Parking blues

Those with money, the shoppers over there, the businesses, can find a place to park,

Happy to pay $2/hour for the privilege of parking in front of what they seek, 

We, the people, in the adjacent, rather crowded, little houses, some 

Rundown dwellings will be overrun by the Audis, the BMWs, the Ford trucks,

and all the other assorted cars driven by the precious students, 

who install themselves and their discarded lunch detritus

onto our streets for 50% less, from 7 to 3, or 4, or 5. 

My disabled neighbor will scour the neighborhood for a place to park her 

slightly dented, faded Prius, alternately distraught and resigned,

Watching the students throw their empty Red Bull cans into her carefully tended garden,

and the neighbor who is ferrying her husband, who no longer knows where he lives, 

Will find her small driveway blocked, because the Almighty City does not allow

NO PARKING signs, she sobs as she calls the Police for the 17th time that week.

 

Panique a Bamako avec Warren Nash

It may be early to start reading Panique a Bamako

But it's not too early to start speaking French with Warren

Or

For that matter, my son, the dad, the one with whom I've been writing texts in French

For about forever.

My daughter is still angry that I did not teach her French even though I really didn't speak it then,

Those days when I could hardly speak my native tongue, raising kids on my own

Just trying to get through the day

But this is different, Panique a Bamako can be read at leisure, like when I sat at the 

Feet of my own grandmother pretending to read, love is written in its

Own language. 

 

New baby, in love and the necklace can be returned

I'll remove the necklace that I have worn since Week 15

When I didn't think I would see this day, and now it is here.

I am holding my brand new grandson, the one we hoped and prayed for,

The one who would wipe away the grief we held since losing Owen, 

This one will fill our hours with the busy-ness that is the work of loving

A newborn, the early months of diaper changes and figuring out why he is crying,

The work of comforting as best we can, the hours of tummy time, 

The strolling and rocking, the tickling and giggling, the first smile that 

Erases the fatigue of sleepless nights, and the time with the parents, the endless

Conversations about him, never a lapse of interest, I know this.

The necklace will go back to the old woman who passed it from hand to hand,

To me,  each offering a blessing at week 15, for this day to arrive, for this joy to unfold.

The necklace has done its work, the baby has arrived and I am in love

With him.

(Note:  the original poem about the necklace is here:  https://le-poeme.blogspot.com/2025/03/blog-post_26.html)

 

Feeding fish

on a hot afternoon, let's visit the pond

Where the fish are swimming lazily until that moment

When they see us hovering above holding the jar of fish pellets

And on this hot afternoon on August, the last day of the 

Visit, the one where mamapapa went to work leaving these

Small people in our care, I'm happy to sit quietly,

Paying close attention to how close they are to the edge

And listening to the plop plop of fish food hitting water,

Seeing the wide white open mouth of Grandma Fish grazing

The surface of the water, hearing the scream of delight

"He ate it!" And knowing that this moment is its own kind

Of paradise, the heaven surely has small fish ponds where 

Children spend hot summer afternoons, their reflections

Wavy in the cool water. 

 

The long lost sewing scissors and seam ripper

 So when the buttonhole was poorly placed

(See last post), what to be done without a sharp scissor,

Or better yet, a seam ripper,  knowing that once upon a time

The two tools could be found in the sewing box.

A savage rip using the wrong tool did the damage

(And made me sad), yet in the following days,

They were found, in a large box into which the man

(Who said he could help but did not in any productive way)

Had placed so many precious items that had appeared to him

"Unnecessary" or "unknown", as some men do not understand

The essential value of a good pair sewing scissors or this odd 

Little necessary tool called a seam ripper.

Alas, it is too late for the buttonhole that as poorly placed,

Yet, the next sewing project will be undertaken with gratitude,

The needed tools back inside the old metal tool box

That doubles as a sewing kit.

Indeed.

The long awaited buttonhole

Every time my pillow brushed against the makeshift curtain,

It fell onto my head, exposing me to the brilliant sunshine, my eyes

Popping open when they wish to be closed in a mid-day nap. 

I cursed again at my shoddy attachment, binder clipped to the fabric

(Oh, such beautiful fabric from Senegal!)

Yet so loosely held, the clip to fabric. 

So

A curtain rod?  No, that's a purchase, a hammer, some screws, some sewing.

A buttonhole! Yes, to secure onto the nails already in place!

The long awaited buttonhole, that holds the fabric in place

(I checked)

So that when my long-awaited guests arrive, tired from their long journey

And settling into a midday nap, when their pillows brush against the

Makeshift curtain, it does not fall onto their sleeping heads,

Pulled taut, it holds in place

I smile to think of how they will sleep so peacefully.

 

How to spend the day

 When I opened my eyes, finally ceding to the raucous birds that they had won, the day would begin even if it was only 5:30 a.m.

And I wondered how many layers of clothes would be needed once I exited my warm sleeping bag, 

And what on Earth I would do the next 15 hours until I could gratefully close my eyes again, in this God-forsaken wilderness lacking all my usual diversions

So I layered on some clothes and found a small path leading  down to the lake where I found Paradise and enough to keep me occupied 

Watching fog roll across the water, noticing all the different heights of willow at the shoreline and the ever changing kaleidoscope of color on the hillsides.  

I came back this evening, hauling my folding chair and book, my husband, to dangle my feet in the water, feel the wind cool my skin so warmed from the sun.  

Once home, I will listen more closely to the birds and I will sit in my garden, to notice the different heights of the plants, to watch the passage of the shadows across my small Paradise.