She lives above a banquet hall,
the very one they used
to celebrate with friends
on the day they said, “I do.”
And like the cala lilies
by our first apartment’s door
it reminds her that their love’s the same
today as then, but more.
Do not buy something so practical as speakers
at the thrift store.
No one gets rid of a good pair of speakers.
When we move,
they are the last thing we pack,
or we do not pack them at all.
We place them on the passenger seat
of the last load
and we plug them in as soon as we get
to our new home,
to make it our home.
And only when they have said
all they can say,
and sung all they can sing,
do we send them away.
Do not buy speakers at the thrift store.
Just because it is my style
to do it all at once
does not mean
it is the best way.
If I had to make a list of
things that changed my life,
I could name some big things,
like being Ryan’s wife,
or growing up outside of town,
or where I went to school
or all the traveling that I’ve done,
which has been pretty cool.
But those things haven’t changed my life
as much as they have been my life.
So I would name the moment
when the jingle doorbell rang;
I wasn’t dressed, my hair was mussed,
so my heart gave a twang.
I get dressed every morning now,
ever since that lazy day,
so I would say it changed my life,
in a small, important way.
Unspoken word poetry:
for all the things left unsaid
that might feel awkward in my throat
but might be heard if read.
I’ve got quite a list
of little things I’ve lost
and chances I have missed
and mountains I have crossed.
I still get a little mad
when I think about what’s been lost along the way:
that sweater that my sister gave me,
ones of my favorite socks,
that tiny piece of technology, probably plowed away with the snow,
the dirt I thought I’d never have a yard for,
the scissors that cut the fabric of my wedding dress,
the scissors that will hopefully turn up again.
But some things will never be found.
We were moving too fast and they were left behind.
What else did we miss?
We missed chances,
we missed opportunities,
If I could go back and gather up what I’ve lost,
I’d blow past all the big moves where the things went missing,
and I’d go straight to the heart of the times we did have,
and try not to miss a beat.
All at one time
some of us like me
can wonder why the pixels are coming through
slowly, and in chunks,
even while we wonder exactly how they’re coming through at all.
Now that there’s a pill
for feeling very sad
how do we know what’s sad enough
and what’s just “not too bad”?
(I’m currently reading “Manufacturing Depression”)