so we sweep. We vacuum. We wash. 

In this house, there is silence and stillness and sweetness. There is sleep and there is sleeplessness. There is utter boisterousness - a whole wilderness of silliness. There is electronic pop music for dancing and princess soundtracks for twirling. Often, a folk music soundscape plays. There is the sound of highway, wind, stove, and storm. There is brilliant witty banter and there are bathroom jokes. There is deep discussion, celebration, and storytelling. There are fits and wailing, warm snuggling, tickling, and improvised singing. 

In this house, magic happens. There is a baby with sharp pearls pushing up through his gums, urging him to bite everything - the coffee table, the rugs, our wooden blocks, my breasts, and his father's chest. He comes at us with his mouth long. 

"Here! Bite this!" I plead, pressing something soft and safe into his sore mouth. 

This baby belly laughs, trills his lips, sings, yells, and crawls one hundred miles an hour. He reaches and stands up like a mountain climber - chairs, tables, and couches, his cliffs. 

In this house, magic happens. There is a child with immense creative intelligence. A story builder, a performer, a dancer, she is entirely herself and yet still, a stunning mystery. 

The other night, she told me she would love me forever. All because I lied beside her. My body is something she loves. "Cuddle me, Mama!" She begged, and I did. 

Is not that magic?