Sunday, September 26, 2010

Dream tea.

After hanging up with Tiny Moms of twenty four weeks, I crawled in beside my guy and lay thinking of her growing girl. And lay, and lay. And lay some more until it was absolutely necessary to flip over, feel my heart beating one thousand flaps and ask myself, Megan, what did you have for dinner today? Three espresso, one bagel. Yikes. With that, I got up, slipped into my slips, wrapped myself tight in the familiar red quilt and brewed myself some of the Dream tea that Eddy wrapped in leaves and a shoelace and slipped into my tent two months ago.

Dream tea, to make you dream. Last night I dreamt of throwing diamond earring after diamond earring down an incinerator tucked into the wall of mine and Mitch's old apartment on Smith. What does this mean? I also leapt twenty years into the future and saw myself at my parents 50th wedding anniversary party, no faces present, just bodies, save for the face of the strange boy with the microphone. (My parents just celebrated their 31st [if I recall correctly] year of marriage). Who knows where that came from. I miss them, I miss their yard and it was nice to visit last night in my sleep. Mitch said I sat bolt upright laughing in my sleep, so I suppose the entire sequence was comical at the time.

Wrapped up with tea in hand, I settled into my work table between the wooden trestles and opened a letter from Madhavi. Again, as I always do when I think of her, I lit a candle and read her words while breathing in and out, in and out. She has such a gentleness about her and her words (electronic or non) always have the same effect: sweet calm. I miss you Maude.

I am not sure why, but coming back here to write seemed like the only thing to do. If we owned one, I might have opted to settle into a reading chair with my latest Aunty Daryl approved novel, The Winter Vault by Anne Michaels. Whoa, one thousand words underlined, tucked away into my memory for years to come. It took three attempts to dive into this book, but now I am in, rooted unapologetically. You know when you find a book that speaks straight to your very depths? Anne Michaels, respect.

Speaking of my Aunty Daryl, today we had a wonderfully long conversation. She too has such an amazing ability to calm and console the tenderest of hearts. Since moving, a long mental list has begun consisting of all of the things I vow to never take for granted again. Sitting at this woman's tiny wooden table underneath the shelf heaving with her most prized pottery, poetry, spices, drawings and photos (I want a shelf like hers someday) in the kitchen while she cooks is on this list. I miss that little yellow kitchen. I miss sitting on the counter in Andrea's kitchen and being in Jillian's kitchen with the high work table and sitting in the nook of that familiar red kitchen at Mel and Zach's and crowding the Mansion kitchen with all the Jesus paraphernalia on the walls high above eye level and of course I cannot ever forget my Mama's kitchen.

After hanging up with Aunty Daryl, Jillian called when she was finished teaching violin to tiny turds. I thought of her so much today I nearly puked with longing, and our conversation did not disappoint. Miss you girl.

Andrea in her kitchen. Girl, your phone calls are such delights. I liked looking at your growing girl in front of the turning leaves on Gracie and Willy's yard on the computer screen while hearing your voice at the same time. Too bad photographs cannot speak. Well, I suppose that is what videos are: talking photographs; but I mean I wish your parts of our conversation today were relayed right from the mouth of the woman standing in the tiny shorts in front of the tree (like that scene in Amelie where Nino Quincampoix is lying in bed talking to the photobooth picture of the man in the black cap). Whoa, sentence structure gone wild. Excusez-moi. Just a few more weeks until you are here, in the flesh. Perfect.

Dream tea is taking hold, off to bed I go. Tomorrow marks week two with my friend Leonard and I am excited to see him again. I miss the little chicken (as Jill calls him). Leo, the little Polish Elf (as the older woman at the swings called him on Thursday). He does kind of look like a Polish elf; in a good way though. Every day after lunch, I pick him up and ask Leo, where do you want to go today? and I try to think of the most amazing things I would want to see if I were nine months old. And away we go! Tomorrow I am going to take him to the Farmer's market in Little Italy, I think.

Oh Leo. As for Aunty Daryl, Jill, and Rags, it was so nice to talk to you today (major understatement).As for the rest of you, bon nuit. I am going to go warm my feet up on Mitch's unsuspecting legs and try to sleep.


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